Alone, finally, in the kitchen, she silences the kettle and settles in the chair. The children sleep. The darkened windows reverberate calm.
He will return soon. The gravel drive will first crinkle and then crunch. The car door will bang; his boots will stamp the porch.
But for now, peace.
Melody Leming-Wilson teaches and writes in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry has recently appeared in Windfall, Poeming Pigeon, and Mojave He[art]. She’s just learning to write 50-Word Stories and finding it therapeutic.
By the Angsana tree I sit, waiting for her arrival, but reading becomes dreaming once the Angsana’s crown starts weaving a lullaby with the breeze.
In dreams, gliding, she surpasses my wake and I, receding, cannot reach her pace.
I awaken to remember that here too she has passed me.
Benjamin Lo is an English undergraduate student from Nanyang Technological University trying to understand life. In his spare time, he is trying to complete a short story collection.
Carol had never understood Bob. A prominent attorney, he always crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s, but he couldn’t put down a toilet seat.
She filed a complaint; they settled out of court.
She said she simply wouldn’t stand for it anymore, so he agreed not to.
They’re still married.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana. This is her first story about a toilet seat.
Her toes were covered with sand, like little appetizers. The nails painted blue; ever the rebel, she.
A wave hushed in, foaming. “I’m leaving you,” she said calmly. “I’m tired of all your crap.”
Another wave slid up the beach, washed the sand off her feet, washed her guilt away.
Gregory Von Dare is a writer and dramatist specializing in crime and speculative fiction, often with a humorous or ironic twist. He attended Chicago City College and the University of Illinois. While living in Los Angeles, he worked for Universal Studios, Disney, and Sony Pictures as a talent manager and developer. He studied writing with Edgar winner John Morgan Wilson. Recently, his short stories were featured on the Soft Cartel and Horror Tree websites. Greg is an Affiliate Member of Mystery Writers of America. He lives outside Chicago where certain people will never find him.
Let him die. The authorities will see. Can you carry the world’s weight with a back full of lead? I see you. Stranger. Will you overthrow them? You tend his wounds, and now you’re the dying one. But another comes. Stranger. Tending your wounds. Perhaps you have overthrown much more.
Michael Hilton lives in Irving, Texas, where he watches a lot of TV.
Mother Moon placed her howling baby into the calm water, a bath to sooth the tantrum.
Baby kicked with rage. The water rose up. Toy cities, filled with people, were buffeted about.
Small cars floated as roads became rivers, until the child wore itself out, falling asleep amid the ruins.
Candace Kubinec wrote this story with thoughts for Texas.
Editor: To support recovery from Hurricane Harvey, please consider donating through the Red Cross or another organization.
Soft white grass, pure green sky.
Cotton shirt, like kisses on my neck.
The sun is warm and flowing, washing me in a vanilla-scented mist.
The stab of gin, the spark of tonic on the weather-beaten corduroy wood beside me.
Cane in hand, my dog at my side.
Aaron is a fitness and wellness coach. He writes for pleasure and relaxation.
That walk, a simple turn around the block at day’s end. Birds chirping, warm breeze blowing, trees softly stirring. Still not quite summer.
And I’m just trying to talk to you.
Then sounds are swallowed up; the world goes still. We are in a bubble.
Stillness that’s Holy.
Stephanie Press love stories as an exploration of identity, the vision of what is to come, and understanding where we’ve been.
Water reflected like a mirrored surface, flat and endless to the horizon and blending with the haze of a summer sky. I threw a stone and disrupted the stillness, as I had with my sister:
“Mom loved me more!” I said.
A verbal stone: ripples spread and peace was lost.
Gord Lysen is an only child with two older sisters.
“How is your new job?” A crumb escapes, falling.
“I am thankful to have one.” Careful, collected, but unable to avoid my family’s stream of questions. I reflect, the way my bargain-bin cassette instructed.
A miniature rake scrapes across the artificial garden on my desk. A grain of sand escapes.
Raphael Bastek is a Polish-American office worker. He lives with his beloved cat, Yuna.