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.
On my 128th day in Afghanistan, Blackwood and I were relaxing, smoking cigarettes. He said, “I don’t think we’re going to make it out of here.”
And I chuckled. Not because I thought he was wrong, but because I was surprised it took him so long to figure that out.
Chris is a former US Marine who served in Iraq and Afghanistan.
When darkness fell over the Rappahannock, the guns rested, but fighting continued.
One side fired “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, the other returning shots of “God Save the South”.
They fought until one side played “Home, Sweet Home!” The other repeated. They sang together.
Tomorrow, they’d return to their guns.
Matthew Gregory is a writer and filmmaker living in South Florida. Some of his work can be found at geronimatt.tumblr.com.
Gentle sounds of gulls and rhythmic waves echo in the heavens above, returning hauntingly to my ears, resounding in my heart.
Enchanted, I watch nature’s magnificence paint itself around me, glorious imperfections perfected with every brush-stroke.
Awakening, I see I too am a brush-stroke in life’s portrait.
My soul relaxes.
Lisa Lysen is having fun exploring her passion for words, hoping an adventure in writing may be somewhere in her future.
As war dragged on, Saleema wrote a story about white doves bringing peace.
Her sister scoffed. “This would never happen.”
Fighting tears, Saleema ripped up the paper and let the wind grab the pieces. They soared skyward, multiplying, sprouting feathers and wings.
People on both sides looked up and wondered.
Joanne R. Fritz lives in West Chester, PA. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Fifty Word Stories, Every Day Fiction, and Twisted Endings.
While I tried not to worry about problems,
He walked into the sea.
Foams splashed against him.
He stood still,
Absorbing the moment.
A monk’s soul, a bird’s spirit, and a baby’s happiness
Reflected in his being.
The three-legged stray dog
Taught me the best lessons in Inner Peace.
Kasturi is an equity analyst and an aspiring writer. She currently writes microfiction on her blog and aims to start writing a novel soon.
A male Jew and a female Muslim, both in their early twenties, were standing in a battle field holding guns against each other’s heads.
The Jew said, “If there were no religion, we might be dancing happily with each other right now.”
The Muslim replied, “In your club, or mine?”
Saeed Rezaee, from Iran, holds a B.A. in English Translation and shares his creative writing at teanglish.com.
People were lined up, waiting for a table, standing too close to her chair. She was almost touching the butt of a heavy-set, bleached blond, overweight woman who was describing her “last” trip to Paris in excruciating detail.
She quickly downed her glass of red wine, stood up, and left.
Bobbi Lurie is the author of three poetry collections: The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn and Grief Suite.