Monday morning: I know she’s wrong.
Tuesday: I think she’s wrong.
Wednesday: I ask my workmate, “She’s wrong, no?”
Thursday: I cook pan-roasted salmon, wait for her.
Friday: “Are you still angry, Baby?”
Saturday: “Sorry. I knew I was wrong.”
Sunday: We drive to the beach, curl up under stars.
Mandira Pattnaik is an Economics graduate who lets her degree gather dust while she word-weaves. Some of those pieces have made their way into Spelk, Lunate, Gasher, Star82, and fiftywordstories. She tweets @MandiraPattnaik.
I was six when my father left. I remember his hands, large and coarse, letting go of mine to hurl a battered suitcase into his rusting, coughing car.
Now his hands seem small and frail, shaking with fear for his next long journey.
I cannot bring myself to clasp them.
Charlie Swailes writes short and very short stories when not teaching English or looking after her two small boys.
to close the distance
and reach out
and accepting you,
just as you are.
I hold on
and tell you
to leave without me,
Munira Sayyid recently realized her passion for writing. She urges you to try as well.
I fell in love rapidly,
with a strong, sweet, chivalrous man.
You adored me then…
before the breakdown.
It took you away. I understand.
I’m not the same so you’re not the same man.
I patiently await your return.
I’ll never give up.
Please! We can fall in love again.
April is a hopeless romantic, even in hard times. Life equals love.
Meet me where the setting sun kisses the roof of the lighthouse, I said, that familiar place where we whispered secrets at two in the morning. I needed to be there because I remembered all the things that we had said. She didn’t show up, because she remembered them, too.
L.S. Engler writes from outside of Chicago, though she grew up chasing dragons in Michigan. She is the editor of the World Unknown Review and is currently finishing up a trilogy about zombies called The Slayer Saga.
that I’m doing this
I want to be free
of this nightmare
no more weights tied
around my mind.
I’m sorry that
I get it wrong.
And I’m sorry
that I say I’m sorry
more than I say
I love you.
Rebecca Milton is an author from Kent, England who is currently working with editors to prepare her debut novel for self-publication. She has recently been featured as a poet in Snapdragon Journal.
The snow was falling softly as I packed my last bag and closed the trunk. Seventeen years of my life and it all fit into a 1997 Toyota.
The porch light suddenly came on and I saw him standing on the porch with no slippers.
I turned off the ignition.
Susan Gale Wickes spent many years in the newspaper industry, but is now devoting her time and energy to writing poetry, songs, and short stories. She has been published in Haiku Journal, Sleeve, and 50-Word Stories.
The man runs toward the café. His red coat and yellow umbrella are bursts of color in the rainy gray.
Earlier, he slammed the door shut at our home because of a misunderstanding.
He smiles as he sits at my table, erasing the stinging words we threw at each other.
Gabriela Abraxas lives and writes in Los Angeles.
He brought her two slices of blackened toast, apricot preserves slathered on like burn salve.
“I made breakfast. Sorry about last night.”
“It smells terrible.”
“And sorry I can’t cook,” he said, perched on the edge of the bed like an uncertain sparrow.
They went out for pancakes.
Amy Locke received her BA in English from the University of Iowa. Her fiction has been published by monkeybicycle.net, bewilderingstories.com, and crackthespine.com. She currently lives in Iowa with her husband, daughter, and two silly dogs.