Watching two swans glide across the farmer’s pond, Claire reflects on her life and how things didn’t work out the way she’d imagined.
She read that swans mate for life, and wonders why they hadn’t shared that secret with the young couple who once pledged undying love along this shore.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
26 years old. That’s when my heart first met hers.
26 minutes in and I was already in love.
26 months later I broke her heart into a billion bits.
26 seconds. That’s how long it took her to leave.
26 years older and I’m still picking up the pieces.
Dylan Martin is a University at Albany alumnus who currently lives in the New York metropolitan area. His passion for fiction tends to gravitate towards the characters involved, and his writing tends to focus on the characters as well. See more at dm-writing.com.
Thomas reached across the gear shift, searching for his brother’s hand, as mangled shreds of guardrail accompanied their descent.
The five-second drop opened up into a lifetime of memory.
Campouts. Christmases. Dallas Cowboys games.
So what if Jimmy’d slept with his wife?
Thomas regretted his decision five seconds too late.
Dr. Adrian L. Cook is a humanities professor at Tarrant County College in Fort Worth, TX. He is also a semi-pro musician, specializing in the electric washboard. He lives with his wife — children’s book author Cristee Cook — their two kiddos, their pancake-colored dog, and lots and lots of books.
I looked into her eyes.
I held her hand.
I should have said, “I love you.”
Should have said, “Thank you for the good times.”
But I was angry still,
after all those years.
I looked into her eyes.
I dropped her hand.
I said,”Goodbye,”
and then I died.
Harry Demarest has written 30 50-word stories that have been published, and another dozen or so that were not good enough. Two of his longer stories have been published.
I miss reading your gothic paranormal dinosaur erotica poetry.
I miss you playing B-side heavy metal on low volume whilst veganising carnivorous recipes.
I miss picking up a full jar of pickles and standing stupidly with only the lid in my hand.
I missed the meaning of your goodbye note.
Alice Lam moved to Australia from the UK with her partner and they share a house in Melbourne, along with a cheese-seeking, greying Boxer dog. See more at alicelambooks.com.
Before dying, she softly whispered, “I’ve never really loved you, and now I can’t make it up to you.”
He already knew, and consoled, “Don’t worry about that now. I’ve loved you enough for both of us.”
That’s when he saw in her eyes the love he’d always waited for.
Connell is always upbeat about putting something in his bio section and personally writes them all by himself as others couldn’t be bothered doing it for him.
Some wild-eyed vagrant bursts into a studio and tells a young artist about the evil he’s done and his years on the run. He hands the artist a pistol.
The artist listens attentively before recognising the vagrant’s eyes as his.
Terror… Then resignation follows as he slowly squeezes the trigger.
One of Connell’s many dilemmas is whether to write a bit or not before going to bed. When he writes, he’s sleepy the next day, and when he doesn’t, the ideas slip away.
He meticulously unwraps it to find an android of his deceased father.
It self-activates and tells him his father uploaded all his memories and emotions before he died. It loads and says, “Son! I’m back!”
He shoves the imposter away.
The android weeps for a moment, then deletes its memory.
Connell writes a bit and then goes to bed.
When I was younger, my dad taught me how to play chess. If I made a bad move, my dad would let me take it back. He also taught me that a man never cheats.
But I cheated. And that broke her heart.
Nobody’s letting me take that move back.
D.B. Robertson is a Psychology major from Indiana who has rediscovered a love for creative fiction after taking courses in creative writing. When not busy with writing or theatre, D.B. works as a writing tutor at university.
I don’t know
what I said.
I only know that
it was wrong.
I’m not sure why,
but the pillow in my arms
says that it is so.
I’m well acquainted with my couch these days
–but there I’ll stay.
I love life way too much
to sneak back in.
E.O. Hargreaves recently misplaced a really comfy feather pillow and wishes he knew where the heck it went.