Barry had two left feet. No girl would dance with him twice.
Susie stood forlornly by the wall. She blushed when he asked her.
When the music started, she trod on his toes, and he apologised.
Years later, they reminisce about their first and last dance, still in perfect step.
K. S. Dearsley has an MA in Linguistics and Literature and has had
stories published on both sides of the Atlantic. She lives in Northampton, England, and when she is not writing, she lets her dogs take her for walks. Her fantasy novels are available on Amazon. Find out more at ksdearsley.com.
Emilia passionately claimed that everyone she loved didn’t love her, and vice versa. She knew that true love was tricky, rather like a sort of magic.
Then one day, quite inexplicably, Emilia met Fred. He was busking on a street corner and just happened to pull rabbits out of hats.
Linda is a teacher from Sydney, Australia, who has had plays go from page-to-stage and poems published in both Hemispheres. Once upon a time, she was invited to the same function as Ben Stiller.
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.
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.
Granma’s room; always dark. Silence, stillness, nothing touched.
Nine years old, the oldest, not the favourite.
Is Granma alright? Maybe tea?
Two cups of bitter, peaty liquid; no milk, no sugar.
The leaves drift into symbols.
“What do you see?”
The word stains like nicotine.
David Rae currently works with numbers, but prefers working with words.
I fell for him like autumn leaves.
Seasons change from green to gold.
My hands shake and my heart beats fast.
He’s the kinetic energy pulling me in and nothing draws me away.
Our worlds collide. I am his and he is mine.
Danielle deems herself witty and enchanting most days. Rumors has it this young women’s charm is genuine and true. She loves rainy days in bed and productive days in the sun. Danielle lives and works for joy and not for the money. She writes to awaken her soul and to avoid unpleasant tasks and people.
This morning, we do the crossword puzzle on the floor, just like we did the day we moved in fiftysome years ago, before we had furniture or the children who will, today, help us move into assisted living. We’re rusty at the clues, but the coffee tastes just as hot.
Ingrid Jendrzejewski grew up in Vincennes, Indiana, and loves cryptic crosswords and the game of go. Recently, she won the Bath Flash Fiction Award. Links to Ingrid’s writing can be found at ingridj.com and she occasionally tweets @LunchOnTuesday.
It is difficult.
Sitting next to one man, but looking across the room at the one who lives in your heart.
Oh, that is kind of difficult.
Some mistakes can’t be undone, you know.
So it seems. Why tell me this now?
Because I’m about to leave you.
Sakinah hails from Malaysia but has lived in a bunch of other countries including the U.S. After 10 years in the oil and gas industry, she’s venturing out to explore natural healing, writing, and life beyond the corporate jungle. She can be reached at facebook.com/sakinah.alhabshi
His hands nailed to the walls
His feet in cement
His soul behind bars
Two kids entangled
Dreams broken, now nightmares
She drinks tea and smiles
Her next delicious move
Currents cross the room
His silent thoughts whisper
But he still loves her
Patrick Yu aspires to write. He realizes he tends to touch on the darker sides of things. Maybe that will change.
He was never much for talking,
but he must have felt
our youthful lack of questions
as a wound: when
we asked him, later—
when we were old enough
he’d never told us
of who he was,
his answer flared
quick and sharp:
Jennifer L. Freed usually writes poetry but likes the challenge of micro-fiction. She recently had a 100-word story (“The Lesser”) published in The Citron Review
. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com