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
When Dad lost the remote, he made a game. He’d call out numbers and, using the cable box, I’d change channels from black and white fuzz to sounds and spectrums of light.
The cable company never took it back, and I kept that disconnected box—long after Dad was gone.
Frederick Charles Melancon is a native of New Orleans. Currently, he lives in Mississippi with his wife and daughter. In his spare time, he watches cartoon movies with his family, and he enjoys every minute of it.
You were the tomboy next door. We played children’s games: raced, wrestled, bickered. One day, suddenly, you were grown up. Poised, complicated, spellbinding.
You left for the city. Texted me that you were in love.
I suppose we’d known each other too long and too well ever to be lovers.
Alex’s story is what it is.
She held the bouquet above the trash; figures he sent flowers, probably something rare. Tropical.
Didn’t matter; it’s over anyway. Guy’s a bore. Freaking entomologist; creepo, always going on about bugs.
Well, it was done.
She glanced down at the bouquet, and felt a sharp sting. Burning sensation.
Dark, sharp, and short – Liz is a writer living in the wilds of Canada with her black cats and her laptop (the wifi’s pretty good in the boonies). She loves themes of loss, love, and change, all with a twist of something else. Her work appears in all the usual places, but most recently on Spelk, Yellow Mama, Near to the Knuckle and Twisted Sister lit mag. You can find her at lizmcadams.wordpress.com