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
They sip coffee, seated at separate tables. He tries to read the newspaper. She writes poetry.
The cafe is crowded, yet no one sits near them.
He glances up, thinking she’s unaware. She inclines her head and smiles. He spills his drink on the paper and, embarrassed, approaches her.
Carol White is an award-winning novelist, columnist and playwright. Carol lives in Delray Beach, Florida and is currently writing her second book of short stories. Visit her website
Only when the arguments stopped did I realise I’d lost you.
Three years of stolen kisses and playful smiles faded away like fragments of a dream. I sit in your grandfather’s chair, listening to the front porch strain under the weight of summer rain, and wait for you to leave.
Guy knows the sound of summer rain like the voice of an old friend. This is his thirteenth 50-word story.
“How are you?” it starts.
“I miss you,” he says.
“When are you coming over?” he asks.
I say I’m fine. I tell him I’m busy. I say I’m too tired to come over right now.
I waste platitudes on him when I should just say two words: “It’s over.”
Lucinda is a housewife, blogger, and aspiring writer. She is currently experimenting with different writing styles, hoping to enhance her somewhat rusty writing skills.