The rule for any cougar is half your age, then add seven. Anything below this is unacceptable, and would you want to be known as a cradle robber?
I am 54, so under 35 is prohibited. Well that narrows it down a bit.
It also puts me in a predicament.
Vicky is a budding author, living in the remote, rural Irish landscape.
Little if any sizzling. Pulling away from the pan.
A toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean.
She turned it upside down on a wire cooling rack then righted it on another.
That brief time left an impression.
The crisscross pattern reminded her of her mother.
Dead at forty-two.
Jennifer M. Smith was taught the family baking secrets at an early age. She never met her maternal grandmother.
Things you left behind when you moved out:
-coffee mugs (2), stained
-CDs (4), no cases
-shoes (1 pair), scuffed
-socks (5), all odd
-spider plant (1), lovingly watered
-cufflink (1), gift from me, remember?
-sweater (1), still smells like you
-heart (1), broken
Please call ASAP to arrange collection.
Hannah Whiteoak is a freelance writer and poet from Sheffield, UK. Read her stories or follow @hannahwhiteoak.
My grandma has forgotten the word for Mahjongg. She keeps asking to play yoga.
I think about what that might mean.
She’d be teacher. Her poses would have names like desserts: the rugelach, the macaroon. I’d contort myself, wobble, fall. We’d both laugh.
From the closet, I get the tiles.
Brooke Randel is a writer and copywriter in Chicago, IL. Her fiction has been published in Ropes, Two Cities Review, Punchnel’s and Beecher’s Magazine. She’s currently co-writing a memoir with her grandma.
One of the brakes on my bike is broken. It doesn’t matter. It’s flat here.
Smiling white folks wave at me from golf carts. The weather is always warm. I married up.
I wonder if I’m as good as they are. Or as bad. Maybe I’m both. But hopefully neither.
Sarah Hausman likes to keep her bio shorter than her stories. Links and updates can be found at Facebook.com/sarahhausmanwrites
The smell slaps me back to the business at hand as I avoid the onslaught of memories that serve no purpose. She left me her cashmere sweater, reeking of mothballs. I sneeze, entrapped by envious eyes.
“You were her favorite.”
“You were always so easy to torture.”
Kim Kalama is a latecomer to fiction writing. She draws upon the quirkiest dynamics of her life experiences to stir her imagination.
When you called, I raced round to your flat like you knew I would.
Afterwards, we sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and sharing a cigarette.
It’s so good to be back together I told you, but you shook your head; Mike must never find out about this you insisted.
David has moved on and now writes 50-word stories. He has most recently had work published in The Foliate Oak, Helios Quarterly, Gnu Magazine, The Machinery, Three Drops From the Cauldron, Summer Fling – Tales of Seduction, Short Tale 100, Blink-Ink, and 50-Word Stories.
We watched it together.
“How would you describe your marriage?” the detective asked his suspect.
You ask me the same question.
“I knew you would ask that.” Giving nothing away.
Just like the guy in the show, I’m keeping my thoughts to myself. I don’t want to spoil the ending.
Besides, David doesn’t know what the ending is yet. He’s just making it up as he goes along.
The first time you cheated on me, you cried over the phone.
“We have to talk,” you said.
We walked in bruised silence through the park, then sat and stared over the hill.
“I don’t understand,” I said at last.
“Let me explain,” you told me. “We’re not a couple.”
David still doesn’t get it completely.
In the canoe, he always took the back to steer, so I was in the front. I couldn’t do anything right; he’d shout at me, Paddle harder! On the left! Left! Feather it!
When we switched to individual kayaks, our relationship improved immensely, moving together, each our own way.
Jackie Ascrizzi live in Montville, Maine, where she spends time observing beavers and cooking Indian food.