Release the dictionary eaten whole, the bird swallowing a fish, in case it chokes you. Escape the mind fog. Unburden your broken back.
Let the old words butterfly your face, your hands, colour you gold, purple, red and blue.
Let them undo your reinvention: unearth the person you’ve always been.
Alison Woodhouse writes short and long fiction, has work forthcoming in Ellipsis 3 and Leicester Writes Anthology, has been short- and long-listed in various competitions, and has won Adhoc and matter magazine competitions.
Abroad, learning the language, culture, history. At the memorial, it’s hard to breathe. They couldn’t either.
A tower of names. Clocks. It is 11:02 forever.
Sugoi is Japanese—something amazing or awful.
Where are you from? They know their own.
I’m American, but those words, here, are hard to say.
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a writer and photographer. She is the author of two fiction chapbooks, “Mother Love” and “Where I’ll Be If I’m Not There.” She reads, gardens, and sews teddy bears for fun. See more at wwwonewriter.blogspot.com.
Snow fell as he stared blankly at the photo of her. His other hand held an axe. One tree stood amidst stumps in glaring white.
Firewood was needed. But she planted this…
He sighed, pocketed the photo and swung the axe with tears. He’d save some for a photo frame.
Joey tries to write a little.
He recognized it immediately by the drip of paint hidden behind the wheel of the 1940 red and yellow workhorse, the long gone first tractor of his boyhood.
Half a century and a handshake later, it was his again. How proud his father would’ve been to see it come home.
Judy McKinnon lives in Toronto, Ontario with her husband and two sons, whose talents and creativity constantly inspire her. She has worked in business journalism for nearly 20 years.
Just before he’d left the room, he’d commented that he thought he knew her, but couldn’t think where from.
She’d smiled and said that she couldn’t think of anywhere they may have met before.
But now she was scared.
If he worked it out, if he remembered, there’d be trouble.
Mark plays the ukulele, rides a motorcycle, and likes monkeys. He can easily be lured into a trap with the promise of chocolate.
Even maple leaves know when to let go, when to surrender. Not Bethany Carter. She holds on tight to her memories of Jeremiah Rambo.
He will be back. With a name like that, how could she forget?
Bethany visits his grave every Sunday simply to re-read the inscription, “Just Resting.”
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, First Stop Fiction, The Linnet’s Wings, Curly Red Stories and others. Read more of her work at marianbrooksauthor.com.
Only my son knew my history, he types, hunt and peck. Now he’s gone.
A sigh. Who will bother to read the products of his aged fingers?
Rap, rap. A girl and her mother at the door. School project, she says. “Tell me about the war?”
He will be remembered.
Lest we forget.
Golden tresses swayed in an ocean breeze. Bright green eyes glowed beneath a red bandana.
Waves crashed against the rocks below the cliffs with the thunder of memory. My fingertips brushed the faded colors.
The wind whipped the photograph from my hand. One step and the ocean swallowed my pain.
Suzi Harris is a retired technical writer working on her first novel with the support of her crazy Canadian husband and two psychotic cats.
“Where are we?” grumbled Trim, rolling out of bed.
“Planet X!” enthused Portly.
“I dunno,” said Portly. “It’s a ‘forbidden fruit’ thing, I guess.”
“But don’t you know about the Curse?”
“What curse?” said Portly.
Trim groaned haggardly. “Now we’ll never be able to recite the alphabet again!”
This story is based on a title suggested by @keab42.