Here’s the thing. I was good. All year. Check your records. Consult your list. Check it a third time. I minded my manners. I was consistently polite, even when I wasn’t in a particularly cheery mood. And not once was I nasty.
So what happened? Weren’t you looking?
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
I can’t forget the first year I got to go tree-chopping. Displacing snow drifts heaped like cairn-stones, Dad and I trudged over hills and through hollows until he whispered: “Stay here. If you see red snow, run.”
It’s a shame there’s bloodthirsty trees in this world. And one less Dad.
Leigh Ward-Smith is a writer who subsists almost entirely on sweet tea, literature, and the weirdities of life*. She also loves dogs and other critters. When there’s time, she blogs at Leigh’s Wordsmithery
It’s foggy here, in my mind.
Words don’t come easy, all jumbled up in fog.
There’s sadness in their eyes.
Should I know them?
They act as if they know me; speak as if they love me.
I feel a tear escape and wonder what makes us all so sad.
Lisa Lysen is having fun exploring her passion for words, hoping an adventure in writing may be somewhere in her future.
I loved her for 28 years, yet brain cancer won.
I loved her for 40 years, yet breast cancer won.
I loved me, but lost my mind losing my beloved, lifetime friends. I lost my job because I lost them and my mind.
Why is loss so sad and ugly?
Terri lives in Bucks County, PA where she’s healing her heart and looking forward to brighter days…
Gentle wind off the Mediterranean
flutters their white tablecloth’s overhang,
softly touching her bare legs.
“It was fun – we had such a great time!”
Jerking her hand free from her lover’s surprised fingers,
she brushes aside her wild windswept hair,
exposing fierce brown eyes,
and cheeks salty with sunlit tears.
Matthew lives in Maine. He wishes everyone freedom and that no one be left behind or imprisoned or tortured or hungry or suffering in any way. May all beings be happy.
Teary-eyed and with flowers in hand, the boy inches toward the grave with his mother. The grave is familiar; they both visit it daily.
The boy breaks down and falls to his knees. Crying, he says, “He was so good. We had so many memories… He was a good goldfish.”
Tate Hancock is a junior at Orion High School in Illinois. He lives with his mother, father, older brother, and younger brother. He wrote this 50-word story for his English III Honors class.
I’d spent enough time at the bar already. My mind was made up. I was the first to say “I love you;” it was only right for me to be the first to say “It’s over.”
I arrived to an empty house, her wedding ring laying coldly on the table.
Ellis says: “I write whatever I can, whenever I can.”
School continues, but your lessons are done. Your empty desk and chair are a reminder you’re no longer here.
Why did you play with that abandoned gun in the alley? Senseless tragedy put your ten-year timeline to an end.
A lesson learned too hard, one our class will never forget.
Shawnta S. Barnes is a literacy coach in Indianapolis Public Schools, an adjunct instructor at Indiana University Purdue University Indianapolis School of Education, and a 2016-2017 Teach Plus Teaching Policy Fellow.
I brought her some West Virginian wildflowers fresh from the Star City exit on I-79.
She cradled them like an infant wrapped in burlap. The little bluets danced along the dewy glow of her paling face. “What should we name them?”
“Honey …” She wanted to name everything.
Amber D. Tran graduated from West Virginia University in 2012, where she specialized in lyrical non-fiction and contemporary poetry. She currently lives in Alabama with her husband and miniature dachshund. Her first novel, Moon River, will be released this fall.
She was found in a pool of blood alongside the road.
The old Ford carrying the beast smashed an oak a half mile away.
That game he played—the game of touch—was no fun. It never was.
Eventually, she spoke to the nurse. “Where’s dad? Is he all right?”
Eric Doubek is from Brazil.