He came to my childhood bedroom every night: silent, colourless, translucent, sad.
One night he was waving his arms, telling me to get out. Then he vanished.
I ran outside and hid in the woods.
That night my father, deeply disturbed, strangled my mother.
I never saw my saviour again.
After trying a lot of different jobs, Arthur Brown still has ambitions, but he’s not sure what they are.
He knows
his wife has gone
not by the altered sounds
of the machines
meant to drip and breathe and ease and tease
the life back into her
but by the loosening of the nurse’s
shoulders,
her small step back,
the breath
in that moment before her eyes meet his.
Jennifer L Freed writes mostly poetry and, sometimes, some very short stories. To learn more, please visit her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
He was now a different man. Clothed in brittle skin, reduced to bones, he lay swallowed up by the bed. Drawing in air, his lungs choked.
Overwhelmed, I closed my eyes. Burning tears plunged down my cheeks.
Cancer had stolen my son, and turned him into a collector of time.
Chong Teck Sim is an aspiring writer from Singapore with a passion for art, travel, history, writing, literature, languages, and world cultures. In his free hours, he participates in volunteer work to gain life skills.
“Happy twenty-first birthday, Stephanie.”
Linda raised the beer can to the sky and took a sip.
“Sorry we have to share, but Mary would only give me one.”
She bent next to her best friend’s tombstone and poured the rest of it out, leaving the cemetery with a heavy heart.
Melissa J. Crispin was born and raised in Connecticut, where she still resides today. She is currently working on a novel, as well as shorter works when the mood strikes.
Lily is 19, and already well known to police.
Calmly, Detective Carew sits beside her. Gently, he takes one of her now-bare arms, turns it over, and examines the new needle tracks.
“You’ve fallen off the wagon. You’re using again.”
“No… I haven’t.”
“What are these?”
She whispers, “Demons’ footsteps.”
Barry O’Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. He is enjoying the challenge of writing in 50 words.
It was one of those days. She was late for work, spilled boiling coffee on her iPhone, and got into an argument with a colleague.
Life was horrible.
On her way home, a homeless man approached, panhandling, tears of despair in his sky-blue eyes.
Bad days, she realized, are relative.
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) exhales oxygen while writing stories. Follow her at debbiantebi.wordpress.com.
Words terrify me. Their power and immediacy. Will you marry me? Changing everything. Just an articulation of speech. I do. Words transforming worlds. Like a head on collision. It’s a girl. Easier than falling from a great height. I don’t love you anymore.
So I just say nothing these days.
Shark Trager struggles with finishing his works of artistic frivolity so has taken to writing microfiction because not finishing a 50-word story is less reckless.
Years ago I told the gardener, “One cat is enough. Drown those kittens.”
Indifferent, he pulled them from the mother and fetched the bucket.
We watched them struggling in the chill water, pansy faces upturned, soft mitts flailing, frantic squeals dying away.
So long ago, but it haunts me still.
Catherine Mathews is a State Department retiree formerly stationed overseas in Paris, Rome, Tel Aviv, Athens, Frankfurt, and Istanbul. She is now living in Northern Virginia and writing about her life.
“Phooey to you!” I said to Russell. Sometimes you just have to stand up for yourself and tell someone Phooey. “You heard me,” I added, a little louder this time. “I told you Phooey!”
Russell blushed and looked down at his shoes. “You’re such a big old meanie,” he whispered.
Philip Zunzuncito Sequoia lives in England. He likes the music of The Fall. He dislikes marzipan.
There’s a buzzing in my mind,
like a swarm
from a ripped and tattered hive.
Looking in my direction,
can you see my soul
through your dark and stinging eyes?
What happened to the words
so softly spoken,
your gentle hand,
your warm embrace,
as we walked, talked, and smiled.
Patrick works with robots and computers, at times writing software, but he would rather write poems.