I didn’t go to his first wedding—the one that was supposed to be mine, too—but I went to all the ones after that.
The last one was different… bittersweet. It felt like a goodbye as much as a beginning, but in some ways, aren’t all weddings like that?
Erin is an artist and editor living in Los Angeles.
It’s never too late, she said, strapping on her mandolin.
Time doesn’t wait, she said, studying a map of the world.
More and more, she said, before hurrying to board a train.
Is this seat saved? she asked.
For you, he answered.
Into the night, wheels turned while they sang.
Jane Hertenstein’s current obsession is flash. She is the author of over 80 published stories, a combination of fiction, creative non-fiction, and blurred genre both micro and macro. In addition she has published a YA novel, Beyond Paradise, and a non-fiction project, Orphan Girl: The Memoir of a Chicago Bag Lady, which garnered national reviews. Jane is the recipient of a grant from the Illinois Arts Council. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hunger Mountain, Rosebud, Word Riot, Flashquake, Fiction Fix, Frostwriting, and several themed anthologies. She can also be found blogging at memoirouswrite.blogspot.com
A myriad of dots fill the screen. He clicks on one to expand it, then scrolls through as many as he can. In each image he sees only himself. He is the same but subtly different, as each universe is unique.
Somewhere, in at least one, he must be happy.
Tracy Fells lives in West Sussex, England. She has won awards for both fiction and drama. Her short fiction has been widely published in magazines, online, and in anthologies. She is the 2017 Regional Winner (Canada and Europe) for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize and has been shortlisted for the Fish, Brighton, and Willesden Herald Prizes. She tweets as @theliterarypig.
The doors of the church closed behind me as the congregation quieted for the baptismal service. Shivering, a woman stepped into the water. The pastor plunged her under. She came up shouting. I thought, Finally, a church with some Spirit.
Eyes heavenward, she announced, “That water’s cold!”
I sighed deeply.
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, The Flash Fiction Press, Every Day Fiction, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog
I searched for you among the tumbled, crumbled tombstones in the cemetery.
I sat quietly in the vaulted cathedral watching candles flicker in the gloom.
You did not appear. No apparition. No sound of your voice.
The air turned icy and I pulled my sweater tighter as I walked away.
Candace Kubinec wrote this story.