The stars twinkle. I remember when you pointed at the one you wanted to go.
My tablet beeps. A message from “somewhere in Virgo,” you say. Sent fifteen years ago.
I wonder if I should I bother replying. It’ll take longer than fifteen years to…
Clutching the tablet, I type.
Joey doesn’t even have a tablet but he can be messaged at joeytoey.com.
Unkept promises drift away in the breeze, the stench of exhaust lingering in the parking lot. His red mustang fades into the horizon. Here, he left his girl, watching from the payphone station.
She stops dialing. Instead, she limps onto the curb, gives the next driver a thumbs up.
Kiersten Wood, from Massachusetts, is a dedicated writer who loves horror movies, dancing, and spending her summers in the City.
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.”
My daughter lives thirty minutes away. She’s got two children now. We haven’t spoken in twenty years. The last time we were together we hunted Monkey Bees in the backyard, turning things over, looking for a Monkey Bees’ nest. It was a made-up game. There was no way to win.
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.
Sometimes I wish she hadn’t read my letter. Even today I turn red, remembering her tone of surprise; I was scared, as I am right now.
I ran away and we never talked again.
Now I sit alone, going over photos of her, wondering how surprised she would sound today.
Tiago Viana is a Brazilian trying to live life as a writer in the US. With a preference for horror and mystery, he occupies himself writing novels, but sometimes he tries something new.
He loves me, he loves me not.
He loves me, he loves me not.
She was tearing the tiny petals violently, leaving the flowers bare.
He loves me, was all I could hear before her voice faded in the distance, as we both kept marching through the Gardens of Oblivion.
Still water runs deep. That’s Jana.
“You never really listen to me,” she calls from the front door.
Seated on my couch, I can see her hand on her high-stacked purple matching luggage. Fourth time this year.
She’s wrong: I hear her. I just don’t care. “Dear,” I respond, “can I help you with your bags?”
Gary Zenker enjoys the challenge of making people think and laugh. He runs the Main Line Writers Group
and the Wilmington Writers Group where they encourage both.
She approaches me slowly.
Since our marriage ended, we meet once a year. I confess that I’m still in love with her, although I know she has already married to another man.
She’s next to me, and I can see her crying while she places a rose on my grave.
Sergio is a 32-year-old English student.
She rolled her empty coffee cup in her hands. In another sliver of time, he too played with his cup on a battered diner table. He was all alone in the diner; as was she, at home listening to the sounds of early morning and contemplating the inevitability of diffusion.
Sarah works as a high school teacher, and also tries to write stories.
“Do you want to talk to her?” he asks.
She’s maintained contact with him. Now she asks him about me.
“Sure,” I say, almost casual, taking the phone. We’ve been apart. (She’s always so busy.) Now something happened, I’m leaving soon.
Our voices are breaking. Time is against us. Emotion.
Peter Li-ping is an experienced college lecturer and manager. He currently lives and works in the Northeast of England and has aspirations to have his written work published.