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.
Emily’s crib remained empty, except for her teddy bear. I looked at it and tears filled my eyes. Its button eyes were filled with melancholy.
The divorce was finalized yesterday and Greta took Emily to Chicago.
I grabbed the teddy bear and smelled it. It smelled of baby shampoo: Emily’s.
Doug has contributed to the popular horror anthology Demonic Visions 50 Horror Tales. His poetry is also featured in Poetry Quarterly and was an editor’s choice in a New England poetry publication.
When I came home from work the bird wasn’t singing in its cage. There were no dishes in the sink. The toilet seat was down. The note, unread, still laid out on the bedside table. My husband, nowhere to be found.
Just as it’d been for the past three weeks.
Couri Johnson is currently enrolled in the NeoMFA. In her spare time she works as head of YSU’s literary magazine, Jenny
, and alternates between stomach and back while laying on her couch.