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.
Everything smelled like her. Blankets, clothes, furniture… Even the yard seemed, in a way, to carry her.
He expected to hear her laugh at all times, and turning the corner, to see her. But that is the way that all fathers feel, and the law always sides with the mother.
Born and raised in PA, Kevin loves autumn, undergrad courses, and his three dogs: Nikki, Mika, and Star. One of his dogs is a male. He also enjoys beer. Read more of his writing at http://flashaday.blogspot.com.
“You’re home. Dinner’s on the counter. The kids have been a nightmare.”
His eyes move past me, his keys slide across the cold granite. He finds a plate, and walks to his office. The screen’s glow illuminates the man I once knew, now silent.
I close the door.
Delancey Stewart is a fiction writer living in Southern Maryland. When no indulging her imagination, she works for the man as a tech writer and tends two small boys who, her husband assures her, are hers. Find her at http://delanceystewart.wordpress.com.