The floor glistened with its fresh coat of lemon-scented mop water.
He entered by the kitchen, stumbling through the sliding glass door. Covered in mud and with grubby hands wrapped tightly around three grass stalks, he beamed.
And then her heart melted when he said, “Mommy, I picked you flowers!”
Jess works in fiscal, studies biology and English, and vanquishes Laundry Monsters on the weekends.
“Death comes for us all little one, and I’m so tired. I can’t keep running away anymore.”
His tiny fingers slid in between my own, tears dripping from his nose onto the back of his hand in rhythm with the heart monitor.
“Dad, can’t you keep running a little longer?”
Alex is a student at the University of Victoria. He divides his day into two parts: the hours when he has something to write about, and the hours where he has nothing left to say.
We rolled up our trousers and walked barefoot. Dad was cheerful, almost jolly. He laughed repeatedly between long, knee-gripping coughing fits. He was 59; I was 27.
It took me years to understand that it wasn’t a real laugh so much as a genuine imitation of a dying man’s chuckle.
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”. Visit BobThurber.net.
A pianist’s hands are extremely sensitive, able to detect minuscule changes in touch, response, key drop, even moisture and temperature.
Sobbing, Thomas wished deeply that his hands weren’t quite so sensitive, as he waited for the next wave, the gritty ashes of his beautiful 10-year-old son cupped in his hands.
Michael Coolen is a pianist, composer, actor, performance artist, and writer who lives in Corvallis, Oregon.
Andrew had never beaten his dad in golf. He’d been close; he’d faltered before.
Today, he had a 10 foot putt to win.
“Take your time,” whispered dad.
Andrew smiled. This was his time. He knew. His moment had finally arrived.
The Titleist rolled true.
Andrew smiled. Dad was proud.
Dave is living retired in California. He is completely new to writing. He credits Daniel Pink for the inspiration.
The boat rocked backwards and forwards, and I felt my stomach starting to churn. The day was hot and sultry as the gentle rocking continued. Then, as if a trigger was pulled, I vomited over the edge of the boat.
Dad didn’t mind. “Some berley for the fish,” he said.
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music many years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction after spontaneously creating bedtime stories for his children. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
“I’m sorry, sir, we’ll simply have to assign you an entirely new model.”
The Hardware Maintenance Commission representative smiled sympathetically, leafing through his papers.
“I know this procedure can be painful, but unfortunately your current version is no longer the standard.”
I sighed, lifting my son out of his stroller.
This story earned the First Runner Up, with a $25 prize, in the Mere 50 Words contest.
Henry was sitting in the park, his wife and son beckoning him to join them.
He felt peace, but he was in pain.
He stood; stepped; stopped, struck by a force so great he felt he had no breath.
Then, “He’s back!” And the beeping on the cardiac machine resumed.
Larissa occassionally makes time to write down the meandering thoughts in her over-critical mind. She also wrote A Good Place.