The autumn leaves fell in the soft breeze and swirled around Penny’s feet as she trudged down the lane. The world was dying around her, perhaps more so than in years past.
Heart heavy, she chose the biggest acorn, dug a deep hole in the yard, and planted fresh hope.
Lucinda Gunnin is a commercial property manager and author in the western Philadelphia suburbs, looking for hope that 2020 will eventually end.
He’d waited long enough.
Surrounded by new greens
under a fresh blue
he drew three deep breaths,
dove into May’s first morning.
May air fills lungs more fully than
any April rain has ever flooded
any April field. May Day’s sunshine
warms everything more deeply
than any mid-winter furnace fire.
Ron. Lavalette lives on Vermont’s Canadian border. His poetry, flash fiction, and creative nonfiction has been very widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press), is now available at all standard outlets. A reasonable sample of his published works can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
Navin brought the dragon to his lips and kissed her tiny nose. “It’s time,” he said.
The dragon nodded, unfolded her shimmering wings and launched. In ever widening circles, she exhaled over the frigid land.
Navin smiled as banks of white capitulated to a triumph of green and riotous color.
Mary Haynes splits her time between sailing in Florida and dirt-dwelling in Burlington, ON. She is currently writing short stories and plays.
Ice crystals reflect this afternoon’s sun onto my cozy chrysalis, casting shadows onto lavender crocus buds below. Bright marigold, crimson and azure shock my dark dull dreams. A gentle breeze caresses my wrinkled wet wings. Delirious and dizzy, my tongue uncoils reaching for sweet nectar, knowing that spring has sprung.
Dr. Jeffrey H. Toney has published scientific peer-reviewed articles, news media opinion pieces, and short fiction stories. Recently he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his 100-word story “The Quiet Raspberry Wormhole,” published in Crack The Spine. He serves as Provost and Vice President for Academic Affairs at Kean University.
He flits between branches, his jaunty, upturned tail bobbing. I’ve seen him before, but never this close, and never singing fit to burst his tiny heart.
His head twitches left and right. Perhaps he’s just scared, but I need to believe it’s because he’s caught a sideways glimpse of spring.
Tamsin can’t sing or flit, but she’s definitely on the lookout for the end of winter.
“Call it in the air, ma’am.”
“Tails,” said Spring, lounging by the pool.
The groundhog caught the coin. “It’s heads, ma’am.”
“Best of three?” Spring asked.
“No,” said Winter, “and absolutely no more favors.”
“Not even a little one?”
“I’ll be at the bar,” said the groundhog. “Let me know.”
Iain Young asserts that no groundhogs were harmed in the writing of this story.
Winter aged me,
took away muscle tone
with each mound of snow
I stared at my flaccid arms and legs.
Surely they belonged to someone else,
my mother perhaps…
when she was ninety.
Then spring arrived
With its noisy insistent presence.
Too much growth –
I’m done with that.
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
That first, immaculate, unfurling leaf. It knocked her sideways every year, felled her with its soft, green promise.
So many dead months of waiting. Did the arms of the beech sprawl up in silent prayer? Did they cling to the same frail hope? Maybe… this time… spring would never end.
Tamsin is certainly very glad to have escaped another grey British winter.
She threw me out; she didn’t like my tastes.
Flung on the rubbish heap, I was enveloped in a dark depression. I felt dead. Earth to earth.
Turning things over, I spread myself around. I met someone new, with potential. We sowed the seed.
We’re expecting a tomato this spring.
Margaret has a garden in Buckinghamshire, UK. She is currently writing
her first full length novel, while being distracted by short stories, flash fiction and her blog about all things writing.
Ketcham Creek is cresting, so what’s one more tear I ask to God and to you.
I skip a stone across the rushing water, then a handful thrown in fury. I will pray for you, but mostly I will pray for him.
Tears and spring floods cleanse my broken heart.
Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash
fiction, some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. Check out his newest venture, A Story in Three Paragraphs.