The baby dolls go with her everywhere. She cuddles the pale-faced one and croons, “Wittle sweet,” then kisses the dark-faced one and sings, “Wittle deaw.”
Everyone asks me why her babies have different skins.
I shrug. “She loves babies of all kinds.”
Why, they wonder.
I ask myself, Why not?
Rachelle Dawson is a wife, mama, and writer who loved books and baby dolls as a child. Now that she has her own children, she is rediscovering the delight of children’s literature and short stories. You can find more of her work at WritingRachelle.com
Mom’s Parkinsons was winning. Ringo, too, was near his end. Yet he stayed close, holding down her trembling foot, keeping her close, guarding her from demons.
Mom needed more help than we could offer, so I placed her. Mom settled in. Ringo, no longer needed, departed for his next assignment.
Kevin McManus wrote this story.
We sit amid butterflies and impeccably tended grass each day.
“Tea?” I pour from the cool pitcher on the tray.
She nods, demure. “Two sugars,” she says. “Why haven’t we met before?” She looks up under her lashes. The nurse behind us clucks in sympathy.
“Just bad timing, I guess.”
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 delanceystewart.wordpress.com.
The ghostly spectre silhouetted against the dark window sighed, the symptom of Death’s long-suffering passion.
Inside, cold breaths rattled through the lungs of Enid Westerhapf, 112 years old and at long last preparing to die.
Having awaited her for so long, Death finally welcomed her to stand by his side.
This story was based on a title provided by Master Gunner.
My life is like a bowl of oatmeal. It’s bland, grey, and kind of lumpy, only becoming bearable when I pile on the brown sugar.
Unlike the rest, the “brown sugar” part isn’t a metaphor. I crave the stuff constantly, by the bowlful.
Ironically, I’m kind of a bitter person.
This story is based on a title suggested by @cthomlan.
If I come back as a ladybug, you once told me, be gentle. Try not to crush me, but if by chance you should, don’t grieve. I’ll keep coming back, you promised, time and again.
Now, as you cling to me, I turn leeward to shelter you from the wind.
Alex Markovich was a magazine editor at Consumer Reports before he retired. He lives in Ardsley, a suburb of New York, with Jackie, his wife of 54 years and his fiercest critic.
Father Simon found a note in the charity box that read, “Sorry, I took some money.”
He suspected parishioners took money, but they never left a note.
Weeks later, Father Simon noticed a note in the charity box wrapped around a five dollar bill. “Thanks. The lemonade business picked up.”
Martin Jaeger has been published or is soon to be published in several print and online magazines. He tries to create imaginative pieces that will intrigue the reader, who will then have a greater appreciation for writers.
I am four years old, returning home from grocery shopping with my father, when I realize I’ve left my imaginary friend, Betty, back at the store.
My dad, so patient and kind, drives me back there, where we greet Betty on the sidewalk and he offers her a ride home.
M. Elaine Moore is a North Carolina-based fiction writer and poet. She has completed one novel and is at work on another. She has had several poems published both in online journals and in print.
Rammy won the 2011 Valentine’s Day contest with the following entry:
Of course they look alike; they’re sisters.
Coincidentally, I met them on Valentine’s Day and immediately fell in love, and now they live with me.
It was through a want ad: “New in town. Looking for friends, a litter box, and meow mix.”
I named my kittens Always and Forever.
Rammy Meyerowitz is a Puzzle Person and a Cultural Marginal, as well as a jewish atheist and a secular humanist.