They cried when he passed. I didn’t see the point of it. He was where we all are going. So many trains, so many tracks, all heading to the same station. There is no conductor to punch our tickets or announce the stop. We travel alone and can’t get off.
Gordon Lysen resides at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
If she had known,
she might have answered her telephone,
let the dog out one more time,
refilled his bowl.
She would’ve worn a newer nightgown.
As it was,
she was just so
tired, so bone-heavy
She turned on the television,
crawled beneath her comforter, took
Jennifer L. Freed writes mostly poetry, and occasionally some micro fiction. Other work can be seen at jfreed.weebly.com.
From his chair, he watches the cellar door. His hands folded patiently along his lap, each knuckle stiff and cold. Eyes glazed over, witless.
The door hasn’t opened for three days. Only the smell has made the ascent. Fetid bloat, sweet with decay. Ripening, ever since he died down there.
Kyle Cortright is from eastern Pennsylvania. He is a pretty rad dude.
There is one woman left in the world, and I love her.
I watch from afar, fearful of what might happen should we touch.
Sometimes she cries, yearns for me. I’m too selfish to offer my hand.
My arm aches from the scythe, but it weighs less than my heart.
Guy takes inspiration from love, life and the drunk strangers he meets on his way home. This is his third fifty word story.
His knees hit the sand, and he collapsed face down. Exhausted. Finally spent.
He knew as clearly as anything that if he closed his eyes, he would never open them again.
But he was tired.
So very tired.
More tired than he had ever been before.
He closed his eyes.
Maxwell Park wrote this story.
“Mommy, why you crying?” He interlocks his warm little fingers with mine and squeezes tightly.
I look out the window. It is overtaking the horizon, blocking out the setting sun.
“Because I love you so much.”
“Are we gonna be alright?”
I squeeze back.
“Everything is going to be okay.”
Corey Niles had a 500-word flash fiction published in the fall issue of Eye Contact.
Her eyes closed as her chest slowly fell. A tear fell from the corner of my eye.
Relief fell upon my shoulders, yet overwhelming sadness burdened my heart.
I, too, was lost for air. The liar, I thought.
You promised. You swore to me I could close my eyes first.
Adam Randall is a 22-year-old amateur writer. Other than that he’s not very interesting.
“How will the end begin?” my daughter asked me one night. “And I don’t want you make any jokes about the letters ‘T’ and ‘H’ or tell me I’ll find out when I’m older or change the subject!”
Just then, a billion trumpets sounded.
“Whoa,” she said. “Never mind, daddy.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @stealingzen.