We’d ride uphill past the tavern in Poppy’s ancient Cadillac. I pictured a tuxedo-clad Ricky Ricardo crooning love songs to Lucy, twirling on the dance floor, backed up by a big band. I’d wave to the hollow-eyed scratching junkies slouched against the wall. They’d wave back, baffled by the attention.
Sara Jacobelli lives in New Orleans where she works in a public library and teaches writing workshops. Her flash fiction, flash nonfiction, and short stories have been published in various places, including the New York Times Metropolitan Diary.
Her recorder, smaller than she remembers it, now covered with a decade’s worth of dirt.
She wipes off the mouth, lifts it to her lips. A sighing sound burdens the breeze as her breath stumbles through.
Somehow her fingers find the holes with ease and tap out a hollow melody.
Prisha is a high school student who aspires to be a successful author one day. You can find out more about her at prishamehta.com.
Winds whisper the sounds and sights of fall; fading flowers and falling leaves.
Dancing shadows slip away at dusk to appear again in the chilly dawn.
Golden wheat fields fall to the force of gobbling combines.
The Meadow Lark’s song signals change.
The harvest moon fills the night with mystery.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
Armed with her vintage Leica camera, she is convinced she can stop the passage of time, moments forever captured on film like flies in amber.
But despite her efforts, the clock persists.
Nest now emptied, she seeks solace in eighteen years of yellowed photographs.
Johannah Lipscher Simon is a professional ideator who writes and speaks on the power of living a creative life. See more at thewritingtype.com.
When she died, she left behind her stunning wardrobe, rows of hangers full of brand-new, high-quality clothes, silk scarves, designer handbags and shoes, most still with the tag on.
Most of the exquisite pieces had been hanging there for years, still unworn, being saved for later, for a special occasion.
Caroline Couderc is a multilingual writer and translator living in Switzerland and the UK. She has degrees in French Literature, Linguistics, and Cultural Anthropology. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Boston Literary Magazine, War, Literature and the Arts, Shotgun Honey, The Airgonaut, The Antigonish Review, and more. You can find her online at beautyisasleepingcat.com.
Drops of time
Flow from the tap of life
Ever so slowly, at first
Then more quickly
Today they are a steady flow
My life is a force
I cannot slow down
As it races toward the unknown
I know it will run dry
Then I will only have goodbyes
Mary has written poetry since age ten and continues to write poems and short stories of human interest.
She was a memorist, holding onto the collective experiences of an entire generation.
We all depended on her for our memories—faces in scrapbooks, grandma’s favourite recipes, names of distant relatives.
On the day she died, all she remembered faded away and her family was left with only a void.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
A house now unencumbered by timepieces, but still, their chimes remain, haunting its hollow margins. My father, the timekeeper, has departed for somewhere where the past, present and future are as one.
Choices are now mine, so with mornings free from alarm, I roll over and go back to sleep.
Steven Lemprière, having once been punched by a time clock, would not be horology’s greatest fan and feels too many of his waking hours are spent in the fruitless pursuit of trying to find the time. Having gone cuckoo, he has decided to clock off and focus on a blank sheet of A4 where time is at his beck and call.
Forty years of life swell between us since graduation day.
Yet here we are, time melted away in sunny blue Homecoming skies.
Pure spirit lurking in football memories
and tangible attraction amidst the Rah and Rah.
Back home, to the future, soft remnants remain, glowing…
Please don’t go.
Judi MacKenzie is a writer who recently attended a reunion.
Surprised by chill after weeks of scorchers, she holds her bag of groceries to her chest, purchases for a solitary meal.
Two girls skip by, flaunting autumn exuberance, ignoring homework, ignoring regimen and rigor. She alone grieves sweaty embraces, August smells, dreams expired as moderate temperatures and cooler heads return.
Nancy Ludmerer lives in New York City with her husband Malcolm and cat Sandy, named after the storm he fled (right into Nancy’s arms) and Sandy Koufax. Her story “First Night” appears in Best Small Fictions 2016.