Since my grandfather’s death
I’m convinced the clocks
have stopped working properly.
Hours are now arriving
equipped with extra minutes
that weren’t there before.
My throat burns from the scotch in my glass,
but it’s as impermanent
as the fuel trails of the planes above.
It won’t last. Nothing does.
EO is making a first attempt at a humorous fiction novelette called Id/entity, which, if it doesn’t suck, might actually see the light someday on Amazon Kindle. If not, EO will probably make some nice origami, or a LOT of paper footballs.
I once watched a momma bird feed her babies. She returned again and again with a worm for their waiting beaks.
As the babies got bigger, their number decreased: four, three, two, one.
And when the nest was empty, the robin sat holding the worm, no longer valuable or necessary.
Sue Silva is a freelance writer who lives in Ontario, Canada.
In cap and gown they march along, as gargoyles on gothic buildings look down on another commencement.
Her shaky hand, veined and marked by time, waves from the seated crowd. It once rocked him to sleep and dressed him for school.
He blows a kiss. Her fingers close on it.
MJ is an aviator, author, and speaker on ways risk and fear can work to our advantage to dream and explore. She is preparing for suborbital space flight and researching ways to improve astronauts’ long-term space missions.
She rolled her empty coffee cup in her hands. In another sliver of time, he too played with his cup on a battered diner table. He was all alone in the diner; as was she, at home listening to the sounds of early morning and contemplating the inevitability of diffusion.
Sarah works as a high school teacher, and also tries to write stories.
Her son took her to see the scorched husk of their old farmhouse one last time. He stood behind her as the salt smell of earthworms soothed her wrinkled skin.
In her eyes, a mud-splattered boy ran through the yard and into the house. “Take off your shoes,” she said.
Tracy Gold is a Fiction MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore. She also works as a marketer, writer, and editor for technology companies. Find her at tracycgold.com.
I buried the last of my children last month, the last of five. My parents passed sixteen and eight years ago. Spouse, nine.
I have their memories and a few pictures. A drawer of greeting cards hastily signed. A deck of cards, their corners worn.
The mantle clock ticks. Beckons.
Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction, some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Review, Flash Fiction World, Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 Word Story, A Story in 100 Words, 101 Word Stories, and Shotgun Honey, and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.
“You and Reese were too close,” Gary said. “That’s why you broke up. See that stone wall running down the middle of our property? Lisa and I mend it every spring.”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“So we can stand on opposite sides when we need to.”
Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He’s published stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories.
When I was young my father told me I spoke too quickly, but I was afraid he would be gone before I had finished all I had to say.
Now that I’m older, we sit on his front porch. I shout so he can hear:
“Tell me a story, Dad.”
Georgina is an avid writer, reader, and carer for two wonderful little boys. She currently resides in Canada.
The parts of the sea floor pushed against each other, none strong enough yet to have their way. Years pass and humans thrive.
A piece pushes its neighbor and the ground begins to shake. Days pass and humans investigate.
A mountain of water rushes outward. Minutes pass and humans die.
Suzi Harris is a retired technical writer working on her first novel with the support of her crazy Canadian husband and two psychotic cats.
It had been Saturday for over twenty-three hours, and Georgia was beginning to Freak. Out.
What if Sunday never came? What if she was stuck in an ever-elongating, never-ending, self-perpetuating Saturday?
Suddenly, the clock stopped.
It stayed stopped.
And then it started again.
Georgia had no idea what that meant.
Disclaimer: No, it doesn’t make any sense. It really is Saturday today, though.