A loon’s call echoes across the amber lake. Her mate’s wail reassures her.
Above, a rested comrade takes point. The spent goose banks away, catching the slipstream.
Hardwoods preen, sashay their brightest orange, gamboge, and crimson. The old ones yawn, smiling at the adolescents, who dream tonight’s dance never ends.
Matthew lives in Maine.
It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.
Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?
E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?
One spring morning
A strong wind arose
Waking the old trees
Their young leaves shimmied
Like tiny gymnasts stretching
Practicing handstands and cartwheels
While nearby other giants
Stood somber as if caught
By some old trauma
Some unspeakable shame
That had broken
Their mighty spirit
So many long years ago
Matthew lives and grows in Maine.
He looked at me, eyes rain-readied, heavy and distant.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered quietly.
“All these years, I’ve been telling myself ‘tomorrow’.
“But then there’s another tomorrow. Followed by another.
“And then a tomorrow follows that.”
He blinked and the rain began. Slow and silent.
‘Until there’s no tomorrow. It’s over.”
Jon is from the North West of England and an aspiring writer, working in Local Government but with a background in Newspaper Journalism.
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.