He thought about retiring.
He took a leave-of-absence, headed south, got a job driving kids to summer camp. He’d always liked kids.
These kids laughed at his belly, threw things into his beard.
He couldn’t wait to get home where kids were just names on lists—naughty or nice.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
It’s been a long time and I’ve missed you, my old friend.
The thought of you, your smell. The way you taste.
You’re always on my mind.
I know it’s been good to be away from you, but I want you back in my life.
Hello carbs, my old friend.
Susan is a Technical Writer by day and fiction writer at night. She adores her five grandkids.
I bought my ticket, prepared to travel
To fair Verona, for one night only
My guide met me, in doublet and tights
And together we followed the cobbled road
That led to a window, with balcony high
Where a maiden sighed and wondered why
Her lover had brought a rival
Joan Skura writes from Toronto, Canada, where she lives with her husband, Ron, and their finicky feline, Lola.
Contrary Carl is the world’s most annoying housemate.
He opens the closets,
stands in the sitting room,
works in the playroom,
plays in the workshop,
parks on the driveway,
wears shorts in the pantry,
and keeps his mistress in the master bedroom.
So I locked him in the living room.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction, and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
He loved her, and although she professed her own, evidence proved the contrary. Her caresses could not mask philandering nights and whomever she spent them with.
Fantasies of freedom consumed his thoughts… until she scratched behind his ears, murmuring “Good boy.”
Still, sooner or later, she was bound to leave.
F.M. Johnson is a writer from Richmond, VA. Her book, Tales of the Supernatural, is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble Book Stores, and her website, fmjohnson.com.
Barely discernible in the gloom, he lay with twisted limbs, his eyes wide, staring. His mouth hung open. Silent. Still. Lifeless.
In contrast was the frantic rush of bluebottles.
Playing the part of a corpse was not a top acting role. He just happened to be rather good at it.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to write the occasional fifty word story. As she gets older, they get more occasional.
Tweety Bird smokes, skinny legs crossed, cage door ajar. Sylvester the Cat is unconscious on the floor — Tweety’s skilled at wielding the frying pan.
Tweety takes a long puff. Life’s good here with Granny, but far too boring. Looking at Sylvester, Tweety grins and decides that Granny needs a dog.
Maura Yzmore writes short-form literary and speculative fiction, as well as humor. Find out more at maurayzmore.com or @MauraYzmore.
He was used to the hallucinations that came with Lewy Body Dementia. He was no longer surprised when he saw bugs and animals crawling out of the walls.
So he wasn’t afraid when he saw a giant python slithering down the hall toward him.
Not until it swallowed him whole.
Harry Demarest hopes to publish his fiftieth 50-word story before he ends up in a memory care facility.
The A/C crashes and I am alone, wishing for love. The heat creeps in. I sigh, knowing sleep will be difficult.
My head hits the pillow and I stick my foot out for relief. I hear from under the bed, “I’ll always love you.” And then claws tickle my foot.
Lucas Chapman studies English and History at Saint Louis University. He enjoys eating toasted ravioli and running unnecessary distances.
I sent you home with leftovers,
delicious homemade soup
spooned into a nice glass bowl
with a BPA-free lid.
I didn’t expect to never see you or it again.
I should have used a take-out container
from a less memorable meal.
You are quite forgettable.
It’s the bowl I miss.
Robin Lubatkin sings with the very young, the very old, and everyone in between.