What makes me feel really sad is not that I am a sick old man and every part of my body is aching. Nor is it the thought that I am going to die sooner than one may hope.
It is my son’s assurance that his youth will last forever.
Victor is a Russian that could be thought of as a literary anglophile.
I’m still here, you know. Even through these misty eyes, I still see.
But when you look, you see an old person sitting in a chair, unable to speak,
the times I played and danced and laughed
Why don’t you see me?
you should still see
Henry would like to be great at everything but never will be.
She was a girl. Big smile, lots of friends, big demands, bigger expectations.
She went to see the world to find herself. She had to fight to keep that smile big, make new friends, reduce her needs and realise that dreams are not always real.
She is a woman now.
Alidiane is an English language student in Dublin, Ireland. Originally, she’s from Brazil.
In a village just outside Llandudno, I went up to the owner of a bookshop, me a young lad, and declared how much I’d love his job.
He looked at me first in scorn, then in pitiable sadness, his face crinkled like the edges of one of his browning paperbacks.
Harris Coverley lives in Manchester, England, where he works as a teaching assistant. He has had short fiction published in Disclaimer Magazine, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Drabble, and 50-Word Stories.
She promised to save me a seat.
“I’ll drape my sweater over the chair next to mine.”
I’ve looked every where and can’t find her. The only sweater I see is on a chair beside a little blonde girl.
Estelle has white hair
Maybe she didn’t make it into heaven.
Candace hopes someone will save her a seat.
“My house, my rules!” he’d roared.
My legs complain of the extended sitting of the journey, the chill no one else seems to acknowledge, the vibrations of the traffic.
Deposited among chaos and unconcern by a cabbie who’d taken money I’d put aside for a meal, I reappraise father’s “tyranny”.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration.
The chauffeur dropped Lila off by the barbershop with the twirling pole, next to Daddy’s law office. Her lunch money was still in her pocket.
She hated her long chestnut hair, the tangles, the velvet hairbands from Grandmother.
Mama would scream.
Lila went inside. She gave the barber her money.
Megan Abrahams is a Los Angeles-based writer / art critic and artist. A contributing writer for Art Ltd. Magazine, ArtPulse Magazine, Fabrik Magazine, LOST WKND and WhiteHot Magazine of Contemporary Art, she is currently writing her first novel. Sporadic updates appear on her blog.
September raged outside, violent bursts of russet and gold. Her tiny hand made a fist around my finger. “We’re in this together,” she said without words.
Different hospital. Different decade. The ache is deep and I am sinking. Papery fingers entwined. “We’re in this together,” she says without words.
Alison has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen. Her first story was a horrible island romance scribbled at the tender age of eight. She has recently been featured in Firewords Quarterly and Journeyman Magazine and hopes to one day remain seated long enough to produce a novel.
What ever happened
To that little boy blue?
He grew up under the sun,
He could fly a kite high,
Skin his knees,
Feel the green grass.
A cool breeze,
Under the trees,
Under the stars.
Yes you, that’s the one.
What’s become of you
Little boy blue?
Patrick loves to climb trees and fly kites.
That summer smelled like burning ants.
“C’mon, give your old man a hug,” he said, struggling to sit up straight amongst white sheets. I could feel his bones when I wrapped my arms around his tired body.
The ants squirmed under my magnifying class, but I was a merciless god.
Regina Solomond is a writer from Wexford, Pennsylvania. She is inspired by the oddities of the world and the strange people living in it.