He dropped a single seed into the neighbor’s barren patch and walked away. He never saw the sprout or the red petal that eventually bloomed. He didn’t need to. The harvest wasn’t for his eyes; it was for the joy of a stranger. Some seeds are planted for the soul.
Caroline is a writer and creative artist based in Nairobi, Kenya. She enjoys exploring life’s deeper meanings through storytelling, digital art, and traditional crafts.
When I shot the mule deer dead, it fell straight into the snow like it was taking a nap. There was no blood. Something smelled sour. Daddy clapped my back and whistled me a song.
“Dying’s only the beginning for muleys,” he said. “Field dressing’s next. Then cooling. Then supper.”
Oliver Cubillos is a writer and filmmaker from Los Angeles, California. He holds a BFA in Media Arts Production with a minor in literature from Emerson College. His work is published or forthcoming in Heavy Feather Review, BULL Magazine, Free Flash Fiction, and elsewhere.
Children were gone; husband might as well have been. But she still had her garden, lilikoi vines, carefully hoarded dried fruits and the 50th State Fair.
She smoothed wrinkled hands over her mother’s gingham apron as softly as if saying a childhood prayer.
This, almost certainly, would be her year.
Erin Gilmore has to imagine the stories her grandparents never told her.
“Fertile imagery, but NO marketable hook.”
She tossed the NO into a jar to compost down with the NAYs and NOTs – aerated with her sighs, moistened with her sweat – until an idea landed, cracked open and extended roots into the loam.
A shoot, a stalk and then a YES bloomed.
Joanna Norland is a playwright and a writing coach who treats rejections as a badge of honour.
You come home from school. See Mom and boyfriend Leroy sobbing on the sofa.
Leroy moans, “I killed Ted Stone.” Describes a bloody sidewalk.
Next day, you get home, find nobody there. Leroy on the lam. Mom too.
Later, you learn Ted Stone’s not dead.
No matter. You’re alone anyway.
Nick Di Carlo heard a person in a PTSD group say, “High School traumatized all of us.” Someone responded, “Things weren’t much better at home.” A third participant chimed in, “Then they drafted you.”
Nick nodded and said, “Amen, brother. Amen.”
We’re in the backseat. Smoke plumes burst from our nostrils and sockets. No cigarettes; only the boredom of immortality. That old sun pinks the drumlin, smolders us. Vintage leather gloves hit the floor. Our hands are flames. We singe. I bite my own lip. Our coffins are safe at home.
JR Walsh is the Online Editor at The Citron Review. He teaches creative writing at SUNY Oswego. Find his writing on itsjrwalsh.com.
At pickup time
after his first day of 1st grade,
Jason was at the very top
of that big tree
in the schoolyard.
At pickup time
after his last day of 8th grade
at the same school,
Jason was at the very top
of that big tree
in the schoolyard.
Trevor’s fiction and non-fiction have appeared it print and digital publications since the 1970s. He’s a mononymous, multiple award-winning, full-time entertainer who likes hyphens. See more at trevorthegamesman.com
The story of the week for May 4 to 8 is…
Vigil by Paul D’Arcy
I took my dose of Algernol half an hour ago. They said it should take affect quiet quickly.
Couldnt pay my bills so the bank took cognitive debt insted.
Ignore ants is bliss they sed. Dont remember why.
i can feel my mind slipping away
i hop it coms bak
Phil W. Bayles read the phrase “cognitive debt” in an article recently and found it utterly terrifying.
She orders the salad.
Has for nine years. Every dinner, every work lunch, every birthday where someone else chose the restaurant.
At home, she eats standing at the counter while her family sleeps.
Not much. Not nothing.
Only enough to keep the number she carries in her head from changing.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.