God had not turned up for the men’s final at Wimbledon and three front row seats sat empty.
Jesus wandered around asking, ‘Has anyone seen my dad?’
It was only when he reverted to ‘Have you found God yet?’, that he was manhandled by security and escorted from the tournament.
Monica Callan is a housewife from Donegal, Ireland who started writing during the covid pandemic.
Her name. Home town. LinkedIn. Facebook. The Team page on her company’s website. The obituary I found, then closed, then reopened three times.
Nuked it all.
Fifty-six years old. Healthy. Pillar of the community. Loved by all. Survived by no one. Abandoned by the only man she ever loved.
Me.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com pauldrc.com.
Ate well; never drank. Walked; never ran. Looked both ways crossing the street, but otherwise kept his head down. Never loved. And the idea of kids was far too big. Lived to ninety-five, settled down into a hole in the ground, and nobody knew what to write on the headstone.
Tom Maher is a writer from London who was shortlisted for the 2025 Bridport Prize.
Making breakfast was our moniker for baby-making sex. Sausage and eggs, please! we’d laugh.
Now we’re sitting in a sticky booth with our baby.
“What’s your order, dear?”
“Coffee,” you say.
The waitress turns to me.
“Sausage and eggs!” I beam.
But you say nothing. Your tired eyes look away.
Katherine is a stay-at-home mother living in New England with her husband and three toddlers. Writing is helping her stay sane. She has a BA in Psychology from Wellesley College and an MA in Criminal Justice from Boston University. She is a participant in the Westport Writers’ Workshop in Westport, CT.
Fred always asks dozens of inane questions, but whenever one of us tries to answer, he interrupts or walks away.
“Fred’s an educated man,” Kennedy, the county judge, explains. “But he’s a poet, not a scientist or accountant. Only questions fascinate him. He believes that answers are abhorrent, even destructive.”
J.S. O’Keefe is a trilingual translator and writer. He has published over 500 short stories, creative essays and poems in print and online literary journals.
Love is the toddler dancing in the theatre while the end credits roll. Love is you buying ink in my favourite colour, purple. Love is the countless terrible nicknames you give me, each syllable pronounced with careful affection. Love is holding your scarred hand, and knowing when to let go.
Zoe M is a passionate cinephile and bibliophile. She spends most of her time reading, writing, or thinking about films
“Don’t rush to be on the other side,” he says. “I’ll be, you know, around. Bear it a little longer. God forbid, enjoy it.”
During bedtime, he told me about the parasailing accident. My life made him realize how bountiful his own was. He accepted his brief life and death.
Rachel Salamatian is a Filipina-American writer whose work has been published or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Northwest Review, and Inklette Magazine. She lives in Chicago and works as a computational social scientist.
The family farmhouse, recently passed to me, was built on strong old bones.
While preparing dinner, an apparition, hands dusted with flour, joined me.
The arched nose and cheeks dimpled like mine matched the faded photo on the wall.
She smiled. I smiled back; we still share the same heirlooms.
Mike lives in the middle of nowhere, writing stories of elsewhere.
“What’s the matter, Ed?”
Ed pointed with his spoon. “There’re two flies in my oatmeal.”
Mel checked Ed’s bowl.
“Nah, it’s just one… You separated the head and body… See, there’s its head… And there’s the body, still squirming.”
“Gee… Thanks, Mel. For a moment, I thought there were two.”
David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
“Met anyone?”
“Anyone special?”
I brushed them away.
“Too busy. Exams. Labs.”
Aunt-ennae vibrated.
“Grasshoppers who work all mating season die alone in winter.”
“You’re making mountains out of aunt-hills!” I retorted, laughing as they scuttled off.
But tonight, as I munch leftover sandwiches, why do I suddenly feel… aunt-sy?
Joanna Norland dedicates this story to her beloved Aunts Tiby (RIP) and Roberta. If worry be the (picnic) food of love, I was a very well fed niece. xx