Maybe this guy visits his local ice cream parlor sixty-seven times through life. Supposing. This instance is sixty-six, but he doesn’t realize what’s coming. Scratch that. Suppose this is that last outing’s cone: a single scoop of praline, not some massive Boston Cooler. Minimal. Again, no foreknowledge, no farewell speech.
Todd Mercer writes fiction and whatnot in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and he loves this life.
“We all know what happened,” said our kindergarten teacher. “And I don’t want to hear anyone talking about it.”
“It” was the death of our classmate. Fifty years later, hearing “grief counselors are available at the school,” makes me think of the dark-haired girl who could color inside the lines.
Lisa McEvoy is a communications professional in Boston who occasionally enjoys writing without worrying about SEO and GEO.
The story of the week for September 14 to 18 is…
The One Who Can’t Close Her Eyes by Angela Carlton
Quiet house. Blink.
Crib in the nursery. Blink.
Changing nappies and late-night feeds. Blink.
First steps. Blink.
First words. Blink.
First birthday. Blink.
Second. Blink.
Third. Blink.
Fourth. Blink.
Preschool. Blink.
Playdates and birthday parties. Blink.
Red checked pinafore, black leather shoes. Blink.
First day of school. Blink.
Quiet house.
Phil W. Bayles is a father who wishes the tempus would stop fugiting so much.
The death toll grew daily as did the burial mound, dominating the prairie, then requiring the removal of ageless oaks and tall, proud pines. As the dense groves receded, remaining trees turned frail, their branches soft and thin, bowing their majestic heads as if in prayer.
And the willows wept.
Mike Shields enjoys the Flash and Micro format.
The sheriff calls me twice.
He tells me they have to transport your body across the Bay Bridge.
To San Francisco.
To get an autopsy.
I pay $500 to move your body.
No charges against him. The one who pushed you.
Me. I get emptiness.
Nothing but a silent siren.
Yesica is a Mexican-American writer who lives in California.
A thump against the window, again. This time a goldfinch.
He sputters on the deck, one wing dragging, the other spiraling like a paddle, frantic. Flightless now, he seeks cover, flails underneath the grill.
I did not need this sorrow today. I do nothing to help because I’m not God.
Luise Bolleber recently published her first book One War Ago, a biography about her father’s experiences in World War II. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Cereal City Review, The Dolomite Review, and elsewhere.
It was supposed to rain. They went to the arboretum anyway. She wanted to see the peony garden where they were married.
It started to drizzle, then pour. Her son held an umbrella over her while she leaned down to sniff the battered but fragrant blooms already past their prime.
Lauren Budrow is an Assist. Professor of Mortuary Science.
Hummus and pita chips. White bread. Sometimes fries. Non-sticky fruits.
Experts warn: Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder.
The boy still grows. Sometimes grey circles under his eyes.
He is taller than his twin, but doctors don’t know why.
Bribes fail. Nothing tempts him.
At night we wonder, how do bodies work?
Gabriella Brand’s fiction, poetry and essays appear in a variety of international publications including Alchemy Spoon (England), Shuili (India), Cordite (Australia) and Room Magazine (Canada). Her flash fiction can be found in Blink Ink, Moonpark Review and elsewhere. She lives outside New Haven and teaches languages in the OLLI program at the University of Connecticut.
A strange sensation shatters my illusion of protection.
A lump… surgery, and again I’m safe, but less of me today than yesterday.
Flesh heals. My mind wanders. I consider wings.
How many feathers can fall before the bird follows?
My destination still awaits. I’m arriving one piece at a time.
Through pencil and pulp, Mike Keyser shares his best pieces.