“It won’t reach us up here, love. We’ll be fine. We just need to wait for it to pass, and then everything will go back to normal. You’ll see.”
But the water level continued to rise, and Annabel realized, perhaps for the first time, that her mother was absolutely wrong.
Karen lives in South West London, England, quite near the River Thames, which floods fairly often.
Night-veiled raven swoops down
settling on a field of stubbled snow
red river birch standing guard along the edge.
The colors of winter envelop the world
stark and soft, like a broken heart
stunning and everyday, like losing love
magical and hard, like brown leaves
skittering across a frozen pond.
Jackie Ascrizzi lives in Montville, Maine, mock orange and peony wafting through the windows.
Over coffee, an op-ed writer quizzed his newspaper’s sports reporter.
“It would have been a great Cinderella story if only that promising filly you told me about could have won her maiden race. She started as an odds-on favorite, yet she finished last. What went wrong?”
“She threw a shoe.”
John H. Dromey has a 100-word story “Twelve O’Clock Hijinks” online in the Spring/Summer (Issue No. 19) of Quantum Fairy Tales
Editor: Now I’m just wondering whether there could be any worse invention than a set of glass horseshoes.
Finally, after four long years, I’m free!
I can use the bathroom and take a shower without a tiny partner. I can finish a cup of coffee while it’s still hot.
Oh, the possibilities! I could even read quietly or even watch a non-animated television show.
I miss her already.
Marcus Benjamin Ray Bradley grew up in Perryville and now lives in Versailles, KY, with his wife and daughters. He wonders if his wife will feel this way in three years.
“We could sit there?” She points tentatively at a cafe table facing the busy market square.
He heads for their usual unpopulated corner. Following obediently, she glimpses a hanging cobweb. At its centre, a desiccated corpse spins slowly.
She watches him suck his drink dry and plans her escape.
Viv Burgess wrote this story.
The tragic play unfolded in reverse. From the kitchen window mother saw the ragged hole in the ice on the frozen pond. Footprints in the snow backtracked to the door. The little red boots were gone, and toys lay abandoned on the floor. The television droned on, speaking to emptiness.
B.C. Nance is a native of Nashville, Tennessee where he works as a historical archaeologist. In his spare time he writes fiction and poetry and has published several of his short stories.
The story of the week for July 17 to 21 is…
Life on Earth by Sarah Krenicki
P.S. I don’t remember the last time I had such a hard time choosing a story of the week. Keep the quality flowing, everyone!
I remember him when we were just kids. Giggly, noisy, nearly manic, and already world-renowned. He practiced and practiced, eight hours a day, and his violin sang and cried for him.
He died alone at 35. Some people whispered that he’d climbed onto his kitchen counter and dived off headfirst.
Alex knew Michael.
The girl in that house burned to death. Her father was burning leaves.
She was pirouetting round the fire.
The hem of her dress swirled over the flames, just long enough to ignite.
She didn’t feel it until she stopped, dizzy with her dancing.
She shouldn’t have, but she ran.
Jennifer M. Smith is an author and adventurer. She is working on a memoir of her sailing adventures, a tale of 40,000 miles at sea with her husband aboard their sailboat Green Ghost. She also enjoys writing creative non-fiction short stories about her childhood.
Rukmini was tremendously busy throughout her vacations, clicking eye catching snaps and then continuously checking for new notifications on different sites.
“How were your holidays?” you ask.
“Great fun!” she answers, but her face does not light up.
She’s still awaiting that one comment for which the trip was made.
Vijai Pant is a language teacher in a school in India. He is also a freelance writer.