We’re alone, for now.
Her dusty mane dances, muscles ripple in her neck, but her saddle remains unmoved.
Unleash the buckles! Cut the rope! every part of me screams.
My right boot scrapes against the gritty trail, refusing to lift.
Her rider returns, mounts.
Feeling the weight, I slump away.
A storyteller at heart, Sara fans the writing flames in young people as a BAWP Teacher Consultant at UC Berkeley. As founder of MindMyEducation.com
she helps students take charge of their education, so they can write the stories of their lives instead of simply playing the roles laid out for them.
Without arms, he could not eat. So he sat, shirtless, against subway concrete. But then the girl came, and she fed him good rice and feasted upon his stories. Afterwards, she thanked him. Baffled, he asked her why. “Because,” she said, “now we are both more than we were before.”
Diane Callahan is a freelance developmental editor and writer of fantasy and speculative fiction. Her YouTube channel, Quotidian Writer, is dedicated to providing practical tips for aspiring writers as well as encouraging discussion about the literary arts.
I dreamed we were still in my kitchen, laughing
at the dog, who kept trotting to the door, then not
going out, lest he miss a single scrap
of whatever we might offer.
When I woke, the dog comforted me.
It was you inside the door, poised
to go through.
Jennifer L Freed has a friend whose tumors keep outrunning the chemo. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com
“Hey! Stick your head out, Yank. Need some target practice.”
“How ’bout this, Reb?”
“Dang! You got ham?”
“Reckon. Whatchew got?”
“Meetcha middle the creek.”
“Hold your fire! Ham for tobacco!”
“‘Preciate it, Reb. Been dyin’ for a smoke.”
“Yup. How’s Mama?”
“Sends you her love.”
Henry F. Tonn is a semi-retired psychologist who has written a sterling novel entitled “Ascent to Madness, Zelda Fitzgerald’s Gilded Cage” which is is having a great deal of difficulty finding a home in the publishing world.
“I’ll take her around,” volunteered little Jayati, wheeling the spastic Anna out. Ten years separated the two.
“She, too, yearns for your love,” commented my wife.
At bed time, I explained why Anna needed more care. “She’s a ‘special’ child,” I said.
“I also want to be ‘special’,” Jayati replied.
Vijai Pant is a language teacher in a school in India. He is also a freelance writer.
He looked at me, eyes rain-readied, heavy and distant.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered quietly.
“All these years, I’ve been telling myself ‘tomorrow’.
“But then there’s another tomorrow. Followed by another.
“And then a tomorrow follows that.”
He blinked and the rain began. Slow and silent.
‘Until there’s no tomorrow. It’s over.”
Jon is from the North West of England and an aspiring writer, working in Local Government but with a background in Newspaper Journalism.
I planted it in dark soil, watered it with tears of anger and hate. It grew around my heart and twisted round my soul. Ebony thorns tore wounds that no one could see. Inside I was bleeding. At last a dark rose bloomed. The scent of bitterness filled me completely.
David likes gardening and writing 50-word stories. He has most recently had work published in Helios QUarterly, Gnu Magazine, The Machinery, Three Drops From the Cauldron, Summer Fling – Tales of Seduction, Short Tale 100, Blink-Ink, and 50-Word Stories.
A good Buddhist
He attends every meditation retreat
Sitting all day with others
But he gets distracted
It’s her exposed knee
Reflecting a glint of sunlight
Off the polished floor
Where shadows creep
Entering just now
A narrow gap
Between two wide floorboards
Matthew lives in Maine.
Behind her eyes, two serpents swam, one in each eye. Her eyes closed, and their bodies bulged. Wriggling veins under the skin, light’s speed bumps. The serpents had their own eyes, eyes with which they ate. Ate images. Light, dark, good, bad. The serpents in her eyes made her blind.
Matt Weatherbee is a college student.
This odd can of fungus in water was my mother’s choice, strangely symbolic of my life growing up. She could take any good thing, any proud moment, and tear it into pieces, leaving fragments of a once happy child.
I was 14 before I knew mushrooms could be bought fresh.
Michelle is a contributing author in the most recent Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Canada
. Her writing has won several awards, and appeared in The Globe and Mail and a number of local magazines and newspapers in Alliston. Recently her short story “Lightning Strikers” was made into a series in the Focus 50+ Newspaper because fans asked for more! You can find her online at michelledinnick.com