“I don’t like this place,” said my 100-year-old mom. She lives in an ARF. “I’m going to leave soon.”
“You’re lonely,” I responded. “I understand loneliness. Have you tried connecting with God?”
“Oh, don’t give me that mushy God talk.
I want to go home and be with my mother.”
A former journalist, Maria Miller is working on a novel while enjoying life in Spain.
A baby. A beginning. Exciting! Eager anticipation of the end goal: Adulthood! Every growth step welcomed.
If lucky, the journey continues, rewards received: Grandchildren! Cute and cuddly morphing into talented and fun. Finite time parenting yielding eternity of grandparent ecstasy.
Then, horrific awareness. No one prepared us. Grandchildren grow up!
Eileen was dazed when the truth was revealed. Boyfriends, girlfriends, drivers’ licenses, graduations, jobs, even marriages. Suddenly, outings and stories and sleep overs had become history, and the toys have become dust collectors.
Mom knocked on my door after school and told me we were having dinner at 6. We always ate dinner, but when we had dinner, that meant at the table. With napkins and an important conversation.
“Who died?” I asked when I sat down.
“That’s not funny,” Mom said. “Grandpa.”
Gracie Lyle is an emerging writer from Brooklyn, NY. Her work has appeared in Elegant Literature. You can find her online at @gracielyle.bsky.social.
A tuft of her hair sits in my drawer. She asked that I cut it so it wouldn’t get in the way as she died. We stood in the bathroom, sharing our last mother-daughter moment. Catching each other’s eyes in the mirror, we smiled: a final gift to each other.
Melanie Stern is a journalist and writes poetry. She misses her Mum.
The kindergartener stares, forgetting to suck on her glazed thumb. “You’re Sarah?”
I nod. Why the awe when I’ve just met this sprout and her mother at the park?
“Sarah’s the name of her imaginary friend,” Mom apologizes.
The child grabs my hand. “Let’s play.”
I’ve never felt more real.
Sarah E. Morin has published two books, Waking Beauty and Rapunzel the Hairbrained. Sarah E. is a past Premier Poet of Poetry Society of Indiana, Secretary of Community Education Arts, and editor of The Polk Street Review. Visit her at sarahemorin.net.
The day of the move, I watch you crouch by a box.
Maybe nostalgia is a play of light. Maybe it’s denial. Either way, it’s embedded in your every move, the way you handle old letters—eyes soft, unfolding each one like a secret and saying, “Oh, I remember this.”
A Turkish writer, Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, Vestal Review, Fractured Lit, and 100 Word Story, among other journals. His stories have been selected or nominated for such anthologies as the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Wigleaf Top 50. See more at sarpsozdinler.com.
The sound of eggshells cracking echoed across the room. The sizzling bacon in the pan was soon joined by the eggs as the man hurried around the kitchen.
His wife takes a seat at the table and her eyes tear up. “You have made an extra serving again,” she whispered.
Omar Rihas is travelling the land of words, seeking to find stories and tales that bring wonder and comfort. Literature fascinates him and he is constantly on the hunt for new and exciting things.
she made coffee
just how i liked it.
smiled when i sat.
nodded when i spoke.
her silence never replied.
her eyes never left.
i said goodbye.
she stayed.
still stays.
frozen in a photo
on the wall,
holding a cup
i do not remember
teaching my daughter to make.
Asmi Mahajan is a student from India who finds reading and writing to be deeply cathartic. Beyond the written word, she enjoys café hopping, experimenting with new styles of matcha and bubble tea, and practicing calligraphy and brush pen lettering. Whether it’s through ink or experience, she’s always looking for new ways to express herself.
I’d worked in the café man and boy. All that time Maggie came in, 9 every morning.
“Grilled ‘am an’ cheese, a bit o’ mustard an’ a nice ‘ot cuppa’. Pay yer tomorra’.”
Then she didn’t come any more. The wake served grilled ham and cheese. Mornings weren’t the same.
Teresa lives in Suffolk UK between land and sea and has always liked telling stories. Finding time to write is hard but she’s trying.
On a slow local train, off-peak, a man and a woman sat facing each other in an empty car. He wore a blue mask, she a yellow one. Silence pooled between them—soft breaths seeping through paper-thin fabric. Eyes flicked up, away. They remained together, bound solely by assigned seating.
Li Ruan, born and raised in Beijing, China, is a Manhattan-based educational consultant, emerging immigrant poet, and writer. Her work has appeared in Restless Books, Flora Fiction, Assignment Literary Magazine, Persimmon Tree, Storyhouse, Hamilton Stone Review, New York Public Library Zine, Lowestoft Chronicle, Discretionary Love, Cool Beans Lit, and Shot Glass Journal.