My eyes stay open to the saltless press of darkness. Beyond the closed door, footsteps. The light pressure of her heel, the soft breath of her footfall.
Where does she go? The hearth is empty, the chair is silent. The doors stay shut.
Motionless, I wait for night to end.
Susan is an emerging writer who mainly writes short stories, especially flash fiction. An ex-teacher, she lives in Brisbane, Australia, and enjoys camping trips into the Australian wilderness.
My grandmother’s affection, lavished solely on my brother, who closely resembled our heroic grandfather, left me feeling bitter and unworthy. Over the years, in dreams, I idealized her into the loving, kind figure I craved; through these dreams, I learned that her love was never the missing piece I sought.
Leonie Gregory lives in Australia; she has a passion for photography and writing about her experiences, as well as subjects she wants to explore further.
The story of the week for November 11 to 15 is…
When It’s Quiet by Alexa Donley
She used to think magic came from a magician’s wand and the words abracadabra.
Now she knows it comes from different kinds of wands; the sharp needle the eye surgeon pokes in her eye once a month to stop the degeneration, and the white cane she holds in her hand.
Carole Porter writes short fiction from beautiful Vancouver Island.
There’s a gap, in this conversation. A spot where it… glitches, might be the right word.
“Al, come on!”
“I’m—”
“Hurry up!”
Like a record needle jumping. Like skipping through channels. Something a little bit wrong.
Like the voice in the background, when his heartbeat quiets, whispering wake up.
Alexa Donley is a speculative fiction writer from Washington. When not writing, she can be found traveling or walking in storms. Her first novel, The House on the Rocks, is available now.
Behind withering cornstalks, we waited for the flying saucer squadrons. Each year, the all-night hypersonic zipping and spinning and illuminations mesmerized us.
We’ve never taken pictures. We’ve never tried to get their attention.
For generations we’ve kept quiet; we don’t want anyone telling us that we haven’t been seeing UFOs.
Liz writes from Western Massachusetts. Find her at LizMayers.com.
On a cold November morning, while pecking at the frozen corn on the ground, I accidentally went for the same kernel as he did. Startled, we soon locked eyes. The way the dew glistened on his snood was mesmerizing.
If only I had admitted my feelings earlier. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.
Trevor Hast is an Alternative Education middle school teacher from Albany, Oregon whose students encouraged him to submit this story.
Every four years, George and Michelle Anderson go hand in hand to their polling place to vote, hopeful their presidential candidate will win. Every four years, they spend election night guzzling coffee side by side on the couch, watching election returns. Every four years, one of them is bitterly disappointed.
Paul Germano was born, raised, and still lives in Syracuse, smack dab in the center of New York State. His fiction–micro, flash, and longer–has been published in the United States, Canada, England, Scotland, Hong Kong, and India.
When I rest on the shoulder of giants
to hear what they say or to see things their way,
they aren’t all enormous but may help inform us
and broaden our naivete.
I write this to say that we might look that way
to someone on our shoulders some day.
Like most of Ken’s submissions, this story is a rhymed poem. Inspired by a friend’s Facebook conversation earlier this year, Ken looked up the history of the phrase “standing on the shoulders of giants.” Best known, perhaps, is the letter by Isaac Newton to his rival Robert Hook in 1675, but it has been dated to 1159, attributed to Bernard of Chartres (this Ken learned from a concurrent giant). Newton’s letter said, “If I have seen further [than others], it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”
Quiet—not like a tomb, but a beginning.
Like a lock clicking in a latch
Like a key that only I have
Like breathing air without rules
I stuck my fingers between the blinds to see trees
I left the spoon in the sink after ice cream
Quiet—like mine.
Molly Zang has always loved the escape of a good story, especially with a cup of tea or coffee. She likes to write from real life and likes to read fantasy the best. She loves cozy days surrounded by blankets and cats and her favorite person in the world, her husband.