I’m still wrapped, muffled, and gloved while early birds are Springing! Translucent blossoms, sultry pink in morning light, lure bees and flutter-byes. There! Coat and mittens closeted, to sulk all summer whilst I wander unburdened. There, among the blossoms: Blue Birds are house-hunting. Soon, they’ll be feeding little bug-converters.
Michael Theroux incessantly writes in all forms, from his cubby hole home office in Sacramento, California. See some of his work at terutalk.com.
Minutes after arriving in a new place, my wife’s words start to warp, so much so that within the hour her accent sounds native.
Tonight, her dinner clingfilm-cold on the kitchen counter, she returns. I hear her reciting tongue twisters in the hallway, pretending she has not already left me.
Laura Besley is the author of micro fiction collection, (Un)Natural Elements (Beir Bua Press, 2021), 100neHundred (Arachne Press, 2021), and flash fiction collection, The Almost Mothers (Dahlia Books, 2020). Having lived in the Netherlands, Germany, and Hong Kong, she now lives in land-locked central England and misses the sea. She tweets at @laurabesley.
Where did he go, my one true love? I know where his ashes lie, but where are his essence, his humor, his flashes of brilliance? They say we will meet again someday. I trust that is true. With faith as my ears, I will follow the echo of his laughter.
A prolific writer, Carol Reeves is loving the freedom and challenges of 50 word stories. Her memoir, “All the Little Miracles,” was published last year.
The story of the week for February 27 to March 3 is…
In a quiet Hawaiian neighborhood where nothing ever happens by Erin Gilmore
Took me three winters to finally get over you.
And there you are–in line at 40 Flavors Lickity-Split. I’d know that red braid anywhere.
Someone shifts their weight, and a cherub comes into view. He’s riding your hip.
I’m a cardboard bucket, my insides scraped out with a spoon.
Shoshauna Shy loves the word “nevertheless”, but wishes it had the counterpart “alwaysthemore.”
Sometimes a girl appears beyond my window.
Brushing her hair, preening, smiling, puckering up.
Sometimes, when I reach out to touch her, she also reaches out for me.
Then she exits through the door on her side.
I long to exit too, but beyond the door my little everything ends.
Tim Boiteau is a Writers of the Future winner and lives in Michigan.
The little boy runs out into the garden, throwing shards of bread onto the lawn. He watches as sparrows come and feed. After five minutes, he nods with satisfaction. The formula works. He skips back inside, leaving behind a dozen small corpses, wondering who he should try it on next.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, yet another time-travelling refugee fleeing from the Ant Dictatorship of the Twenty-fourth century.
She first got a bowl filled with earth, and planted two seeds.
She watered it daily. And I saw the seeds sprouted into lovely green leaves. She displayed them for photosynthesis and the leaves’ greenness deepened.
Until she suddenly stopped. And the boisterous greenness of her creature slowly withered away.
Jimoh Adeiza Abdulrahaman writes from Nigeria. He’s a fiction writer who’s passionate about humanity.
Alan reads aloud the text relaying Ken’s funeral plans. The more he reads, the less colour adorns Jackie’s face.
“You didn’t know,” he says.
“What happened?”
“Stroke. Last Saturday.”
She pictures Ken’s smile peering up from the cabbages, hand raised in acknowledgment. “But I saw him at the allotment. Yesterday.”
Anna Sanderson writes about the world as she sees it (with the odd twist and turn). You can follow her story on Twitter at @annasanderson86.
I gawped at the picturesque countryside spread out in front of me. Natural beauty everywhere. Fruit and flowers left to flourish in abundance; verdant trees made fluorescent by the glowing sun; and deck chairs. Yes. My beloved, crimson-coloured, disheveled, food-stained deck chairs: just perfect for watching the world go by.
Florence Turner believes that we should protect the natural world at all costs.