Just for a change, Norman stood and waited at a different bus stop this morning. The next stop after his usual one.
Alone, he waited and waited. The bus was late.
Looking down the street, Norman saw his bus. It was stopped and waiting for him at his usual stop.
R.G. Halstead grew up reading old Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazines from the late 1950’s and ’60s. The ones with twisty endings.
The story of the week for October 20 to 24 is…
Full Potential by Emily Hall
Red dust clung to his moccasins as the bus groaned east. Behind him, mesas hummed; wind drummed songs through cedar bones. In white hospital halls, he stitched wounds gently, his people’s breath guiding each thread. Pine Ridge pulsed within him, steady, sorrowed, sacred, a heartbeat he would never unlearn.
David A. Lee was born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation and is a physician and poet whose work bridges medicine and memory. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in In Parentheses, The Shore, and Rattle. He trained at the Mayo Clinic and lives in Texas.
She wheeled her suitcase through the sweltering hallway, avoiding empty boxes and other parents’ eyes. She lifted the suitcase easily down the stairs, empty except for unnecessary necessities: the top sheet from the sheet set, the lamp. Things he didn’t need, never asked for, like the long goodbye she’d imagined.
Melanie Winklosky is a fiction writer trapped in a grant writer’s body. She lives in Swampscott, Massachusetts with her husband and dog, in what those who don’t understand call her “empty nest,” cheering on her children as they chase their dreams.
Shiny and round, spinning slightly. A tilted Earth, or maybe an entire galaxy. We will soon find out. Unlock the glass dome. Hide the key. Time is endless until it stops. Hold my hand. Excuse the sweat. My nerves are exploding. Inhale. Exhale. One last breath before I push it.
Leigh Therriault writes and wonders from Ottawa, Canada, where she scans the skies for comets and constellations. Her debut novel for young readers, THE DARK SHINE is coming Fall 2027 from Orca Book Publishers. Find her in the multiverse at leightherriault.com.
Summers I spent beachcombing, overturning shells, picking up crabs’ legs, poking under seaweed, looking for interesting driftwood. Always hoping for a ukidama (Japanese glass float) or some other treasure, but I never found anything of value—until the day we simultaneously reached for the pretty bottle now gracing our mantlepiece.
Robert Carlberg loves beachcombing and long walks on the beach.
I step off the train.
The streets empty out as dusk sets in. I count sixteen blocks with no light. The noise from the business side of the tracks also fades. The city has turned into a tomb.
Luckily, the wise edicts of the Supreme Council still guide my way.
J.S. O’Keefe has published short stories, creative essays and poems in print and online literary magazines worldwide. More at his website, szjohnny.net.
My dog likes to chew on people’s fingers. The vet says this is an affectionate form of playing and we should disregard it.
My dog has assembled quite a collection by now, gnawing on each until the flesh peels from the bone, but I ignore them, per the vet’s request.
Ran Walker is the author of over 40 books, his most recent one being Fragments of the Afroverse. He teaches at Hampton University and lives in Virginia with his wife and daughter.
I lost my way in Freedom Park, amid Cedars, Palmetto, Cabbage Palms, and pink water lilies floating on black water. The buzz of data in my head was gone, replaced by the hum of a dragonfly’s crystalline wings. I lost my way in Freedom Park and found a morning’s peace.
Marc Simon’s short fiction has appeared in over fifteen literary magazines. Five of his one-act plays have been winners in new works contests. His debut novel, The Leap Year Boy, was published in December 2012. His novella, According to Isaac, is now published on Amazon.com. See more at https://marcsimonwriter.com
I watched as Mom-Mom made her bed.
She raised the sheet corners like four strong sails. Plumped embroidered pillowcases until the roses bloomed. Leveled her handmade quilt with an engineer’s precision.
And I felt such sorrow for this woman, who’d always warned me that girls shouldn’t have too much ambition.
Emily Hall is a freelance writer whose prose appears, or is forthcoming in, places such as Passages North, Portland Review, Blood Orange Review, 100 Word Story and Cherry Tree. She has a PhD in contemporary Anglophone novels, is a prose reader for West Trade Review, and lives in NC with her husband.