Summer days passing while waiting in isolation
for the lab results.
He needed a glimpse of hope.
“Mom, I just want to go home
and lay down in the grass.”
Imagine… a lush green cushion
warmed by soft sun;
a gentle breeze…
wrapped in the comforting arms
of Mother Nature.
Kathleen Flanagan is a recently retired pediatric nursing instructor at UMASS Dartmouth College of Nursing.
She thinks of her defiler and drinks.
A red solo cup she associates with the Flip game at the start and the blood in his bed at the end.
Better poisoned punch and salvation than spat out by the volcano of life.
She watches the sacred fire flicker and die.
Coleman Bigelow’s stories have appeared recently in Bright Flash Literary Review, Free Flash Fiction, The Dead Mule School, Every Day Fiction and Flash Fiction Magazine. He studied creative writing as an undergraduate at The University of Virginia and went on to study playwriting and screenwriting at The Actor’s Theatre of Louisville and the New School. He is at work on his first novel. See more at colemanbigelow.com.
For every week the war goes on, I plant a row of sunflower seeds. Before long, two rows turn into a dozen. After a while, blooming begins. Soon, golden yellow sunflowers are everywhere. Whenever someone asks how many sunflowers have bloomed, I shake my head and say, Far too many.
Lisa loves quiet walks and coffee. She’s been published in various literary journals, including Blink-Ink and Potato Soup literary journal.
Your possessions, your house. Your job. Your partner. The places you see every day, and the ones you can only reach in memories.
Your friends, everyone you’ve loved. Every pulsing caress, every glance across classroom aisles. Your siblings, your mother and father.
All that is what I want to be.
Christina Nordlander writes constantly, primarily things on the SF/fantasy/horror spectrum. She has lost her job, but still has her PhD in Classics and Ancient History.
The story of the week for May 16 to 20 is…
Kite-Flying by Sally Sadasivam
and
Bookworm by Stephen Gallagher
You Sammy’s guy? Here about the Caddy? Yeah, he said you’d show.
She’s a beaut: sleek black finish, stain-resistant interior, extra-large trunk… real classy like. Fast? Fuhgeddaboudit! Tell you what; hows about we go for a little ride, eh? Try her out?
You deaf, wise guy? I said get in.
Kitty Lascurain is a DC-area journalist with a serious “I’d-rather-be-writing-fiction” problem. She has published several short stories and is the proud recipient of The Florida Writers Association’s “Royal Palm Literary Award,” which she keeps on her desk next to an ever-growing pile of rejection letters.
I’m alone in a parked car when a huge serpent with a cobra-like head hovers above my open side window. Staring at its green, vacant, and unblinking eyes, I wonder whether I should just hold very still or fish around for the keys to start the car. Help me, Honda.
Karen Beatty is 77 years old. She prefers surfboards to cars. This cringe-worthy 50-word story tells about the bad things that happen when you leave New York City.
like strawberries and champagne
one seed toward ripeness,
bubble bursts into sparkling
like strawberries and champagne
the scent of you, sweetness
your touch, effervescence
for me, love at first fondness
for you, growing into it –
a pairing by chance
the birthing crystallizes
a mother and child
like strawberries and champagne.
Judith wrote this. She was overjoyed to celebrate Mother’s Day together with her daughter after two years of pandemic limitations.
Eliza met Matthew in a bookshop.
Can I help? he asked.
I’m looking for a play by Shakespeare.
Which one?
William.
He told the story at their wedding, anniversaries, and parties. Again and again until each word ate into her brain like a worm, like a scalpel, like hemlock.
Stephen is an Irish author living in Ireland. I enjoy reading everything from crime fiction to 19th century gothic short stories, novels and novellas.
Applause, only slightly forced, thunders up to the balcony. El Caudillo waves at beaming faces, tropical-coloured flags raised high. Aside, he quips, “A good leader is bullet-proof; a great leader is ballot-proof.” Snorts and smirks from his junta.
Then: a crack from the tree-line.
…He was but a great leader.
Nikita Linivenko hopes this story didn’t come out too badly.