It’s not your fault, Son. After all you went through, they still didn’t follow instructions.
“It didn’t work. There’s too much suffering. What can we do?”
Shut it down. Just like I started it 6024 years ago.
And God said, “Let there be no light.”
And there was no light.
Harry Demarest wrote this story.
My son has a plot—his own little piece of real estate. The grass is sparse, so I tend it: raking topsoil, spreading seed, pouring water. New sprouts emerge, filling the aching gaps.
I remove the weeds, pretending he’s on vacation.
But my heart screams his name and I cry.
Tawnia is an elementary teacher in Ontario who recently started writing. She is revising her first novel, a YA sci-fi, and hopes to start querying agents soon. She recently told a Red Chair story via Zoom for the Graham Norton Show. You can find her on Twitter @TawniaCourage.
A wide beam of sunlight slashed into the room. The window wasn’t where it should be and the doorway had been moved, and every piece of furniture had been transformed by age or substituted with an antique. Nothing was recognizable. Dust floated in the light. He breathed in the smell.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Monday morning: I know she’s wrong.
Tuesday: I think she’s wrong.
Wednesday: I ask my workmate, “She’s wrong, no?”
Thursday: I cook pan-roasted salmon, wait for her.
Friday: “Are you still angry, Baby?”
Saturday: “Sorry. I knew I was wrong.”
Sunday: We drive to the beach, curl up under stars.
Mandira Pattnaik is an Economics graduate who lets her degree gather dust while she word-weaves. Some of those pieces have made their way into Spelk, Lunate, Gasher, Star82, and fiftywordstories. She tweets @MandiraPattnaik.
The story of the week for July 20 to 24 is…
Defined by CMF Wright
After Rapunzel donated her braid to Locks of Love, her head felt too light, like it might float away.
They called her selfless, saintly. They praised her for her sacrifice.
She couldn’t tell anyone the real truth—that she needed to learn who she was, without her hair defining her.
C.M.F. Wright writes sentences that occasionally turn into stories. Her short stories have appeared in Syntax & Salt Magazine and in the VSS365 Anthology.
Poverty’s chasing me. Getting closer all the time.
Bills due. Check spent. Emergency funds gone. Fridge’s close to empty.
Then something breaks. Again.
Doing without becomes second nature. Rolled coins, coupons, and the dollar store become tricks of the trade. Keeping poorness at bay. And I make it… this month.
Alyce Clark is adjusting to sheltering in place, practicing social distancing when shopping for essentials… and truly missing her grandmother.
Greetings from July 2020. I’m watching a stickleback build his nest: his hustling, bustling busyness, his lips tug-kissing at leaves, his eyes turned blue and throat bright red with love. I really hope that, by the time this finds you—whenever, wherever you are—you can still watch stickleback too.
Michelle Christophorou’s short fiction has won and been placed in competitions, including the latest Strands International Flash Fiction Competition, and the Retreat West Fire-themed flash competition, for which she received a ‘Best of the Net’ nomination 2019. In another life, Michelle practised law in the City of London. Tweets @MAChristophorou
My father struggled for air, his heart crushing the life from him. In the gloom, he was utterly alone.
I came to his bedside momentarily, whispered prayers for his soul. His breathing slowed down, calmed.
He closed his eyes. An unearthly voice spoke in his ear. And finally, he believed.
Clarisse de Jesus is the daughter of an author of a book on atheism. Follow the musings of her meandering mind at autumnleavesnowfalls.wordpress.com.
Someday, I will kiss your cheek and make you smile. I will wrap my arms around you in a warm embrace.
I will sing your favorite song at the top of my voice. I will stay by your side and vow never to leave. Mother, I will promise you this.
Marjan Sierhuis enjoys reading flash fiction.