The story of the week for September 28 to October 2 is…
Mourning Mama by Yash Seyedbagheri
The story of the week for September 28 to October 2 is…
Mourning Mama by Yash Seyedbagheri
Mom wears a tight smile now.
But give me Mama and fairy tales about overthrowing rich kings.
Mama, an open curtain, waltzing under moonlight after fights with Dad.
Mama, drowning fatherly fusillades with dirty jokes.
Not Mom who draws curtains, slinks through bills and empty rooms.
Mama.
A cracked word.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story, “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others.
Sissy’s behind gray walls, the day of competition. Singing occasionally with radios in quiet rooms, I find some courage. As poison takes over her brain, doctors with false hope insert silver needles.
But I sing, dizzy, from worn out bones, my only sister, broken.
Behind velvet curtains, I let go.
Angela Carlton lives outside Atlanta with her husband and two daughters. Her fiction has been published in EWR, Every Day Fiction, Pedestal Magazine, Long Story Short, 6S, High Noon and Friday Flash Fiction among others.
We’ve got the Lockdown Blues. Every day feels the same. Nothing but coronavirus on the news. No work, no school, no social life. No leaving home except for rushed, masked trips to the supermarket. No church, but endless prayers that don’t wait for Sundays. Vague memories of a different life.
Juliet is an adult education tutor, crafter, and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, UK. She blogs at craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com and tweets at @craftygeenpoet.
Is it the moon or sun bookended by the trees on either side of the road? The fiddler’s been walking so long he’s lost track of night and day. Dusk or twilight, the orb marks the crossroads, and he promised to play the devil a tune a long time ago.
Pippa Phillips wrote this story.
“Daddy, can you hear the ocean?”
I put the conch to my ear.
A gift sent from her new home, miles from this dusty dirt pit her mother couldn’t wait to escape.
The video cuts out. Again. Bad connection.
I keep the shell pressed to my ear until night falls.
Jane Brown is a web programmer and short fiction writer who lives by the beach in Australia.
He sits before the door expectantly, tail swishing. The door doesn’t open, will never open. Inside is off limits.
I sigh, empathy swirling through me. “Come on, bud,” I mutter, lifting my protesting cat up and away.
He’s not the only one to obsess over what he can’t have.
Maria is fascinated by the similarities of emotion across species, time, and place. She misses her cats a lot.
The sound of the piano playing always keeps her awake at night, especially now that she is alone in the house. She steps quickly down the stairs, but by the time she gets there the music has stopped. Gently, she brushes her fingers over the keys and closes the lid.
Reb Elkin writes science fiction and fantasy. She has no plans to buy a piano.
Three days after my mother died, I started clearing out her bedroom. I needed to sleep in there; the sofa was making my sciatica flare up.
Under the bed I found various expensive candles I’d bought her, in a box marked: FOR BEST.
I burned them all at her funeral.
Laura Besley writes short fiction and squeezes her writing into the bookends of her day. She has lived in Holland, Germany, and Hong Kong, but now lives in land-locked central England and misses the sea. Her flash fiction collection, The Almost Mothers, was published in March 2020. She tweets at @laurabesley.
Her sweet gaze froze me, yet thawed my soul
Like a microwave-refrigerator, if that we’re such a thing
But we both play bass
Monotonous bliss
Repetitive rhythm
We both play bass
Two strings, tethered in parallel
Destined never to cross
Because we both play bass
We could never band together
Kit is an ad student from Florida, and he loves a good story. He’s just a zany kid who has a lot of inspiration and is looking for something to do with it.