The story of the week for July 20 to 24 is…
Defined by CMF Wright
CMF WRIGHT: Defined
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.
ALYCE CLARK: On the Run
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.
MICHELLE CHRISTOPHOROU: Message in a Bottle
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
CLARISSE de JESUS: Death of an Atheist
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.
MARJAN SIERHUIS: I Promise
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.
KLYN AKWARANDU: Goodbye
Today, I am not coming home, you might as well rent my space out. I’ve found a home in someone else, and I’m not sorry I left the way I did. You have a choice to forgive and let me love another. As of today, I am dead to you.
Klyn Akwarandu is a multifaceted writer. He writes screenplays, poetry, books, blogs, short stories and music. He is usually associated with his pen name, “KLYNIC.” You can read his books on Wattpad and follow his writing at klynic.blogspot.com.ng.
THERESE DAWE-WOOD: Made in America
As she opened the door for the Amazon delivery she froze, felt faint.
“Jane Simon, is that you? Gosh, it’s been what, twenty years? We all wondered why you guys moved away without telling anyone. How are you!?”
She shut the door. Panicked; then remembered protocol. Bottom drawer. Burner phone.
Therese Dawe-Wood is a writer based in Michigan. She was one of the 2018 finalists for the Lansing Sidewalk Poetry Project and has had poems published in several places including Alluvian Press, Modern Creative Life, the 2020 East Lansing Arts Festival Poetry Collection, and Headline Poetry and Press. She was a featured contributor for Lansing Online News and is currently working on a collection of poetry about her work with her patients over the course of her career as a registered nurse. She has three children and five grandchildren who she adores and lives in Lansing, Michigan with her husband and her backyard crow who enjoys peanuts in the shell and McDonalds french fries.
JOREE NOVOTNY: Delivery and Deliverance
Thirty-four hours and one needle submerged in the spine later, the doctor tells her patient to push.
“Yes! Yes! More! More!” She chants and suctions.
A gurgling cry. “Look at all that hair!”
Kneading at the freshly emptied womb, she pauses.
No.
She steels herself and calls for four units.
Joree writes professionally in her role as director of external affairs for a statewide nonprofit, but her favorite muses are her two-year-old son and her tender memories.
JR WALSH: So long
Finally I settled for the materials on hand. A creased and coffee-stained envelope opened face down. A hotel pen leaking onto my fingerprints. I wrote DEAR JOHI across the folds before running from the ward.
There was no room for N. Sometimes a relationship doesn’t get halfway through the alphabet.
JR Walsh writes in landlocked Idaho, but itsjrwalsh.com floats everywhere.