Awaken despairing eyes
A new day dawns
Tragedy betrays beauty
In unbelievable dimensions
Lines are drawn
And heroes fall
Life goes on
But never as before.
The nights are long
Reality stark
Emotions run high
Love is born
And love dies
But we go on
Waiting for the day
Waiting…
Connell still writes a bit.
I look around
I see the green grass
I see cigarettes
In a dish
I remember
What it was like
To grow up
It was like
One day
I looked up
And there was no one
Left
Everybody
Ran away
And I’m still sitting
Here
Remembering
The echoes
They left
Andrew Moore is a happy man. His only wish is that, if you like his work, you contact him and ask for more so he has a reason to keep writing it.
I confront curiosity’s curse daily. Shrubs rustle and I sense faraway beasts. At midnight, I hear the wolves’ distant howls. I wonder what it’s like to be—not live—with the wild. But I resist temptations to go and see. Nature knows I’ve settled here; its citizens acknowledge my space.
Cristina Marie Pagan is a Hispanic writer from North Carolina. Her poetry has appeared in Glimpse and the Mystic Blue Review. She’s also the former cover artist of Seshat Literary Magazine.
Grandpa’s favourite story’s about the pandemic, when everyone stayed inside to stay safe. People sang for strangers and painted with their kids. Those who were able ran errands, called old friends, learnt neighbours’ names. Terrifying times, but amazing, Grandpa says.
He’s obviously exaggerating. Surely people did these things before that?
Anna Sanderson writes about the world as she sees it (with the odd twist and turn). You can follow her story on Twitter at @annasanderson86.
You cry in a voice that is not your own, act like dead weight, call me horrible names. But sometimes you look me in the eye and smile. Sometimes you remember. I brush your beautiful hair and think, That’s alright my love, I’m also not who I used to be.
Julian Dores lives in Brussels, Belgium. He enjoys writing fiction and taking candid photographs of everyday life on the street. You can read more of his work on his website.
Every year,
After the autumnal fogs of Mars
Have made me melancholy,
And the moon’s tranquil seas
Have melted my bitterness,
I sail to Earth
And stroll beside the snapping salty oceans,
To my cryogenic grave,
Drop petals onto empty casket,
And mourn humanity
And days when life was simple.
Jo Withers writes short fiction from her home in South Australia. Recent work has appeared in Retreat West, Milk Candy Review, Ellipsis Zine, and Best Microfictions 2020.
The story of the week for April 20 to 24 is…
Beneath This Braided Mess of Meaning by Bob Thurber
A little ringing in my ear. If I listen to it, it sings louder, over, under, and through the little holes of my ear. There’s a tiny TV playing a tinny song. A little choir in my ear, with one-note songs. They sing on, on, on, maybe until I’m gone.
Will Loop is currently homeless and enjoys spending time at his local library.
“Your box of sunshine is here,” the cheerful delivery man said after ringing the bell.
I watched him skip down the steps, ever mindful of social distancing.
Since the pandemic, almost everything suddenly became available for home delivery.
Almost.
My delivery of friends and family is still on back order.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She looks forward to a return to normalcy.
Unsurprisingly, you’re the main character, fully responsible for the plot, constantly calculating and determining the storyline. Without you there is no direction, no structure, no foundation. You’re the weaver twisting shadowy emotions into ribbon cables, looping lengths methodically around drip lines connected to open wounds. Face it. You’re the hero.
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.