Twinkly blue eyes, shiny brown hair and a Hollywood smile… Swoon.
Lucky me!
Flowers, hearts, teddies and chocolates strewn all around.
“Be my Valentine” proudly displayed.
How are you today, he asks?
Swipe… Beep!
Our eyes meet as he announces for all to hear: “Price check on lasagna for one.”
Lynn Cliff wrote this story.
My great-grandparents’ farmhouse was built from two barns pieced together. In addition to being a fun piece of genealogical trivia, this enables my father to enthusiastically reply “Yes!” whenever my mother inquires whether he was raised in a barn.
She rolls her eyes every time, but she still smirks, too.
Sarah Krenicki was not raised in a barn, but visited one often. That counts, right?
No one at the reception was more surprised they’d survived 25 years together than the couple themselves, Mr. and Mrs. Frank (“I should’ve married your sister. She had all the looks”) and Cindi (“And smarts enough not to marry you”) MacIntyre, except for maybe Fr. Steve (“One year, tops”) Rodriguez.
Tony Jasnowski teaches at Bellevue University and has been happily married for 33 years.
He hadn’t thought of her today. (Much.)
Then, his friend’s boy with his innocent question, “What’s your favourite colour?” (Couldn’t know the pain it caused.)
“Yellow,” he replied. (But what he really meant was: saffron sparks. Those lemon lights of stranded stardust that campfires used to summon in her eyes.)
Jo Withers is in a strangely sentimental mood. It won’t last.
The story of the week for February 5 to 9 is…
Lasting Impressions by Bob Thurber
Every time the spacebar sticks or a letter key jams
I remind myself I was not always a ghost with no voice.
Though I honestly cannot remember a moment of any life,
or a time when I was not constantly beating an old rusty typewriter to haunt an empty house.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction,” his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, despite severe vision loss, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
They came in solidarity: wide nostrils, narrow nostrils, dark-brown to albino-white, humongous, miniscule, deviated septums; stuffy and clear.
Seven billion gathered at the Superdome. Seven billion counted down, then inhaled, and all over Mother Earth bad people shrieked in defiance, clutching soul to no avail.
Flames licked at Heaven’s gate.
S.A. Hartwich lives in Bellingham, Washington, where he roasts coffee to make ends meet. His work has appeared in such venues as Apeiron Review, Bird’s Thumb, and Thrush. Taleggio is his favorite smelly cheese.
Bring me all the pretty things that forgot to develop a personality.
Bring them to me and I will build myself an army.
They will hover over the masses,
ethereal,
untouchable,
and whisper like sirens in the night:
This is what you want to be.
You’ll never be good enough.
Matilda Harjunpää has a complicated relationship with social media.
When Timothy’s mother bought the microwave, his father insisted they wear tin foil hats to protect their brains. Timothy, ever his father’s son, went one step further: he lined the whole thing with foil.
After the funeral they brought out baked potatoes, hot from the oven. As it should be.
Gaynor Jones is a writer of micro, flash and short stories from Manchester, UK.
He’d treasured that winter. Record snow. Briskly cold.
Mother had carefully arranged a scarf around his neck while he watched the children’s snowball fight. He stifled a chuckle when father clumsily slipped on the ice.
Only when his charcoal eyes slid down his melting frame did the reality set in.
Alison treasures the winter and loves lots of snow.