Iris knew she had made the right choice, because after two weeks she didn’t miss him. It felt better to stretch out in bed, and she didn’t have to watch sports anymore.
The only thing that bothered her was the photos he had taken and the secrets that he knew.
Dan Shushko wrote this story.
It started out small. Just a little white lie here and there. No real damage done, right? I could stop at any time.
“Grandma, I don’t feel well. I’m not coming over today.” I went shopping instead and found a beautiful navy suit.
I’ll wear it tomorrow to her funeral.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories, and always tries to tell the truth.
The doll’s faded curls stuck out defiantly. Her unblinking blue eyes were clouded, the greasy stain on her diminutive apron unseen.
Arthritic fingers gently soothed the curls then the worried eyes. Her apron, lovingly washed, was placed near the fire with a pat.
Finally, doll and owner were almost new.
Susan Schwenk lives in Illinois. She occasionally invites her muse for tea.
He turned to see his replacement being greeted as he had been, with smiles, handshakes, and razzmatazz.
All too soon his own time had been ravaged with despair, hurricanes, and many tragic manmade disasters.
The Old Year listened to the chimes welcoming the New Year and whispered: “Good Luck, 2018.”
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Ingredients
140 invitations
121 RSVPs
47 relatives, immediate or otherwise
1 cake (number of layers may vary)
3 bridesmaids
2 groomsmen
1 dress
1 pair of shoes
1 pair of cold feet
3 reassurances
2 vows
1 chance, not taken
1 decision
1 kiss
Directions
Combine ingredients, chill to serve.
Anna likes socks, notebooks, tea, and microfiction. She lives in Germany.
“Call it in the air, ma’am.”
“Tails,” said Spring, lounging by the pool.
The groundhog caught the coin. “It’s heads, ma’am.”
“Best of three?” Spring asked.
“No,” said Winter, “and absolutely no more favors.”
“Not even a little one?”
“I’ll be at the bar,” said the groundhog. “Let me know.”
Iain Young asserts that no groundhogs were harmed in the writing of this story.
With nowhere to hide, he stood exposed, naked to the world.
Looking up from where he came, he longed for what he had left behind. Unprepared for confrontation, the choice that led him to this time and place was inescapable.
Couldn’t she at least throw his pants out to him?
G. Allen Wilbanks is a member of the HWA and has published over 40 short stories in Deep Magic, Daily Science Fiction, The Talisman, and other venues. He has published two short story collections, and his first novel was released in October, 2017.
What do polka dots remind you of?
They remind Grandpa of the exploding rockets he hid from every night with his face in the mud from his own sweat and piss.
I swear it got inside his mind that night because now it’s cracking.
Alzheimer’s is God giving him morphine.
Brent C. Green is a free verse novelist and spoken word artist in Central Texas. He is the president of Modern Muse Poetry in San Marcos, Texas, and the blog editor for the Front Porch literary journal.
I sat at a picnic table in the woods, with my pen. I had hoped to honor you.
I would be masterful with my language, weave an imaginary tapestry. All would know of your glory,
had I succeeded. Instead,
I wrote this. My,
what a waste of such precious time.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring something from a mountainous somewhere.
The story of the week for January 15 to 19 is…
Promises by Zurina Saban