I watched him grow.
A fern leaf opening.
A curious child.
His face searching for… reflecting the sun.
“What’s in the schoolbag!” I gasped at its weight.
“Rocks,” he said.
I thought his wit a bit dry for six.
Only… it was rocks!
“But why?”
He shrugged.
“I’m collecting them.”
Mary Sheehan wrote this story.
The story of the week for July 3 to 7 is…
The Retreat by Matthew Eichenlaub
A good Buddhist
He attends every meditation retreat
Sitting all day with others
Breathing in
Breathing out
But he gets distracted
Today
It’s her exposed knee
Reflecting a glint of sunlight
Off the polished floor
Where shadows creep
Entering just now
A narrow gap
Lying dark
Between two wide floorboards
Matthew lives in Maine.
Sometimes I feel like you’re watching over me from wherever you are.
Sometimes I believe you love me still.
Sometimes the sun reminds me of your sweet caress,
And the moon of your deep, enduring passion.
Sometimes I realize it’s all an illusion and you are
Truly,
Completely,
Irrevocably,
Gone
Connie Taylor is an Operations Manager by day, a writer and reader by night. Her writing aspirations began in grade school with her heroine, Pantoulia, who leaped over football fields of fire. She’s contributed to the Journal of Integrated Studies and enjoys writing both fiction and non-fiction.
Ogg smart. Ogg made dead wood make warmth. Red tongues keep cold and wolves away. Ogg’s soul warm too when can’t see black empty in sky. This hard to articulate. Hot bright light enlighten dark cave of no purpose inside Ogg. Ogg the Clever. Ogg try to get closer. Ouch!
Jamie is a PhD student in Scotland.
“Is the temperature of your experimental tank okay?” the alien inquires.
“It’s fine,” I reply, words bubbling up through the strange pink liquid.
“Want to watch Twilight Zone re-runs while we test?”
“Nah.”
“Have to ask,” he explains. “New regulations.”
I sigh, remembering that I work tomorrow.
“Just probe already.”
A sci-fi micro story written by Hargreaves called “Maybe Next Time” is forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction magazine.
“You can be whatever you want to be.” my father said.
“Then I want to be a writer, Dad,” I told him.
“You can’t.”
“But you told me I can be whatever I want to be.”
“Sorry. What I meant was you can be whatever doctor you want to be.”
Mary Kaye Valdez has been fond of written words since the second she found out she couldn’t get along with spoken ones. She also loves storytelling, but frankly, she’s just a liar who wants an excuse. Her work has previously been published in Down in the Dirt.
“Three months a castaway on a remote Pacific island, struggling to survive, when a crate washes ashore. The language is Chinese but it’s obviously beer. My luck is finally turning, he thinks. He glugs it down.
On the side of the bottle, written in Mandarin: “The best-tasting non-alcoholic beer ever!”
Bill is from Aberdeen, Scotland. He writes for fun, but really wouldn’t object if someone wants to pay him a shed-load of cash to carry on, or a shed-load of cash to stop now. Both work for him.
Behind her eyes, two serpents swam, one in each eye. Her eyes closed, and their bodies bulged. Wriggling veins under the skin, light’s speed bumps. The serpents had their own eyes, eyes with which they ate. Ate images. Light, dark, good, bad. The serpents in her eyes made her blind.
Matt Weatherbee is a college student.
The local diner, sun about to show herself.
He passed me,
sat at the counter.
Doing so, his shorts slid down, revealing two grey,
cotton-covered buttocks and a vertical crack.
Hard not to look.
Leaving, he flashed a smile my way,
the horizontal crack considerably more appealing.
I smiled back.