Tiny settled slowly, until the wind encouraged her. She spiraled skyward, somersaulting, diving, playing hopscotch with the cedars, hovering while drinking in the view.
She finally joined millions of tiny friends, covering the meadow in a shimmering lake of white. Watching the tree, waiting in anticipation for the old lady.
Paul Hock is an author from Fergus, Ontario, Canada. See more at paulhock.com.
“To get to the other side!” he says, wiping tears from his eyes while I do my best not to roll mine.
Dad is getting harder to take, and holograms are expensive. In a couple years, when the kids are older, it might finally be time to let him go.
Dave James Ashton favours short fiction as he has a bad memory and poor attention span.
There’s a cemetery east of town. It’s small, just a fence guarding some grass.
I’m the only one who visits the cemetery and its single grave.
Dad earned his place in Arlington, but chose this simple dirt plot, saying,
“It’s like the ones in distant lands, where my brothers sleep.”
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
Thin subterfuge had its uses.
He’d heard confessions, led Masses,
and passed secrets. A dicey
affair, a risk with dividends,
and conceived troves of information.
Now exposed, his lover a
double, he donned disguise and
patience. And waited, quite hidden,
till bells, close and sudden,
provoked movement and deadly aim.
Fred Miller is a California writer. Over 40of his stories have appeared in various publications around the world. Some of these stories appear in his blog.
I think about his freckles sometimes.
One under his eye, two on his cheek, and twenty-six on the bridge of his nose. I get hung up on the three on his lips. They were my freckles. I claimed them every day.
They’re still there. But they have a new owner.
Carly Huss lives with her boyfriend and dog in Lewisville, Texas.
Winter aged me,
took away muscle tone
with each mound of snow
left unshovelled.
I stared at my flaccid arms and legs.
Surely they belonged to someone else,
my mother perhaps…
when she was ninety.
Then spring arrived
With its noisy insistent presence.
Too much growth –
I’m done with that.
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
That first, immaculate, unfurling leaf. It knocked her sideways every year, felled her with its soft, green promise.
So many dead months of waiting. Did the arms of the beech sprawl up in silent prayer? Did they cling to the same frail hope? Maybe… this time… spring would never end.
Tamsin is certainly very glad to have escaped another grey British winter.
For the Babies
—
Ten of us ate and ate, then ate some more. The bill was more than reasonable, considering the impeccable service, excellence and variety of food. The neat thing about dining at the inn was the nostalgic feeling of being at grandma’s house before the war. Stuffed, content, yawning with happiness.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Editor’s Note: Let’s all hope and pray for peace, not only in our own homes but in those places on the news that can seem so far removed.
The story of the week for April 10 to 14 is…
Window Shopper by Susan Gale Wickes
If I hadn’t woken up late. If the guy hadn’t spilled his coffee. If I hadn’t had to go back and change. If I hadn’t missed my train. If life wasn’t so unpredictable…
I wouldn’t have met you. You wouldn’t have noticed me. We would never have fallen in love.
Bella Ren is an English student from Brazil. She loves writing and reading English short stories and poetry.