Cremated in December, he left a will directing the lawyer to scatter his ashes with his dog Coco’s.
A floral tin marked “Coco” arrived at the firm. The secretary, a bad speller, took it to the kitchen, glad that someone had finally sent a Christmas food gift she would enjoy.
Beth Tillman’s estate planning practice spawns stories both dark and humorous.
On the bank of a river
she’s never known
gnarled roots
call her home.
Reaching out
with twisted limb,
branches of trust
sing a hymn.
Perched upon
the cypress’ knee.
Within the silence,
He whispers a plea.
Running through
His metered veins,
a thousand lost stories,
a thousand beautiful refrains.
Grace Black, just another writer wearing down lead and running out of ink, one line at a time. Coffee refuels her when sleep has not been kind. Check out her blog at graceblackwrites.wordpress.com.
On their first date he had taken her to a wine bar, kept her to himself until he realized he was in love. That had been two hours after they’d met.
“Tell me your secrets,” he whispered.
“You’ll have to search,” she said, sliding her ring deeper into her pocket.
Eabha Rose lives in Dublin Ireland. She writes for Plum Tree Books and Brazil’s literary journal, O Ecuador das Coisas. Eabha has had her work published both online and in print. Check out her blog at theatreofwords.blogspot.ie.
Andrew had never beaten his dad in golf. He’d been close; he’d faltered before.
Today, he had a 10 foot putt to win.
“Take your time,” whispered dad.
Andrew smiled. This was his time. He knew. His moment had finally arrived.
The Titleist rolled true.
Andrew smiled. Dad was proud.
Dave is living retired in California. He is completely new to writing. He credits Daniel Pink for the inspiration.
A memory test, these drawings of pennies. They say, “Which one’s the real thing?”
I close my eyes. I put a penny in my mind, imagine pressing it between my fingers. I run the pad of my thumb across Lincoln’s nose and remember him.
…I wish I could remember you.
H.M. Downs currently lives in Texas much too far away from all her favorite noses. It’s the small, strong moments like small, strong stories that help her remember them.
It was my turn to clean up. Everyone was so tense with the international standoff and all, so I was mopping under the launch control panel while everyone else went on lunch break. The special key was already inserted next to red switches, and I thought, “Oh heck, why not?”
Doug Mathewson writes and edits short fiction. He also builds stone walls and takes pictures of wild birds, and sleepy cats.
“How did you sprain your ankle, young man?”
“I was running from the shotgun.”
“Oh, a sports injury; you were playing football, right?”
“No, Doctor.”
“In that case you won’t be covered by your school insurance. How do you plan to pay for your medical treatment?”
“Will you accept watermelons?”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Gumshoe Review, Liquid Imagination, MicroHorror and elsewhere.
All great jazz players stop here first in after-life: the Swansong Island Lounge. McCoy’s coming soon; the Steinway might not survive his hammer-handed tenure.
After it goes, no more instruments. Silence.
God installed these mechanisms,
walked away, and let be be.
West of the Moon, notes carrying over shoreline surf
Todd Mercer won the Woodstock Writers Festival’s Flash Fiction contest and took 2nd and 3rd place of the Kent County Dyer-Ives Prizes. His chapbook Box of Echoes won the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press contest. Mercer’s poetry and fiction appears in The Lake, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Thema, Blue Collar Review, Right Hand Pointing, Apocrypha & Abstractions, Cease, Cows, Dunes Review and Eunoia Review.f
On the path outside the Old Folks’ Home I bend and sniff winter jonquils. Inside, an old lady spots me and waves. She seems agitated. Wait! Maybe she’s raising the alarm.
I wave back and saunter off, looking extra casual. I admit it: I’m a brazen perfume thief, unrepentant, too.
Brenda’s fiction has appeared in Andromeda Spaceways, A cappella Zoo, Punchnel’s and Penumbra. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia.
Amidst hundreds, if not thousands, passing by, the mall bench is a lonely place.
Youngsters dreaming of where they are going. Seniors regretting the arrival of their destination. Others going nowhere.
They say we have a perfect match. Somewhere. I watch their faces. Eyes. No connection.
Perhaps a different mall.
Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction—some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Review, Flash Fiction World, Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 Word Story, A Story in 100 Words, 101 Word Stories, and Shotgun Honey, and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.