Spring: Dare to say hi.
Summer: Tease them about wearing a scarf; actually, you love it, you adore everything about them, they make you fizz with joy and the world shades beautiful and you lose yourself in their emerald eyes and electric touch and heady scent…
Winter: Return the scarf.
Jennifer Busch usually submits things seven seconds before the deadline.
How was I supposed to tell the guy I thought he was dead? Seriously. Heard he died in a car crash. He asked how I was doing. I said I was good. How about you? I asked. Have my ups and downs, he said, eyes rolling back in his head.
Salvatore Difalco wrote this story.
You were three.
Maggie was twelve.
She cocked her head from side to side, planted firmly on her four feet, watching as you chose the dog biscuit and proffered it.
You wagged your index finger at her, ordering her to sit. Then begged.
Still the tail wagged. Still she stood.
Elizabeth Hone wrote this story.
When he sees his wife rousing from her nap he flips the book open and recites the ending again.
She blinks several times, slowly bringing his face and his voice into focus.
Her apple-green eyes look no different now than the first time.
“I love that story,” she says, smiling.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
So faded, you can barely read it: Teddy – 3 yrs. Moving up the door frame, a child grows: etchings in the wood mark inches gained, frozen moments captured along the chipped paint.
“Movers are here, Mom.” Familiar voice, grown so low. You touch the topmost tally, leaving one last fingerprint.
K. L. Mill is also a voice actor, another profession that revolves around words. Most recently her work has been published by Black Hare Press, Hungry Shadow Press, and Atomic Carnival.
We’re leaving our child in California.
It’s a relief boarding our return flight,
Backs turned from the hotel room,
the hospital ward,
this ruin of a holiday.
Yet as the skyline tilts and expands beyond our window, our hearts ache.
Goodbye, little one.
If only we could have said hello.
Jez Poyner lives in Manchester, UK. He writes on his phone at night, whilst his wife sleeps beside him.
“Go on,” chirped Mama. “You are ready to fly.”
“Who’s my brave fledgling?” she cooed, as he jumped.
“Try again,” she squawked, when he tumbled and thrashed.
“That’s it!” she trilled as he glided.
The chick caught the wind and soared out of sight.
Softly, Mama cooed, “Please come back.”
Joanna Alexandra Norland is a UK-based playwright and writing coach. She is a soon to be empty nester incubating dozens of writing projects.
My hip told a story of abuse.
I tried to forgive as I watched myself deteriorate over the past few years.
Doctor and robot replaced my hip:
Severed the ball,
Scooped out the socket,
Replacing titanium and ceramic for maiming weakness, bitter memories, and pain.
Releasing the trauma,
I’m
Renewed.
Cate Covert has been regaling friends and family with her tall tales since she could talk. She loves engaging with her reading audiences. Her poetry, flash fiction, and humorous stories reside at Cate Covert on Chadashah.org and her Inspirational essays and bible studies at Pastora Cate’s Corner on Substack.
I know it’s not the same as it was, but back when it was, I toddled the carriage aisle, swaying sideways, listening to the clickedy-clack in rapid repeat and the whistle announcing a station—and I’d wave. Now it’s silent maglev or hyperloop tracks, windows blur—no time to wave.
Jacqui loves Flash Fiction, Haiku, Haiban, 50 Word Stories, and the island life.
Deckchairs sprawled around a bandstand, sunlight kissing polished instruments, twirling golden toffees unwrapping leisurely, a swelling oompa-oompa, and Grandpa’s age-spotted hand tapping his knee.
Huddled around a bed, lights dimmed, Mum kissing him, the slide of drooping eyelids, an irregular beep, and Grandpa’s hand, flutter-bird frail, tapping a waffle blanket.
Heather is a sight-impaired spoonie and emerging working-class writer from Yorkshire. Her work has been published by Fictive Dream, The Phare, Free Flash Fiction and others. She has won competitions with New Writers and Globe Soup and has been nominated for Best of the Net.