The story of the week for December 2 to 6 is…
Moving Day by Cheryl Snell
JOHN H. DROMEY: The Way It Wasn’t
Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be. Misremembered incidents from way back when, some of which—through frequent retellings—have been hyperbolically embellished beyond all reliable recognition for anyone who wasn’t actually there at the time. Entertainment value? Priceless.
These days, smart-alecky fact-checkers with smart phones spoil all the fun.
John H. Dromey has micro-fiction, flash fiction, and short stories published in over 220 venues.
BOB THURBER: A Sacred Hymn (Another Misadventure of The Broken Boys)
Once, during a thunderstorm, the boys huddled in an old stone church, snacking on communion wafers and slurping grape juice. Whenever a boy spoke about the storm his words were drowned out by the humming of the others. No matter which words were spoken the boys’ hearts buzzed like honeybees.
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.
YASH SEYEDBAGHERI: Rebel with a Claus
They ask why I insist on playing Santa, and not an elf, at the mall.
It’s not just pay; there’s something great about being on top. Being a leader people gravitate towards.
Plus, no one can fire Santa.
Elves get fired and abused.
I know that all too well.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA fiction program. His stories, “Soon,” “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” “Tales From A Communion Line,” and “Community Time,” have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes. His work has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and Ariel Chart, among others.
CHERYL SNELL: Moving Day
Winged shadow blues the snow. Arrows in, drops a key into the window box. Brings you gifts, this crow─ green ribbon, pink pebbles. Remembers your kindness from when he was a chick.
Does he know you’re leaving? Fasten his key to your chain in case one of you gets lost.
Cheryl Snell is fluent in subtext.
SUSAN GALE WICKES: Mistaken
It wasn’t the way we thought it would be.
There should have been fanfare,
cake,
balloons,
laughter,
endless pats on the back,
shouts of “Happy retirement!”
Instead,
there was downsizing,
quiet looks,
hushed remarks,
the packing away of desk contents into boxes,
a sudden, newfound awareness.
They’d moved our cheese.
Susan Gale Wickes is a writer from Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories and greeting card verses and the joy of cartoon captioning.
KEN GOSSE: A Writer’s Walk Around the Block
I’ve noticed that on many days
my muses, in their varied ways,
amuse themselves at my expense
and leave me in a hapless daze.
To compensate, I make them wait
and while I do, I contemplate—
when I unfaze in future days,
might they catch up a bit too late?
Ken Gosse usually writes whimsical, rhymed verse. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, later in Pure Slush, Home Planet News, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillwords, and many others. Raised in Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife live in Mesa, AZ, with rescue dogs and cats.
TIM BOITEAU: After the Fire
We surveyed our house’s carbonized skeleton.
“Remember our wedding night?” Marla said. “Dancing in the living room.”
“Right here.” I pointed to a depression in the charred floor.
“The beginning of our new life,” Marla said.
I wiped her eyes and held her, then whispered, “Can I have this dance?”
Tim Boiteau is a Writers of the Future winner and author of The Nilwere (Grendel Press). See more at timboiteau.wordpress.com.
STEVE SAULSBURY: And Then He Jumped
He must have seen me a mile away, free falling. Now I’m on the ground, lines tangled in the oak above, money scattering like feathers. And a fractured patella.
Yellow talons, big as a fist, coming closer. Eagles are good luck, no?
No.
Stern, cocky countenance, punishing eyes.
Divine judgement.
Steve Saulsbury lives on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. A writer of flash fiction, his work has appeared in many online journals and several printed collections. Most
recently, his piece, “The Field,” was included in the Halloween anthology Flash of the Dead.
PAUL LEWTHWAITE: You Were Always Mine
Your precious smile is a rarity. What ails you cannot be remedied. You eat less and weaken, growing pale and gaunt, clutching your crucifix tight. Your family despairs. Only you can hear my voice, growing stronger. You spurned me in life, but soon, my love, we will be together forever.
Paul lives in Scotland. Sometimes he writes stories. Sometimes they’re even published.