“I think the cutie has her mother’s eyes,” remarked one passerby while the new family was out eating breakfast.
The couple knowingly smiled at one another: their child was adopted. It had only been six months, but despite not necessarily having their likeness, she already resembled them more and more.
Jonathan H. Smith lives and works in Phoenix, Arizona.
“This is what’s available,” barks the man.
She looks through the bars.
Pressed against them: faces. Beseeching. The heart-breaking whining unbearable. She cannot take all.
She writes a random number on her document and presents it to the office.
“A boy? You pick a boy?”
“Yes,” is her choked reply.
Internationally published, S.B. Borgersen writes, knits socks, and walks her smashing dogs on the south shore of Nova Scotia. Her favoured genres are short and micro fiction and poetry. She has thirteen draft novellas gathering dust. A member of The Nova Scotia Writers’ Federation, Writers Abroad, and a founding member of The Liverpool Literary Society, Sue judged the Atlantic Writing Competition (Poetry) 2016 and Hysteria (Poetry) 2017. See more at sueborgersen.com.
when my daughter finally left
that I’d be free
could go back
to my old self.
Nobody told me
my breasts would ache
for her hunger,
or that her heat, her scent,
her fierce little grip
would hold me
even after I’d given her away.
Jennifer L. Freed likes inventing characters but doesn’t have enough time to write. The narrator of this story did not exist until a prompt (“Write something on the theme of independence”) brought her to life.
Reality became clearer as the epidural lost its grip on her. She looked down at her beautiful creation, counting ten fingers and ten toes.
The room was bursting with happiness for the new addition to their family.
Her heart shriveled as she handed over her baby to his new mother.
AJ Pierz is from St. Paul, Minnesota, and is currently working on her debut novel. Follow her on Twitter.
I watch him from across the street. The ice cream cone in his hand leaves pink drops on the pavement.
I watch as she bends down, tenderly wiping the sticky mess around his beaming smile. I watch my son slip his hand into hers and walk away with his mother.
Megna Murali is an amateur writer who has vowed to escape corporate stoogedom through the power of words. She likes to put one word after the other and watch magic happen. Her blog is the outlet for her chaotic creativity.