Those deep pockets. Filled with safety pins and busy hands. Was Grandmother’s world going to fall apart and it would be up to her to pin it back together?
A safety pin pinched between those closed lips. To keep her from saying that one thing she wasn’t supposed to say?
Julie Eger is a massage therapist who writes fiction and poetry in her spare time. Her work has appeared in various anthologies including Anchala Studio’s The Collection: Flash Fiction for Flash Memories and Inner Circle Writers’ Group FlashPoint Anthology 2018 as well as other online journals.
We’re city rats, but we don’t hustle too hard. As long as we have rent control, we can share an apartment. I’ll hand write notes for you to find, like,
Let’s have an aesthetic when we’re old
rock & rollers never dead
or retired jungle botanists
Let’s be insufferable together
Alyson Fortowsky writes and teaches in Toronto.
At twelve years old, she stood twelve feet tall. Her horns added another ten inches. The shaggy hair on her face and chest was thick and uncombed. Flies teased around her head like dark memories, darting in to nestle on her shoulders. She never allowed me to brush them away.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com
) writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
He comes to the jam most Sunday nights,
This gentle, unassuming man, carrying his
Note for note, played or sung, pitch perfect and
resonating with feeling.
But it is the hugs he gives so generously and effortlessly,
full of kindness, that seem like music
and feel like love.
Ellen lives in Maine and plays at the jam.
I remember an Uncle
sitting on our swing
he was three axe handles
across the behind,
the swing only one.
It looked unpleasant
rope cutting into his skin like that.
He didn’t seem to notice
kept on talking, smoking
pushing his feet into the dirt
till mom called him in.
Marjorie is from Michigan, now living in Maine. She is a painter with a consuming passion to write.
Celebrating Great Ermina’s 98 years of life,
The Mariachis sang the song of the Dead
Father Hector harmonized during the mass
Her children chimed praises for their inherited wealth,
Eulogizing her sly charms that built a fortune
No guilt, just secrets and a final confession…
Her haunting fear of Purgatory.
Carole Nese enjoys reading people and writing fiction, creative non fiction, editorial prose, and sometimes poetry. She belongs to a group of great writers, is challenged by them weekly, and credits them in part for her motivation and inspiration.
My appointment with Mr Jones is on the fifth floor. Now living off vodka, Mr Jones was a prawn trawlerman. He keeps his windows open permanently to air the flat. In 1970 he organised a rock festival that is remembered as “an unmitigated disaster.”
My brief reads simply, “Help him.”
Haley’s Comet works in the field of Adult Social Care in the North of England. His recent forays into writing under his real name have been largely academic and research-based but have also included reviews of music and old computer games on niche fan sites. Other recent attempts to smuggle critical analysis, social commentary, and surrealism onto his Facebook status have been largely unheralded and gone unnoticed except for by his mum who rings him to ask if he is feeling all right. Haley’s Comet is 41, unpublished, and has never made a single penny out of creative writing. He did once create and self-publish a comic about a cat though, despite his inability to draw.