Tomorrow morning, the spiderwebs will sag. I’ll clasp my trash-grabber, snapping up candy wrappers, empty sugar-shrouds nestled among fallen leaves. But tonight, the wind whistles through the trees and rattles the fence’s loose picket. My candy bowl is half full, and as another specter floats over my porch, I believe.
Tracy Royce’s work appears in 101 Words, Blink-Ink, The Dribble Drabble Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and elsewhere.
Under desks, grit grinds into bare knees. The teacher whispers, this is practice, remember. Somebody’s phone vibrates, a familiar hymn. In the darkness, Jamir passes a cough drop to a crying first grader, palm to palm like communion. After, in the light, nobody mentions it. We line up, unbelievably gentle.
Brandon McNeice is a Philadelphia-based writer and educator. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, Plough, Front Porch Republic, Beyond Words, The Rush Magazine, and Flash Frog.
Daylight is preparing to exit the stage. The clouds are settling in for the night, and the sun is getting ready to take a sink. I’m riding in a tricycle caressed by the wind, embracing the moment. Soon, twilight will summon its elements, and I will step through its door.
Thompson Emate spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose. He is trying his hand at every genre of fiction. He lives in Lagos Nigeria.
Both fond and traumatic memories coexist in my static eight-year self. I spend decades collecting markers of your existence. All things September, the month of your birth. Mid-century décor, each piece a thrift store find. Coins – relics from your year of expiration. I am the curator of an abbreviated life.
Originally from Atlanta, Georgia, Susan R. Barclay makes persistent attempts at witticism and stories; sometimes she is successful. Her works have appeared/are forthcoming, in the The Blue Nib, Vine Street Press, Defuncted Journal, Write Time, Paragraph Planet, Workers Write, and the 42 Stories Anthology.
First day of school, jostling for position at the bus stop.
Rory’s acting cocky. Just back from Canada, he’s sporting a new puffa jacket. Superior filling, not the polyester of his peers.
The bus arrives and they swarm towards the open doors.
POP goes Rory’s jacket, and goose feathers fly.
Bryony Lorimer is a Scottish writer living in Edmonton, Alberta. Her work has appeared in Capital City Press Anthology (a project of the Edmonton Public Library) and is forthcoming in DarkWinter Literary Magazine.
Endless days of PB&Js on Wonder Bread washed down with sips from the hose. Sticky toes from where the popsicle dripped onto flipflops. And me, flipflopping through the neighborhood on Blue Thunder, a hand-me-down bike I imagined as a black stallion.
serenity—
my thoughts return
to the old days
Jenny Mattern is a poet, a crafter of stories, and a cake-for-breakfast enthusiast who lives with her family in Montana.
Wexford summers. Cousins. Some removed, others should be.
A bruising stick-and-ball game settles scores.
Red Lemonade, 99s, ice-cream wafers, crisps and slap-up feeds.
Ravenous teams jostle, devouring gritty ham or salmon paste sandwiches. Each liberally seasoned with sharp, salty silica.
At day’s end, sunburnt cousins dream, war-painted with Calamine lotion.
Steven is still picking sand granules from between his teeth years after the long hot summers of childhood holidays spent visiting family in Ireland.
The boy applies the self-adhesive mustache. His mother holds back tears, registering the striking resemblance with his father. Someday, he might also fight in a foreign war, and his broken body might return to his wife and son.
“Do you like it, Mom?”
She smiles, caressing the rough, artificial fibers.
R.S. Nelson (she/her) is a Latina writer who lives and finds inspiration in Southern California. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Every Writer, SciFiSat, Every Day Fiction, Twin Bird Review, and elsewhere.
In winter, we brandished bread-bag-bundled feet and slid them into our snow boots.
In summer, we adventured barefoot through sprinkler-strewn backyards.
“Stay away from the neighbor boy,” Mrs. F said.
He was as tall as a tale, dribbled lemonade and had chicken pox that looked like acne.
We didn’t listen.
V. Leigh is a dream maker and a storyteller. She has worked in the entertainment industry for the better part of the past twenty years and spends her time supporting artists.
Serena learned what lint was. She tucked some in a pouch to keep her parents close. She did the same after a sleepover, when her friends’ nightgowns were dried after a water-fight. After her mother’s miscarriage, Serena collected lint from the panties. She’d wanted a sibling. It wasn’t just lint.
James Vescovi’s work has appeared in the Hudson Review, the Georgetown Review, Newsweek, the New York Times, Saturday Evening Post, Creative Nonfiction, The Other Journal, and other publications.