I want to climb behind his eyes. To crawl on my belly over enemy lines and see the shelling for myself.
Noetic civil war—red rain of spitfire sky; ground assaults below.
What chance does love have in his wartime mind?
Wait.
It’s…
a flag unfurling, bleached, bloody.
He surrenders.
Gabe has been writing and editing for 30 years, from her home base in Sydney, Australia. She doesn’t plan on being replaced by AI any time soon.
My heart still pounds when I think of her.
The screaming. The hitting. The abandoning.
She lays here in front of me and my heart still pounds.
But now she’s old, weak, fragile.
The hospital machines beep as she breathes.
Her heart pounds slower and slower.
And I forgive her.
Keyla Campbell is a writer who lives in Rhode Island.
Christmas without him isn’t Christmas.
Magicless snow falls, waiting to be played with, as twinkling lights adorn a room that somehow remains dark.
A beautiful dinner (that I have no appetite for) awaits. Family and friends surround me. But he’s gone. Happiness left when he did…
Maybe I should apologize.
Alyce Clark still believes in and hopes for peace.
Just for today, throw away your absolutes, lay down your pet peeves, leave behind your air of despair. Today, fill your being with the comfort of compromise, the balm of forgiveness, the healing of hope. Open the gift we all have been given and be glad—if just for today.
Carol Reeves is loving the fun and challenge of writing 50 word stories. Her first novel, All The Little Miracles, was published this year.
She was asleep when the poison prevailed. After months of stringent planning, despondency triumphed as hopeful self-control finally withered away. Silent lies rendered an unbearable silence. He was forced to this vile ending. Lifeless now, he searched her face for regret that would never come. If only she had spoken.
Carol Murphy, MA, has written essays, interviews, stories and poems about the ways language, or a lack of it, colors life’s experiences while often emphasizing themes of mystery and the unexplainable. Some of her many stories were Likely Story, published by www.specialeducationadvisor.com, Auricle published in Good Dogs Doing Good, and Whiffs by Reddashboard Press. Her first book, Slits, came out in 2017. She finds daily inspiration for writing through her experiences with the complexities of communication and the many ways lives can go awry, or be set straight, simply by a precise word at a pivotal moment. A favorite quote is “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” (Ludwig Wittgenstein). Her website is www.carolmurphy.org.
After anger, hurt got exposed
again. We sit quiet on a deck,
six feet above ground. A sprinkler
waves water east to west
across new grass, yellow straw,
but some drums hard, like soldiers’
cadence across the deck. Our cat
peeks from behind a post,
pads by, avoids our touch.
Matthew writes poems and short stories, and is worried how divided America is. Like Pink Floyd, he can no longer tell heaven from hell, blue skies from pain, a green field from a cold steel rail or a smile from a veil. Wish you were here.
Her toes were covered with sand, like little appetizers. The nails painted blue; ever the rebel, she.
A wave hushed in, foaming. “I’m leaving you,” she said calmly. “I’m tired of all your crap.”
Another wave slid up the beach, washed the sand off her feet, washed her guilt away.
Gregory Von Dare is a writer and dramatist specializing in crime and speculative fiction, often with a humorous or ironic twist. He attended Chicago City College and the University of Illinois. While living in Los Angeles, he worked for Universal Studios, Disney, and Sony Pictures as a talent manager and developer. He studied writing with Edgar winner John Morgan Wilson. Recently, his short stories were featured on the Soft Cartel and Horror Tree websites. Greg is an Affiliate Member of Mystery Writers of America. He lives outside Chicago where certain people will never find him.
Water reflected like a mirrored surface, flat and endless to the horizon and blending with the haze of a summer sky. I threw a stone and disrupted the stillness, as I had with my sister:
“Mom loved me more!” I said.
A verbal stone: ripples spread and peace was lost.
Gord Lysen is an only child with two older sisters.
Billy Goat was waiting in the yard when Mrs. Wolf came strolling by with her son in a stroller.
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Wolf.
“Have you seen my squirrel?” said Billy, icily.
“Your little pet?” Something inside the stroller squeaked desperately. “Ah,” said Mrs. Wolf. “Well, boys will be boys!”
Jane liked yogourt.
Jake liked pudding.
They had little spats about which one was better pretty frequently. Mother told them they shouldn’t spit, though, so they started having tiffs, instead. Mother told them tiffs were an outdated file format, though, so they started bickering instead. Mom said that was ok.