This is not a bar. This is not a place
to linger. People come and go
rather quickly. Usually
they’re in a hurry. Occasionally,
one might require
a moment to recalibrate,
to adjust to sudden loss,
the vanishing of someone
very dear, very special.
Before resettling into
stabilized day-to-day sorrow.
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.
Weeping for his dead father,
Aunt Lizzie held him at the doorway
to the kitchen,
______________and would not let go.
Later, she spooned bacon grease over sizzling eggs.
Cooled their coffee and milk while he sat on her lap,
cup to saucer, saucer to cup, a sip,
______________and a giggle.
Matthew Eichenlaub is most fortunate to be living in southern Maine with a pickup truck, health insurance, and a new right hip. Thank you to the Essence of all that is.
Had the cat been mine I would have signalled its swift demise, thinking, what sort of life can a cat have with three legs? But there it was, keenly curious, joyfully hobbling around my garden, nearly catching two feuding wood pigeons, doing cat things. Well, for one short summer anyway.
John Young is an old chap grappling with themes of limits, longings, and finitude. He lives in locked-down St Andrews, Scotland, an ancient town with an ancient university, home of golf, home also – allegedly – of many ghosts (though he has not met any yet).
I look at the empty street, spot one lonely dog trotting along the sidewalk, its leash attached to a drone, and tear a page off my calendar without bothering to look. It’s still today: each hour, each event being torn off the toilet paper roll that has become our life.
Eileen is retired from working for others, now a full time Grandma and a part time writer of poetry and flash fiction.
My grandmother’s china—
the set I used to save
for holidays: fine
rims of gold, delicate
patterns of green—I use it
don’t worry about chips, don’t
delay its offerings.
These days I need
porcelain teacups, warm
against my palms. My brother
the fine china.
Jennifer L Freed mostly writes poems, which have appeared in various journals and anthologies. See more on her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
Darn the holes in the socks
Touch up grey hair roots
Get up close and personal with some favorite cooking shows
Organize the kitchen cupboards
Attack the dust bunnies that reside under the bed
Binge read every single story published on 50-Word Stories
Or sit around and do absolutely nothing
Marjan Sierhuis enjoys reading and writing flash fiction. Follow @MarjanSierhuis
Your heart gave out. Still can’t fully explain it, but my heart stopped working, too. Yours no longer beats; mine can love no other. One of us breathing; one of us not… And yet somehow, the results are the same: two hearts died that day. I remain single, yet taken.
Alyce Clark was so awed and inspired by the stories of others, she decided to write them for herself.
______to see whether the cancer
has also leapt to his brain,
my husband drives wintery roads,
bringing one of our daughters
to a birthday party. The dog
wags at the door, eager
for his walk, and the plow
leaves another ridge of icy snow
at the end of our driveway.
Jennifer L Freed mostly writes poems, which have appeared in various journals and anthologies. See more at her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
At the supermarket the toilet paper was out. Shelves were bare. I got home and the news was suggesting that the toilet paper hoarders were using it to protect themselves.
It suddenly occurred to me that there was no need to worry about a zombie apocalypse amidst a mummy one.
Connell apologises for writing a non-fiction story on a fiction site.
“I’m afraid I’m leaving you,” you said at dinner.
Slightly drunk on wine, I smiled. Later, I kissed you goodnight. My dreams were troubled.
In the morning you were gone. Sunlight failed to warm or wake you, so I rose and walked to the kitchen. A stranger in our house.
Jeremy lives in Ontario, Canada, with his wife and two young children. He loves to write, but seldom does. He has amassed a significant pile of books as “must reads” by his bedside that get picked at page by page, but have not been finished. Jeremy loves his children, and looks forward to finishing those books, whenever Paw Patrol is not a thing anymore.