As Granny evanesced,
she left a whisper,
words which echo
“From magic we come
and to magic we return.
I am reeds bending in the wind,
the brush of soft willows,
birdsong before the dawn.
I am not gone from this world,
but with you
Matthew Coward is a habitual daydreamer, occasional writer and proud night-owl. He writes fantasy inspired flash fiction, short stories and poetry.
I’ll walk with James to Central Park
in the middle of the night
and let him run off leash while
I climb every tree, even the red oaks
that stretch into the stars
until morning brings us to our senses,
squirrels emerge from their burrows
and all the stars disappear.
Stephanie Jones works as a features writer for DownBeat magazine and Hot House Jazz Guide. When time permits, she hosts a podcast called “After the Call.” Jones graduated from Wellesley College having studied with Frank Bidart and Alicia Erian, and earned her BFA in Jazz Performance from The City College of New York. See more at linkedin.com/in/meetmissjonesny.
No, we didn’t save his life, at least not for long, but he didn’t have to die in gasping panic with waning airflow through his cancerous larynx.
God gave him some time to say “sorry” and “thank you”.
Although he could not speak, I could see it in his eyes.
Gergely, a paramedic, is thankful to be able to sometimes see the spellbinding and wonderful moments of birth both to this world and to heaven.
When she died, she left behind her stunning wardrobe, rows of hangers full of brand-new, high-quality clothes, silk scarves, designer handbags and shoes, most still with the tag on.
Most of the exquisite pieces had been hanging there for years, still unworn, being saved for later, for a special occasion.
Caroline Couderc is a multilingual writer and translator living in Switzerland and the UK. She has degrees in French Literature, Linguistics, and Cultural Anthropology. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Boston Literary Magazine, War, Literature and the Arts, Shotgun Honey, The Airgonaut, The Antigonish Review, and more. You can find her online at beautyisasleepingcat.com.
The big man strokes his white beard. “It’s been a hard season…”
“Seen the new requests?!” shouts one elf. “Epidemics, tanks, false flags… And we’re hungry.”
“I’ve brought in a consultant.”
A black, hooded robe enters, holding a tray. “All will be delivered this Christmas. For now, enjoy reindeer steaks.”
Joey thinks it is never too early to plan for the coming Christmas.
Their mud hut was shaded by thick plantain and banana trees.
It was still raining heavily. There were no mosquitoes so the windows were open; free air-conditioning.
She slept soundly on her bamboo mattress.
The town crier’s talking drum was muffled, so she didn’t hear she was the new widow.
Una Nina Nine plays life with her husband and family in Nigeria but is yet to meet “that” prince.
Lost most of my teeth and sight. Not rambunctious like I was.
She still loved me, unconditionally. She looked at me as if I was still a pup. “You take love with you from one world to the next,” she once told me.
Never thought that I’d outlive her.
Jody loves to write fiction. She is inspired by her old hound dog, who puts a smile on her face every day with his silly antics.
The ground was so hard they could not dig a grave.
“We could wait until spring,” said Jack, his toes frozen.
“Or take her someplace warmer,” said Julia, her breath frosted.
Father smiled. “Or we could build a fire.”
The children looked at each other. “Father knows best,” said Julia.
Paul Negri has twice won the gold medal for fiction in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Writing Competition. His work has appeared in Vestal Review, The Penn Review, PIf Magazine, Penny Shorts, and many other publications. He lives and writes in Clifton, New Jersey.
What makes me feel really sad is not that I am a sick old man and every part of my body is aching. Nor is it the thought that I am going to die sooner than one may hope.
It is my son’s assurance that his youth will last forever.
Victor is a Russian that could be thought of as a literary anglophile.
Barely discernible in the gloom, he lay with twisted limbs, his eyes wide, staring. His mouth hung open. Silent. Still. Lifeless.
In contrast was the frantic rush of bluebottles.
Playing the part of a corpse was not a top acting role. He just happened to be rather good at it.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to write the occasional fifty word story. As she gets older, they get more occasional.