My terminal patient’s only hope is a kidney transplant.
His estranged adult daughter returns after her mother’s death and agrees to be tested as a potential donor.
The test results cry, “Incompatible match.”
There is no proper way to tell either of them that she is not his biological daughter.
James Menges is a writer and photographer. He is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.
I hurried to the restaurant, my heart full of hope.
Will she smile at me today? I wondered. Ask me how my day was? Comment on my haircut?
She was sitting in the corner, reading. She didn’t look at me.
“You’re late,” she said as she turned a page. “Again.”
Eszter Molnar is a former teacher who lives by the windswept British seaside with her partner and two children. She has been published in one of the UK’s biggest subscription magazines for children. By day, she cleans up after preschoolers, by night she writes picture books and Middle Grade fiction.
Her look was summery; the weather was not. She stood shivering in her flower-speckled sundress, staring upward as the heavens opened, and torrents descended. Colourful ribbons in her hair were soon plastered against her scalp.
The forecast promised hot and sunny, but during the pandemic, nothing unfolded as it should.
Alan Kemister is the pen name of a retired scientist experimenting with more fictitious writing. He’s currently working on a climate change novel. Get the gory details at alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
The fairy godmother appears
The willow wilts, until another noon
Intimate details of a concealed life
Bright days encroach on moonless night
Yet, no prince knocks—
she never gave anyone shoes to wear.
You knew this wouldn’t last;
Then she lost her job at the dressmakers’.
Mandira Pattnaik is an Economics graduate who lets her degree gather dust while she word-weaves. Some of those pieces have made their way into Spelk, Lunate, Gasher, Star82, and fiftywordstories. She tweets at @MandiraPattnaik.
Cruelly, the mirror mocks me, shows me what I’ve wanted for so long.
A sideways glance reveals my swollen stomach,
Neatly rounded, bloated from the drugs,
Curving out as though I’m six months pregnant.
Empty, stitched and sore when all I dreamt of was a child.
Realistically, that’s impossible now.
Jo Withers writes micros, flash, and shorts from her home in South Australia. Recent fiction can be found in Milk Candy Review, Ellipsis Zine and Lunate.
The idea arose when Sophia’s father said her smile was more beautiful than Mona Lisa’s.
After retiring from grade school, she used her savings to go to Paris, where she wandered through the Louvre until she found it.
Staring at Leonardo’s masterpiece, she could only think, “Wow. It’s so small.”
Ran Walker is the author of sixteen books. He serves on the creative writing faculty of Hampton University in Virginia.
After two days, she was infatuated with the bright smile that followed her classmate’s corny jokes.
He conversed with her sister while she watched from afar. She was hit by the realization that he couldn’t tell her apart from her twin.
The next day he moved on to someone else.
Ann Kennedy is a high school student in Chicago, IL.
Belly pushed forward, one hand at my back, the other slowly patting circles over my protruding stomach. I study my reflection from the side and front, imagining something inside. But there’s nothing there. Only the seed of doubt that has taken root and started to grow: there may never be.
Margaret is an amateur writer, but her mother thinks she’s WONDERFUL. She resides in Indianapolis.
A breeze scuttles through the jostling limbs of the coppiced chestnuts, and they clatter like masts in a marina.
In my imagination, when the hill is stripped bare, these trees will be crafted into green-winged ships, thrusting proudly towards the broad horizon.
In reality, I know they’ll become fence posts.
Tamsin keeps finding herself writing about trees – but then, literally, we can’t live without them.
The doors of the church closed behind me as the congregation quieted for the baptismal service. Shivering, a woman stepped into the water. The pastor plunged her under. She came up shouting. I thought, Finally, a church with some Spirit.
Eyes heavenward, she announced, “That water’s cold!”
I sighed deeply.
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, The Flash Fiction Press, Every Day Fiction, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.