The face was there, but the rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes were absent, absconded along with ready smile and gleeful giggles, lost in memories.
She wore civvies, not the nun’s habit she had hiked up a little to play football with us as children.
The coffin also took her voice.
Perry McDaid is a writer of prose and poetry who has developed a taste for pastels. They’re a tad chalky but provide roughage.
Never forget mascara; it’s very useful for opening up sleep-deprived eyes.
Not too heavy, mind. You don’t want someone looking too closely, or they might drown in your sorrow. And thick eyeliner acts as a distraction. Wear it smudgy so people can’t see when you’ve been crying.
Apply red lipstick.
CR Smith is a student of Fine Art. She splits her time between art and writing. Her work has appeared both on online and in print.
Find her on Twitter
and at crsmith2016.wordpress.com
The gunshot echoes through the alley.
“That’s what you get for leaving me for this pig!”
She falls. He drops to his knees.
“Stay with me, baby, please! Don’t go!”
Sirens echo in the distance; too late.
His sanity is leaving him. Laughter fills the alley.
His lover is dead.
Alaina Umscheid is in 8th grade and loves to read and play her french horn.
He described the contraption as a hand-cranked device, sort of like a pinwheel mounted with glass prisms. Except, instead of light, the prisms reflected joyful memories. He claimed it worked like a dream, an absolute dream, revealing us all together, all alive, running around the backyard, leaping puddles, hopping rainbows.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net.
Grief is a cowgirl. She is beautiful. She rides me, pulling on the bridle, telling me when to kneel and weep. Her long fingers guide tears down my cheeks.
She was here all last month; she’s with me today. I’m afraid to ask how much longer she’s going to stay.
Dan Campbell wrote this story.
Bottles, half-alive mounds of clothing, sauce-stained plates, and dead cigarettes groan in a growing sea of torment. His children scream eerily, tearing round. Insane frenzy.
(Neighbors whisper. Shiftless.)
Blue eyes vacant, he sits in the wreckage, thinking of how she looked like a blooming tea rose before the casket shut.
Constance is addicted to writing, getting her inspiration from abandoned houses, panthers, and peanut butter.
As the hot sun descended, frightened by the rising of the cold blue moon, I stumbled on a root and fell headlong into nightmare.
Within myself, I chased and fled, pursuing sanity and evading madness.
I grasped sanity’s skirt. She pulled away, saying, “Your daughter is dead.”
Madness ensnared me.
This story was based on a title suggested by @KittyCatalyst.