This morning, the winter rain hammers away external stains.
Yesterday, after the incident, my friends walked me home, and we built a pillow fort. They currently lay beside me, asleep and dreaming. I snuggle under the covers, warm in their company, and wait for the delivery of a new day.
Robin Bissett is a Teaching Artist and Writer from Central Texas. She enjoys absorbing and sharing stories and strengthening her surrounding literary communities.
Black brother bound, begging, barely breathing, betrayed by badged bullies. Bystanders being blind. Bureaucracy bubble bursts. Battle begins. Be bold, be boisterous, build bridges because BlackLivesMatter. Be better, break bread, bond but be beneficial. Begin by believing blacks’ burdens, brokenness, bitterness, baggage. Breathe, Buddy, breathe. Be blessed beyond belief. BlackLivesMatter.
Lisa Miller loves living in Oregon, moving from Portland and out to the country recently. She loves her family but has had trouble writing since they moved in. She says it’s worth it, though, and her creativity is slowly creeping back.
It hasn’t stopped raining for four long days.
Carl’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face a bloated mess.
“I can’t do this much longer,” he cries.
“You’re doing great,” I assure him but right now—and I’m not ashamed to admit this—I hate him. We’ve been here before. Seven times.
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.
He sits before the door expectantly, tail swishing. The door doesn’t open, will never open. Inside is off limits.
I sigh, empathy swirling through me. “Come on, bud,” I mutter, lifting my protesting cat up and away.
He’s not the only one to obsess over what he can’t have.
Maria is fascinated by the similarities of emotion across species, time, and place. She misses her cats a lot.
I know the future. You imagine yourself on your motorcycle with your scarf fluttering behind, a middle finger to the naysayers who believe the doctors.
But I know the future. You decided to repair that wooden chest with the rusty nails. You weren’t careful. One scratch and I was in.
Sarah Samson is a consultant, writer and corporate responsibility professional living in Portland, Oregon.
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.
Mom shuffles to the car, back stooped, frustrating tremors slowing her progress.
Walker, bed rail, shower seat, suitcase, and a box rattling with pills are packed for her visit.
She struggles to fasten her seatbelt, so I help.
“Thanks… Getting old isn’t for wimps, you know.”
I smile, feeling blessed.
Tawnia is an elementary teacher in Ontario who started writing a few years ago. You can find her on Twitter @TawniaCourage.
Scanning the discarded Scratch-Off tickets on the ground, I wonder what their transitory owners had coveted. A hulking new SUV with the Limited Leather Package? A garish new McMansion with ten bedrooms and a 110-inch TV? A new life?
Then I carefully check that all the scratch-offs were, indeed, scratched-off.
Robert Markovich spent a lifetime in what is charitably referred to as service journalism, writing and editing stories about everything from cars to toilets, most recently at Consumer Reports. He is happily and gratefully retired.
The paper cranes are folded from receipts for doctors, buses and climate magazines, from my five year old’s drawings of our family, prescriptions for her meds, sweet wrappers and cigarette packets, and hang now to be counted, over her hospital bed, one more for every day since she didn’t die.
Rosaleen Lynch, an Irish community worker and writer in the East End of London, pursues stories whether conversational, literary or performed and believes in the power of words to make the world a better place.
Sitting on the grassy hill,
the day goes by slow.
Then night falls.
I reached for stars in the sky,
wanting troubles to
end and die.
Only at night can the soul
and body and mind
take a rest.
So, I pray that in its splendor,
the night is long.
Vivian Leung lives in Scottsdale, Arizona and has always held a love for music and writing. One of her goals in life is to land a career in healthcare. There are few things that are more rewarding to her than helping others.