They stomped into the bar shedding barn jackets covered with snow dandruff, then hoisted themselves onto barstools – waxy red circles, like rounds of edam cheese. They rotated from side to side, exchanging unpleasantries about the weather and gossiping about the shot-dead murderer in the storage unit down the street.
Alison Moore has spent much of her career in marketing. Now she’s writing fiction for fun. Her work can be found in Edible Boston and 50-Word Stories.
She treasured his heart while in his chest, admired it for its beauty and then, upon his soul departing, picked out its essence, pressed it between the pages of his favourite book and read those words as his eulogy. The memory of his soul meeting her tears on the page.
Vicky Hinault is a writer who explores what it is to be human. Her stories examine how our experiences shape our behaviours and the influence that has on how we move through life. Her work has featured in Flash Flood Journal, Nanoism and Microcosm. She can be found on social media @StayTrueCreate.
“Don’t fight it; dive through the wave,” Pop says. “Let the tide take you past the breakers.”
The ocean builds, bubbles, rises like green champagne. We lay back and float with arms splayed out—two messiahs, under cloudy skies, wasting hours in the wave’s trough and crest.
DG Bracey is a teacher and a freelance writer from the Carolina coast. He’s picked up degrees from the University of South Carolina, Coastal Carolina University, and the University of North Carolina – Wilmington. He’s published short stories in various journals and been a feature writer for several newspapers.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“What should we do?”
“I’m thinking… bring blankets? And food.”
“Seriously? Then how long before more show up?”
“These are people.”
“It’s private property! They’re trespassers. You couldn’t just put up a tent and camp there. Do you want them lighting campfires behind your wooden fence?”
Michelle Dinnick really enjoys writing short fiction. Sometimes she writes longer pieces as well.
There is no recipe to bring back the dead, but there is a formula for grief. Time known x title in life = amount of time it will take to stop bleeding. The titles have a logical, tiered system. He can quantify this.
But an unknown variable ruins it all.
Alexa Donley is a speculative fiction author living in Washington. When not writing, she can be found traveling to new places or walking in storms. Her first book, The House on the Rocks, is available now, as well as monthly short stories on Patreon. You can find her on alexadonley.com and on social media @alexadonleybooks.
Apurímac River: A floating community of fifty drifts slowly toward the Amazon. Three generations share the raft, where daily life revolves around fishing, gardening, crafting, and teaching the children. There’s no hierarchy here; no mine and yours. They depend on trust, cooperation. Never anchored to land; anchored to each other.
J.S. O’Keefe has published over three hundred short stories and poems in print and online literary magazines. See more at szjohnny.net.
Today I became a father.
At the hospital, I spent hours sitting, not knowing where to put my hands. I observed my son sleeping. At the same time, the new year was beginning.
I believe life restarts like this: silence, with fatigue, fear, and desire to do well, today on.
Sebastian Funari is an Italian author who writes short stories for those with little time but who don’t want to stop reading. Simple texts, inspired by everyday life and personal experiences, strange or ordinary.
A couple argues in the front row. I perch forward on my seat and fan myself with a leaflet foisted on me at the bus stop. The soft glow of an orange sunset flashes onto us in rhythmic intervals through the roadside trees. Overhead, a skein of geese glide home.
Marinda Kotze wrote this micro story on a long bus ride home.
I half-watch the game, NFL wildcard, mostly commercials. My brother texts: Michelob. Yesterday’s argument lingers.
He arrives with the beer. We sit. Memories. A family thinned to two.
Once hungry, never full.
Once poor, always poor.
Next day he texts me again: Molson, mañana. I agree.
Beer. Brother. Good enough.
John Szamosi is a wordsmith and peace activist. He’s been publishing short stories, satires and poems since his freshman year in college.
The day Dad died, the world didn’t end—but the birds forgot how to sing. His empty chair echoed louder than thunder. I reached for his voice in dreams, only to wake with nothing but shadows. Grief isn’t loud. It’s the silence that follows love, and never quite leaves.
Jenny Hart wrote this story.