My labrador, Dosh, waits. I throw. Released, she grabs it mid-air, showing off, then returns. I throw again; she’d retrieve forever.
If I could, just once, experience the joyous muscle-music I witness when Dosh clamps her jaws around a soggy tennis ball, I could face anything in this challenging world.
Sarah Flick wrote this story.
On a sweltering July afternoon, the hospital door whistles shut behind Sarah as she watches a little girl, carried by her father, lick a rainbow sprinkle off her chin, her cheeks rosy and full like Sarah’s own used to be before she started counting everything. This time will be different.
Lauren Vogel is a writer and artist whose work is featured in Nowhere Girl Collective and on her Substack, OwlPerson.
The sun shines down on trail-walking tree-hugging leaf-swishing green and wave-wading sand-sinking shell-seeking blue while memory-lost family-forgotten depression-ridden gray looks through cloudy eyes and clouded windows at rain-cloud skies. Wake up! Be the blue-gray mist on a morning meadow; be the green-gray sage of eucalyptus. Embrace gray to the end.
Lori O’Brien, an English and Creative Writing student at SNHU, gets her inspiration walking along the ocean in coastal New Hampshire and hanging out with her senior miniature poodle, Artie. Her work has been published in Snoozine Magazine.
Four tanned old women sit on a wooden bench. Friends in shorts and colorful tops. No conversation. Each is working on a generous, diet-breaking, double-scooped ice cream cone on the sweltering day. They are happy, engrossed in the cold pleasures of their choices. No worries but the race against drips.
Lynn Kozlowski’s writing has appeared in such places as The Citron Review, The Zodiac Review, Molecule, 50-Word Stories, Every Day Fiction, The Dribble Drabble Review, and Friday Flash Fiction. He has a volume of short pieces, Historical Markers.
March.
Rutted, half-frozen, mud-soup-ugly
tailspinning tire tracks and grizzled snow
shapeshifting to angry slush clogging
the windshield spray nozzles
on my Tacoma pickup.
April.
Glistening wet branches, swollen green
buds popping, sinful yellow Goldfinches,
black humus, fresh plantings outside
the library, and my stealing a cat-glance
at the landscaper’s helper.
Matthew is fortunate to sometimes live near a lake in Maine where loons swim and sometimes yodel and hoot late at night. And sometimes on a day like this with few clouds in the sky and mountains in the distance a warm breeze will sweep across the lake and take your breath away.
I am weightless. Untethered. The world and my memory of it fades away, and though time no longer exists, I know that I am waiting for someone.
Fractals of brilliant color burst, and she is there, running towards me.
I bury my face in her fur. Good girl, I whisper.
K. L. Mill is a voice actor, another profession that revolves around words. Most recently her work has been published by Black Hare Press, Hungry Shadow Press, and Atomic Carnival.
A bonus day with my granddaughter
Doing whatever occurs to her moment to moment
Her shameless giggling
Her quick-silver mind
Her soft-as-dough hugs
Her pillowy hand
Her huger-than-life heart
Her limitless imagination
Her endless potential
I’m the luckiest girl alive to tread this giddy path long ago and now… again.
Carol Tymann writes, reads, walks, and plays in upstate New York.
The little boy runs out into the garden, throwing shards of bread onto the lawn. He watches as sparrows come and feed. After five minutes, he nods with satisfaction. The formula works. He skips back inside, leaving behind a dozen small corpses, wondering who he should try it on next.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, yet another time-travelling refugee fleeing from the Ant Dictatorship of the Twenty-fourth century.
The project did not matter; it was all about the aroma. The more sawdust produced, the more shavings he curled off the wood, the more his nostrils were filled with a smell that transfixed him into a Zen-like state. On some days he was even known to make something useful.
Chris Lihou is retired, now finding his voice via writing; including 50 word fiction.
Is it more than diffused sunlight, of rounded, color-filled smiles, daffodils and aged linseed oil? Yes, of course. But behold the yellow I’ve known, an in-between color — a warning, starting as jaundice, coming full circle with every white faded — teeth, eyes, nail beds — then ceasing in the familiar embalmer’s hue.
Thad DeVassie is a multi-genre writer and fine art painter who creates from the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. He is the author of three chapbooks and was awarded the James Tate International Poetry Prize in 2020. Find his written and painted works at thaddevassie.com.