I run barefoot down cold dark stairs
to see the star-topped tree bathed in coloured light, shimmering with silver rain.
and glimpse the tissue wrappings under its branches.
My stocking hangs waiting, lumpy with gifts;
racing up to my parents’ warm bed
I open it to share a
Catherine Mathews, retired from the Foreign Service, was stationed in Paris, Rome, Tel Aviv, Athens, Frankfurt, and Istanbul. She now lives in northern Virginia, has published a memoir, and is attempting to write short stories from her life experiences.
The mother spread out over the bench, waiting for a bus to squeeze herself on to. Her blond child’s paleness rusted red in the sun. He wanted to climb and jump.
“No,” she said, offering chocolate. “Eat this.” Extra ballast would stop him floating. “Please,” she said. “Eat now. Eat.”
TL Krawec doesn’t have children, and keeps his chocolate to himself.
This was the first spring Ruth had visited the bluebell fields with her four-year-old, Sophie. Her thoughts drifted to her own first visit when she stood on the beautiful carpet of purple and blue.
Sophie ran towards her holding a single flower. “Mummy, it’s wonderful, but this bluebell doesn’t ring!”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
The teacher briefly leaves the room. Class discussion erupts.
Mark: “You’re so ugly.”
Lucy: “I know.”
Everyone laughs. Feeling humiliated, Lucy quickly smiles, hoping that the sudden twist of her lips will prevent a deluge of tears. Teacher returns. Class once again silent, although Lucy can still hear that laughter.
Linda Nathaniel is a teacher from Sydney, Australia, who has had a play go from page to stage and poems published around the globe.
I never expected this when I left work early.
Two black women’s shoes and a stained blouse create landmarks across a trail of red smears.
“Daddy! I was playing dress up and mommy made chicken’s fingers and I got my own ketchup.”
Smiling, I kiss my daughter’s precious, tomato-covered cheek.
Craig would like to thank the creators of spell check,caffeine,and the English language. He is currently working on a fifty word story that will not use the same word twice.
“Why don’t you go outside and play, Joey?”
“Stink hole,” he said, stubbornly shaking his head.
“The TV news scared you, didn’t it? Well, Joey, there’re no sinkholes in our backyard. Just watch me.”
Joey’s mom was stomping her way around the azaleas when she was ambushed by the skunk.
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine
, Gumshoe Review
, Plasma Frequency Magazine
, and elsewhere.
Children aren’t mean. Sometimes they just lack common sense.
For example, at the party I was in charge of the pinata. Finding one, hanging it up, getting some big sticks.
We were having a lot of fun until Mrs. Pinata from down the block showed up, looking for her kid.
Joe Malone is living in a mud hut in South Sudan. Read more from him at http://joem18b.wordpress.com/
At age 5, Brody required less of my doting. Horsing around on the monkey bars, he slipped. His embarrassment outweighed his pain.
Bath time, I asked if I could take a look. Reluctantly, he agreed. As I kneeled in for examination, he turned his head, rolled his eyes and said, “Awkward.”
Shelly Eady is an emerging writer with an abundance of faith and a heart’s desire to enrich, inspire, and encourage others to dream through the art of creativity.
“I wish I had their legs,” I hollered at the mother as her two girls raced ahead on the path.
“Well, they get to go to bed at 8 PM,” she chuckled back.
Such a jolly, inane exchange.
Then I thought, wait a second, what if I went to bed at 8?
rJo Herman dreams of writing the one perfect tale her grandchildren will tell their grandchildren. She lives in the Colorado high desert with her grey striped companion, Emil Catt I.
Lucy is eating her second watermelon slice. I indulge her because her sister, Rachel, is on a playdate and she’s not.
“Lucy, please don’t get watermelon on your dress.”
Slurp. Drip. Drip.
“Lucy, I just said not to get watermelon on your dress!”
“I’m wearing Rachel’s dress.”
Wendy White Lees is a freelance writer and editor. Her two daughters fuel both her creativity and her insomnia.