It starts out as a vague outline, but a warm feeling of familiarity envelops me as my pencil glides across the stretched canvas and a body begins to take shape. Smooth strokes fill in the curves of her hips and her eyes take on a life that no longer exists.
Maria S. Nitsolas is an emerging writer from Sydney, Australia. To follow her writing journey, visit mariasnitsolas.com.
Nearly every old strip-mall parking lot has one, a brick-and-glass memorial to when some kid inside handed you your finished Kodachromes.
Where did all those Kodachromes go? To dusty drawers and landfills. And the kid? To ‘Nam, where he stayed as his parents grew old wondering why they let him.
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.
Tangy salsa over fried eggs. Buttered toast, sliced in half and glazed with apricot jam. She hasn’t opened a menu in over ten years. Everybody at the corner diner on Hamilton Street knows to call her Suz, and never to ask why certain songs from the jukebox make her cry.
Lisa Marie Lopez has had stories recently published in Blink-Ink and The Ocotillo Review. She loves baseball, turtles, and writing in cozy little cafes. Visit her on Facebook at Author Lisa Marie Lopez.
Seen on the running trail: tall, beefy (beloved you, at the end, emaciated). Black hair under cap (you, at the end, bald). Muscular legs (you, at the end, wheelchair-bound). Blue eyes (you, at the end, blind). Trim beard (you, at the end, blotches). Gentle breathing (you, at the end, gasping).
Over 45 years, Paul Lamar’s poems and stories have appeared in The Southern Review, Prairie Schooner, Steam Ticket, Bryant Literary Review, etc.
Sissy’s behind gray walls, the day of competition. Singing occasionally with radios in quiet rooms, I find some courage. As poison takes over her brain, doctors with false hope insert silver needles.
But I sing, dizzy, from worn out bones, my only sister, broken.
Behind velvet curtains, I let go.
Angela Carlton lives outside Atlanta with her husband and two daughters. Her fiction has been published in EWR, Every Day Fiction, Pedestal Magazine, Long Story Short, 6S, High Noon and Friday Flash Fiction among others.
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.
She didn’t need her smile after her husband died, so she gave it to her daughter, who was pregnant. Years later, she looked up to see someone walk through her door. It was her old friend the smile, now with short legs and rosy cheeks.
“Have some cookies,” she said.
C.M.F. Wright writes sentences that occasionally turn into stories. Her short stories have appeared in 50-Word Stories, Syntax & Salt Magazine and the VSS365 Anthology.
The widower, Mr. Rochester, didn’t pick up his rose bouquet today. He says roses remind him of his beautiful wife.
His neighbor, Mr. John, walked in the next day. He asked, “Do you have Yellow Pansy?”
I answered, “No. Why?”
“Pansy would remind me of my good friend, Mr. Rochester.”
Lea is a ghost writer who hides in another person’s shadow. She came out today to write stories again.
Thinking of you is like sipping my second cup of coffee of the day: not a yearning rush, just savoring the dreamy warmth and bittersweetness. My eyes will still moisten suddenly, fogged in the aroma of the past, when my fingers run across your old ring laced with green patina.
Lorna Ye writes flash fiction and poetry. She enjoys listening to soft jazz and trying new recipes.
Everyone else is a newcomer. He lived here before they built the road. Before the road gave rise to the houses. Before the houses necessitated the church and the pub. But now they need a school and an old tree can’t be allowed to stand in the way of progress.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He has just started writing micro fiction and hopes to get better at it.