When I saw him the other day, I felt the strangest urge to strike up a conversation. Most peculiar, seeing as we’ve hardly been close. But the moment passed and I saw it wasn’t him, remembered it couldn’t be so.
A curiosity indeed that we’re always friendlier towards the dead.
Gretchen wants to make being out of place her comfort zone, so she’s going to keep on sharing her thoughts.
My father-in-law-to-be mowed our yard with his tractor, transforming the tangle into a park.
My son sobbed, He killed my favorite blackberry bush.
“But there are more,” I argued. “Look, they’re all over.” He wouldn’t face where I pointed.
I wish I’d said, “It’s painful to lose what you love.”
Lois Rosen’s poetry books are Pigeons (Traprock Books 2004) and Nice and Loud (Tebot Bach 2015). She has taught ESL in Oregon, New York, Ecuador, Colombia, Japan, and Costa Rica. Lois founded the Peregrine Poets of Salem, Oregon, and leads the Trillium Writers and the Institute for Continued Learning Writing Group at Willamette University. She won Willamette Writers’ 2016 Kay Snow First Prize in Fiction.
In the Earth I traced your name,
silent as my prayer.
Afraid that noise would make me insane,
afraid of judgement from the air.
My fingers danced to trace the date,
strokes placed with utmost care,
thinking maybe crazy is a better fate
than drowning in despair.
“I miss you.”
Elaine Koh is an avid reader and writer with a passion for all things furry and entertainment media.
The eyewitnesses were children. Two. An eight-year-old boy and his ten-year-old sister.
They heard and saw more than they could comprehend.
Why was daddy so angry? Why did they have to call this new woman “mommy?”
They missed their grandmother. Why did “mommy” get to decide who they could love?
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Frank hated the idea, but a mother in his support group said it had been helpful.
So he set it up in Jessica’s old room and attempted to steel himself.
When they discovered Frank’s emaciated body, his frozen smile was still fixed on the flickering hologram of his daughter dancing.
Ran Walker is the award-winning author of seventeen books. He teaches at Hampton University in Virginia.
Someone I care for passed away
But that isn’t true on social media today
Their birthday notice continues to lives on
Compelling “friends” to comment upon
So I learn the flesh may rot but we never really die
When we can still be liked in the digital by and by.
Kent Oswald writes, edits, walks the dog, and pedagogs in NYC. Additional words at kentoswald.com.
I try to draw a flower, a forget-me-not. Nothing flows from my pen.
I’ll sketch one perfect rose, to declare my love. It turns out wilted, withered.
I let my pen have its way across an empty page. When it stops, all I have to offer
is a broken heart.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
“When will I see mommy?” Clare would ask everyday.
“Before you head to bed, honey” Auntie would reply.
Those words echoed in her ear as her eyes pleaded to be closed.
This time,her mother made it. Just before the monitor flat-lined.
Melancholy spread as Clare finally slept with a smile.
This poem was selected as the runner up of the Commaful.com 50WS Contest! Read the original post here.
The girl stood when Death walked in. Her coat was on, her bag was packed, and despite her tears, she wore a look of determination.
Death shook his head, understanding mingling with regret.
“Girl, wait until you’re older,” he said gently, and dodged around her to take her father’s hand.
Maria attends college in the midwest, and is becoming a proficient juggler of class, club, and those silly customs we call adulthood.
We didn’t live there anymore. Hadn’t for a decade.
And yet, as flames licked at the windows and devoured the roof, as smoke belched into the twilight sky, I stood on the hose-wet lawn suffocating, asphyxiating on the fumes of my childhood while firefighters tried—failed—to stop its burning.
Angela Teagardner has been selling books for twenty years – not her own though, not yet. A bookseller for pay and a writer for passion, she’s been writing stories and poetry since middle school. She currently lives in Columbus, Ohio with her husband, daughter, and two extremely cranky cats.