I saw her in French class and knew I had to have her heart.
I pictured it: big, lovely, and full of life, the perfect one for me.
I wined and dined her and when the time came, she offered it. I accepted.
I had her heart. It was delicious.
Chelsea Roberts is a writer from Trinidad and Tobago. When she isn’t laying on a sandy beach, she can be found writing essays and micro fiction at pastpaperanswers.com
In the night I am worthless. I dissolve as the darkness presses down onto me. I curl into the toxic embrace of the silent emptiness within and without.
The baby feeds on, needy and warming. A tiny golden thread of love connects us, draws me back up to the light.
Rebecca Williams loves the darker side of fiction and is currently working on a novel about two housewives on a vigilante crime spree. She also dabbles in flash and shorter fiction – you can find her work in EllipsisZine, Spelk, The Cabinet of Heed, Retreat West and more. She can be found on Twitter at @stupidgirl45
A void sits in between his rib cages; he lacks the beating bit of flesh that makes humans human. So, she fills the emptiness with memories of overgrown moss and poisonous flowers, along with false promises of eternity.
It is the closest thing to her heart that she can give.
Penny Senanarong is currently an A-Level student who grew up in the bustling city of Bangkok. Although Thai is her mother tongue, the world of English language and literature fascinates her, and she wishes to be a part of it through writing fiction.
He was lost in thought again. Someone took over his mind, someone with a heart able to enjoy every single moment as if everything was special.
He stared at her and she smiled back happily, unaware of her own uniqueness. That ignorance, he pondered, was also part of her beauty.
José Jaime is from Spain and is studying at university.
Dreams and reality sometimes ravel and blur in the longest hours of the night. That’s when I reach out and touch your arm, your back, your thigh, lightly, ever so lightly, so I don’t wake you. We’ve grown old and frail together, you and I. Now, constantly, we seek reassurance.
Alex lives in a suburb of the Big Apple.
Emily knitted dreams into every row on the socks she made for her son Frank. Thoughts far away on palm-laced shores, she knitted and purled from toe to heel, ribbed a cuff of tropical sunsets.
Frank complained they made his feet itch.
He runs a bar in the Bahamas now.
Karla Dearsley’s stories, flash fiction, and poetry have appeared online and in print on both sides of the Atlantic. Her fantasy novels are available on Amazon and Smashwords. Find out more at ksdearsley.com
It’s never too late, she said, strapping on her mandolin.
Time doesn’t wait, she said, studying a map of the world.
More and more, she said, before hurrying to board a train.
Is this seat saved? she asked.
For you, he answered.
Into the night, wheels turned while they sang.
Jane Hertenstein’s current obsession is flash. She is the author of over 80 published stories, a combination of fiction, creative non-fiction, and blurred genre both micro and macro. In addition she has published a YA novel, Beyond Paradise, and a non-fiction project, Orphan Girl: The Memoir of a Chicago Bag Lady, which garnered national reviews. Jane is the recipient of a grant from the Illinois Arts Council. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hunger Mountain, Rosebud, Word Riot, Flashquake, Fiction Fix, Frostwriting, and several themed anthologies. She can also be found blogging at memoirouswrite.blogspot.com
He comes to the jam most Sunday nights,
This gentle, unassuming man, carrying his
Note for note, played or sung, pitch perfect and
resonating with feeling.
But it is the hugs he gives so generously and effortlessly,
full of kindness, that seem like music
and feel like love.
Ellen lives in Maine and plays at the jam.
“Awful man,” she muttered, kicking the encroaching brambles. “Beautiful woman,” he mused, as sunlight haloed her fair hair.
Every evening he’d toil, moving snails from her delicate beans and dahlias to his indestructible thicket.
She never wondered why her allotment flourished. Or who left the gifts of glorious blackberry jam.
Tamsin doesn’t have an allotment, and she has to be her own snail shepherd. Despite best efforts, her runner beans are still being severely chewed.
Night-veiled raven swoops down
settling on a field of stubbled snow
red river birch standing guard along the edge.
The colors of winter envelop the world
stark and soft, like a broken heart
stunning and everyday, like losing love
magical and hard, like brown leaves
skittering across a frozen pond.
Jackie Ascrizzi lives in Montville, Maine, mock orange and peony wafting through the windows.