A single thought echoed through my head like a broken record as she slowly uncurled her perfectly manicured fingers from the gun’s handle and let it drop to the blood soaked carpet beside me: This is a woman I could spend the rest of my life with.
And I did.
Chris Griglack was born and raised in Massachusetts where he has lived for 23 years. He graduated from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth in 2012 with a degree in Writing, Rhetoric, and Communications.
She paused high above the fjord’s cold waters, the wind twisting ice snakes through her hair. Far below, Lars’ boat moved silently, almost beautifully, its wake a great, tranquil spiral, smoke drifting behind.
The resistance would go on – it had to! – but she would miss those two gentle hands forever.
Pierre Dunn is currently working on stories and novels in a range of genres and styles, because every story demands its own form. He’s only 66, so he still has time to get published.
Golden tresses swayed in an ocean breeze. Bright green eyes glowed beneath a red bandana.
Waves crashed against the rocks below the cliffs with the thunder of memory. My fingertips brushed the faded colors.
The wind whipped the photograph from my hand. One step and the ocean swallowed my pain.
Suzi Harris is a retired technical writer working on her first novel with the support of her crazy Canadian husband and two psychotic cats.
I am an anchor. I keep you moored, while I plumb the depths. You are the thing that matters. I am just the slowly rusting passage of time. You are my love and I am your anchor. I sense a new undercurrent. I want to drag you down with me.
Gary writes poems, short stories, and novels. Some can be found on his Scribophile account, others on his somewhat neglected Tumblr.
Susa was beautiful. Videophone calls from London to Rio kept his love alive.
Now, outside the café where they met, he would surprise her when she arrived from the beach.
Her tanned body reflected in his sunglasses, as she nonchalantly brushed past to kiss Paulo, her husband, the café owner.
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
My heart felt like it was being ripped to shreds, over and over.
I could only read his lips from that distance but I knew what he was saying.
I love you, he said. Her smile said the same.
I wanted to turn it off. I couldn’t. Instead, I stared.
Katie studied screenwriting and fiction writing in college and hopes to one day pursue her MFA in creative writing. She currently guest blogs for Grads.Co.UK and runs a travel business. Her work has or will be appearing in Bewildering Stories, Down in the Dirt and Prospective Journal. She currently lives in North Carolina. You can find her blog here: http://writingandwanderlust.wordpress.com/
I sit high up a tree. Below, branches crackle and woodland creatures
crash frantically through the forest.
Love like a forest fire.
I calmly clutch my tinderbox though the flames have reached
my tree’s roots.
Because once you’d said you’d leap through fire for me.
So, little grasshopper. I’m waiting.
Lisa Falzon has been writing 50-word stories for over ten years now. Her website is micro-fiction.blogspot.ie.
He’d stood her up again.
He always broke his promises, and this time she was furious. No longer would she wait for him. He treated her as if she didn’t exist. She was finished!
Resolved in her decision, she pushed herself to her feet, and floated angrily through the wall.
Rebecca just started writing. More of her work can be found at eurasianflavour.wordpress.com or on her WritersCafe writing profile.
Every day I waited for a smile, a nod, an exchange worth more than a foam cup and some change. Recognition of our inevitable perfection.
Today you looked my way. For the briefest moment, our eyes met over the counter.
And it was… less.
I knew I never liked coffee.
Deepa is a full-time writer in India who occasionally gets to write for herself.
They held hands. The special moments passed, as they do. She smiled that smile he had fallen for years before. Her eyes sparked. Her grip tightened.
“I love you.”
He heard the words before her mouth even spoke them.
“Always,” he heard himself say.
He died.
Memories remained in her.
JH Statts is paralyzed from the chest down. He writes music reviews, draws a lot, likes tacos, and maintains a blog at aspirento.com. Visit him in Savannah, Georgia.