“Grandy, will you tell me about Hawaii?”
A pause, and then he brushes his bottom lip thoughtfully with the edge of a thumb, the blue anchor on his forearm gone soft and blurry with time. In his eyes, I catch a glimpse of metal and fire.
“Not much to say.”
Erin Gilmore is a writer and editor living in Los Angeles.
Exposed to light, the misunderstood memories skitter away like startled insects. Slowly, I clear more rocks from the landscape of my childhood.
When I find the courage to pull weeds, I might replace them with roses: Their beauty comes with thorns. Or perhaps cacti, which can survive neglect, even abuse.
Kim Favors worked as a newspaper journalist. She grows her literary garden on California’s Central Coast.
Her recorder, smaller than she remembers it, now covered with a decade’s worth of dirt.
She wipes off the mouth, lifts it to her lips. A sighing sound burdens the breeze as her breath stumbles through.
Somehow her fingers find the holes with ease and tap out a hollow melody.
Prisha is a high school student who aspires to be a successful author one day. You can find out more about her at prishamehta.com.
Clare sits in her car, heater at full blast. She knows she should keep driving but the lights of the house, her home, have her mesmerized.
She looks longingly at her past. The deep snow makes it look as if nothing has changed, the SOLD sign buried beneath a drift.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
The doll’s faded curls stuck out defiantly. Her unblinking blue eyes were clouded, the greasy stain on her diminutive apron unseen.
Arthritic fingers gently soothed the curls then the worried eyes. Her apron, lovingly washed, was placed near the fire with a pat.
Finally, doll and owner were almost new.
Susan Schwenk lives in Illinois. She occasionally invites her muse for tea.
The grey mask shields her eyes from visions of the children she never had
and scents her dreams with lavender
The ear plugs muffle the whispers of her ghosts
She bites down on a bullet, designed to take the strain
And she lays herself down,
to fight the night.
Jennifer M. Smith lives in Burlington, Ontario.
The clock strikes twelve. Glasses clink, the shiny ball drops, cheers all around.
In the midst of the confetti, I stand alone, champagne in hand… waiting.
Waiting for you, my love. Waiting for your kiss to signal another New Year.
My mind knows you’ve gone, but my heart still waits.
Susan Lozano wrote this story.
The last notes of the organ fade away.
In the old church, shadows dance in the candleglow, echoes of people from times gone by, coming back to me. I feel their presence.
The living drive away the dead as their grandchildren and great grandchildren dispel the moment.
Merry Christmas, Grandma!
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to use some of her own experiences in her story telling. Merry Christmas!
He crossed the finish line well ahead of the other athletes. The crowd cheered, a distant roar, but he didn’t stop.
In his mind, her voice was pleading, begging: “Don’t let me die here!”
Muscles pumping, heart racing, he sprinted on, the ghosts of his past hard on his heels.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, which will become the capital of his world empire when he completes his anti-matter bomb. But first lunch.
Her scars run deep. Invisible.
A stab in the heart here, a slap in the face there.
She plans her escape with precision, as far as her meagre funds will allow. Relief.
She forces herself to stop thinking about her past pain, her ex-husband and, with a pang, her ex-dog.
Jean lives in a village near Bath in the UK. She has an ex-husband and an ex-dog.