Sunlight creeps through my bedroom window on the morning’s shoulders. Roosters crow and crickets chirp against the cargo train’s fading whistle. Cardinals dash from nandina berry bushes to plush dogwood blooms. Squirrels pose like monuments within towering blades of grass.
Our world has changed, but morning’s familiarity brings great comfort.
Vernae is new to the world of publishing, but is enjoying every moment of it. She began submitting her work for publication in 2018 and has been published several times. Her unpublished Children’s Book “Teddy Wet My Bed” was recently selected as one of five Finalists by Eyelands 2019 Book Awards in the Unpublished Books Category. Vernae prays for the health and safety of our families, nation, and world.
A warm summer’s evening:
A light breeze.
with an orange sunset.
The birds chirped.
The cat purred.
The dog barked.
The parents yelled—
and the baby cried:
Being cradled gently and carried away
by an elderly woman,
with a somber face and badge on her hip.
Pratt Institute attendee, Connor Williams started learning to write about what mattered after fleeing Brooklyn in the wake of Covid-19.
Cardinals chirping, red-winged blackbirds trilling from the woods.
Percussionist woodpecker beats a syncopated rhythm from behind a leafless oak.
Cackling spring peepers, hidden in vernal ponds, improvise a backup chorus.
High above, hawk screeches a solo.
Self-isolating on my deck, I’m grateful for nature’s elusive musicians
creating a comforting concert.
Carol Anne Harvey finds comfort in music, writing, reading, and talking with family and friends during her solitary confinement in Massachusetts.
Quiet like Sunday on the first of Spring. No traffic, no voices, no airplanes. Only birdsong or a dog barking.
Humanity withdraws and the world settles into silence. People in houses gaze through closed windows. They can hear sunlight drip off buildings and roar down empty streets.
Robin writes in the odd corners of the day and night and often about birds. See more at thenightmail.com.
It is evening rush hour in my city Glasgow.
I hear a solitary blackbird singing
no longer silenced by the snarl of roaring engines
and angry drivers.
The blackbird’s song is sweet but I yearn to hear it no more
meaning normality has returned to free me from this self-isolation
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Alone, finally, in the kitchen, she silences the kettle and settles in the chair. The children sleep. The darkened windows reverberate calm.
He will return soon. The gravel drive will first crinkle and then crunch. The car door will bang; his boots will stamp the porch.
But for now, peace.
Melody Leming-Wilson teaches and writes in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry has recently appeared in Windfall, Poeming Pigeon, and Mojave He[art]. She’s just learning to write 50-Word Stories and finding it therapeutic.
By the Angsana tree I sit, waiting for her arrival, but reading becomes dreaming once the Angsana’s crown starts weaving a lullaby with the breeze.
In dreams, gliding, she surpasses my wake and I, receding, cannot reach her pace.
I awaken to remember that here too she has passed me.
Benjamin Lo is an English undergraduate student from Nanyang Technological University trying to understand life. In his spare time, he is trying to complete a short story collection.
Carol had never understood Bob. A prominent attorney, he always crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s, but he couldn’t put down a toilet seat.
She filed a complaint; they settled out of court.
She said she simply wouldn’t stand for it anymore, so he agreed not to.
They’re still married.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana. This is her first story about a toilet seat.
Her toes were covered with sand, like little appetizers. The nails painted blue; ever the rebel, she.
A wave hushed in, foaming. “I’m leaving you,” she said calmly. “I’m tired of all your crap.”
Another wave slid up the beach, washed the sand off her feet, washed her guilt away.
Gregory Von Dare is a writer and dramatist specializing in crime and speculative fiction, often with a humorous or ironic twist. He attended Chicago City College and the University of Illinois. While living in Los Angeles, he worked for Universal Studios, Disney, and Sony Pictures as a talent manager and developer. He studied writing with Edgar winner John Morgan Wilson. Recently, his short stories were featured on the Soft Cartel and Horror Tree websites. Greg is an Affiliate Member of Mystery Writers of America. He lives outside Chicago where certain people will never find him.
Let him die. The authorities will see. Can you carry the world’s weight with a back full of lead? I see you. Stranger. Will you overthrow them? You tend his wounds, and now you’re the dying one. But another comes. Stranger. Tending your wounds. Perhaps you have overthrown much more.
Michael Hilton lives in Irving, Texas, where he watches a lot of TV.