Iris knew she had made the right choice, because after two weeks she didn’t miss him. It felt better to stretch out in bed, and she didn’t have to watch sports anymore.
The only thing that bothered her was the photos he had taken and the secrets that he knew.
Dan Shushko wrote this story.
“It’s good to see you.”
“I hoped we could talk.”
Wished we didn’t have to.
“It’s been too long.”
Not long enough.
Leaning against the air-hockey table, shoes white against the slushy stain, she replies:
“It’s been two days, Tyler. And I only came to get my backpack.”
Kerry teaches English with the comfortable assuredness that he is almost often not wrong about it.
Lydia dropped off Hannah at her dad’s place, a rocky walk from home. She enjoyed the trek. They both did. The bubble helmet radios picked up every single word. Every breath floated into mother’s and daughter’s ears.
It was intimate, unlike with her ex-husband, the only other human on Titan.
Caleb resides in Arkansas where he plays beach volleyball.
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.
“Goodbye Patrick.” Cindy moved in for a half-hug and cheek-peck, but he held her until she pulled away.
Patrick fit bulging duffel bags into her rusty Mazda, shut the hatchback, then stepped away as she reversed and turned.
The car crunched down the gravel driveway, red taillights glowing in accusation.
Susan Wackerbarth is enjoying her foray into flash fiction so much that she may never go back to writing novels.
In the deadest hour of night, a tangerine-colored torrent arrives.
My girlfriend’s terrified; I drag her half-clothed from the blanket to shield her from the forest’s scathing flames. Wholeheartedly she clings to me, though I know only yesterday her eyes wandered.
Somewhere deep in my pocket, the matchbox shifts restlessly.
EO’s fairly certain that arson isn’t the way to a woman’s heart. It’s probably bacon or something. Unless she’s vegan. Then maybe it’s veggie bacon.
Our red eyes
Have a glass of wine
I love you…
words without conviction
Trace the floor
Of our room
My plea fails you
Our relationship fades
Our bond snaps
The door closes
Tossed between empty sheets
Why part 5?
Well heck I finally deleted you
from my phone,
from my conscious mind
and then you had the nerve to show up in a dream,
all friendly and conciliatory.
I leaned against your shoulder, into the feel of you.
Sure, we can be friends
Sweet (did you whisper back?)
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
The rooms were bare and cold, but if she squinted, she could almost see the life they’d planned. The baby, yawning and sucking. Him, sprawled on the sofa, the TV on. So much love she’d felt like bursting.
Where was it now?
She turned to leave; arms empty, heart full.
Laura Pearson is a writer of blog posts, novels and flash fiction. She lives in Leicestershire with her husband and two young children.
With the kind of longing that only comes with the fog of time, he began missing her today.
All the animosity gave way to bittersweet memories.
That’s when he realized that it had been neither love nor hate that killed their relationship. It was indifference.
He eyed his phone, briefly.
Maninder Chana is a critically acclaimed, award-winning writer and director based out of Toronto. He is also the author of a short story collection, Gunga Din Lite & Other Delights (of Lust and Comedy)