Tangy salsa over fried eggs. Buttered toast, sliced in half and glazed with apricot jam. She hasn’t opened a menu in over ten years. Everybody at the corner diner on Hamilton Street knows to call her Suz, and never to ask why certain songs from the jukebox make her cry.
Lisa Marie Lopez has had stories recently published in Blink-Ink and The Ocotillo Review. She loves baseball, turtles, and writing in cozy little cafes. Visit her on Facebook at Author Lisa Marie Lopez.
The largest meal I’ve ever eaten was grief.
Served up to me on a grey platter, no cutlery. I tore it apart with my hands, angry and devouring, stuffing sharp pieces into my mouth, handful over handful, until I began to choke.
It took months to digest.
Amy Twigg is a writer living in the UK who likes to explore female relationships and anything mildly haunting. Follow her at @aetwigg.
Someone once told me a hot shower is like a mother’s womb.
Perhaps because you feel safe being vulnerable.
I wonder if I ever cried in my mother’s womb.
I like crying in the shower. It’s the solidarity I get knowing that something else can pour as much as me.
Joshua Benitez believes the best time for a shower is at night.
We gathered in small, always changing groups.
Strangers, family, and friends.
Uncounted words filled the room with copies of the same conversation.
Regrets mingled with the pebbles of ordinary life, to gave rise to our victory cry. Hand-in-hand, we proclaimed, “Life still goes on.”
Thus we denied death his victory.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring
and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor
serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include
reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
Grief, heavy like sticky syrup poured over pancakes, filled the room.
It coated the mourners, making it hard to move. Hard to speak. Hard to breathe.
I hardly knew him, but stopped to offer my condolences.
To hug and be hugged, as we remembered the days of this stranger’s life.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
Never forget mascara; it’s very useful for opening up sleep-deprived eyes.
Not too heavy, mind. You don’t want someone looking too closely, or they might drown in your sorrow. And thick eyeliner acts as a distraction. Wear it smudgy so people can’t see when you’ve been crying.
Apply red lipstick.
CR Smith is a student of Fine Art. She splits her time between art and writing. Her work has appeared both on online and in print.
Find her on Twitter and at crsmith2016.wordpress.com.
The raindrops on the window look like tears.
Ava says, “Daddy, the house is crying.”
“It’s not, dear,” I promise, gathering the last of our bags from the room where her mother fought so hard.
But as the removal van pulls away, I look back and wonder if she’s right.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com) is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
She was crying, but Grandma knew what to do. Come here. Sit with me. We can watch the clouds.
She stopped crying. Eventually she got bored.
Look, ants! Put your hand here. They walk on good people.
She did, but all the ants walked around her.
She started crying again.
Beáta Schlosserová is a young student who loves traveling and having fun. She is studying translation and interpreting.
The dark, silent bleakness of depression crushes me, as it always does, burying me under its massive form. Those who love and cherish me dig and dig and dig, always searching, never giving up, none of them willing to abandon me.
If only I were able to care as much.
Gina Giannetti is a writer-in-training looking to add the ideas swirling around in her head to the world of fantasy fiction. She lives on Long Island and is an administrative assistant by day.
Grief is a cowgirl. She is beautiful. She rides me, pulling on the bridle, telling me when to kneel and weep. Her long fingers guide tears down my cheeks.
She was here all last month; she’s with me today. I’m afraid to ask how much longer she’s going to stay.
Dan Campbell wrote this story.