And I remember you in charcoal dreams and chalky daytime visions. You become we stacking rocks Like stacking a deck Like stacking blocks Like stacking boxes One on top of the other in my mind. This day, we were light as we’d ever been. Heads back in laughter. We carried kings with our lips and tasted salt diamonds on our tongues. Even now, our silhouettes sit frozen forever, mouths open. I blink this image to life, and I think of how laughing looks like screaming when the sound’s turned off.
“I write to get closer to the sublime.” – the writer
Her behavior was unbecoming of a young lady. Be quiet, they said, so she tried to bite her tongue. Sit still, they said, so she learned to tame her spirit. Pay attention, they said, so she started to curb her thoughts. Little by little, she began to disappear. First a foot. Then a leg. Next an arm. Until only her face remained. Help, she cried. But nobody answered the call, for she had become invisible.
Alison Ogilvie-Holme writes as a means of escape and creative expression.
What if I leave the dog out? You can’t leave the dog out. It’s hilarious. How about the two phone calls? Necessary to the plot. But it’s got to be less than 100 words. What if I leave out the storm descriptors? Then, excuse the pun, you destroy the atmosphere. How about the phrases I worked hard at? Like ‘masochistic glee’? Yes. Those frilly phrases? Use the scythe. Kill your darlings. So what do I do? Regroup. You can fit anything into 100 words. War and Peace? Yes, even War and Peace.
John Malone is “learning to love the restrictions of the 100-word format.”
I haven’t been this nervous for a first date since my last “first date” four decades ago. Unsure of my earring choices, I glanced at our wedding photo. “Go with the fake Tahitian pearls, kiddo” he’d probably say.
Our friends paired us well. My date was incredibly witty and charismatic. Not charming enough to manage the fallen crumbs in his beard, or for me to ignore his lazy eye, but an engaging gentleman nonetheless.
After the enjoyable evening, back home, I removed the pearl earrings. He’d probably ask me “How was it kiddo?” Wiping a tear, I shook my head.
Jay Heltzer has been telling stories for decades, he currently enjoys breaking norms and perspective through microfiction, short stories, and a book idea that is “just almost kinda there …”.
How did her mother do it? How did she transition from a home full of children and laughter and tears to a home with just the two of them? What did she do when one child left? Then another and another and another until all she had were memories and her empty nest?
The middle-aged mother faces her own empty nest and ponders these questions. Her fingers itch to reach for the phone and make that call. But as they do, they fall away again. She realizes, for the hundredth time, her mother is no longer at the other end.
“Life is too short to leave words unsaid.” – the writer
It was a fall evening, I was nineteen with head full of dreams and heart full of love. She was just seventeen, perfect from head to toe, she believed in dreams even more than I did. We were on her terrace, kissing in the afterglow of sunset. She was caressing my hair with her nimble fingers like she always did when we kissed. I tried to go deeper but the train stopped, stirring me out of sleep. The dream popped like soap bubble.
… wet steel tracks flash gold red lips, brown eyes and black nails noon rain makes me smile
Mrityunjay “believes that writing is an act of telepathy.”
No, not personality, blood type. They say it makes you more susceptible.
She’s sitting here next to me. Crying again. They just told her it won’t be long now.
I want to tell her I’m sorry. For forcing her to always go out to eat. For all those trips to see the grandkids. For having friends and family from out of state come visit us. For that campaign rally I went to, where I went toe to toe with that reporter.
I want to say I’m sorry.
But you can’t say anything when you’re on a vent.
“Some things just require prose, not verse.” – the writer
The longer she sat in the quiet, sterile waiting room, the more she realized that the line between hope and surrender was simply the degree of possibility. She kept running through the facts in her head. The ambulance had been swift, her girlfriend had been conscious, the doctors had been reassuring. Yet, a glance at the expression on the face of the approaching surgeon confirmed her fears – she had been balancing on the wrong side of the line.
“Stories have always been an escape from the disappointment of reality.” – the writer