Something Good May Come of This


By may hem

When the word came that all schools would be closed, that shops and businesses could only admit up to 50 people if they could keep them two meters apart, that all those who could, must work from home, they wondered about all they would do while confined to their home.

“Maybe there will be a baby boom in nine months,” her husband intimated out loud. “Or a surge in divorces,” she augured in her head.

“I write to express intentions that missed their mark or ideas that couldn’t find another outlet.” – the writer



By Louise Worthington

Not yours sincerely, yours faithfully, best regards or best wishes, kind regards, or regards.


There are half-remembered quotes I would like to say to you. I can’t remember the way you said them, or I said them but I wish I could.

I have a snapshot of you in a park beside a swing weighted down by iron chains and the sun is in your hair – the tremendous harvest of your hair.

We weren’t a story, not a short story. We were unfinished letters and we never knew how to end them.

Was I yours ever? Ever, yours?

“I write to connect with others and to express myself and what I see around me.” – the writer

The Last Door


By John L. Malone

He had fired his last shot. She didn’t want him. He had stuffed her around one too many times. What was he to do?

That’s when he remembered, that old saying: ‘when one door closes, another opens.’

But nothing was happening. His life was in the doldrums. What if that door he came through when he found her was the last door? What if you had been allotted so many doors in a lifetime as a cat lives? What if he had used up his quota? What then?

Just then a trapdoor opened beneath him.

John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.

Losing Your Mother Makes You Introspective


By Lorie B.

During her last three months, my mother and I spent hours laying bare our mistakes and regrets, hopes, dreams and triumphs. She barely got to know two of my sons and never did meet the third. Her untimely death was like a wake-up call to improve the quality of my own life.

Eventually, I made a drastic change by retiring (very early) from hospital work to start a gardening business. I spend as much time with my own grandchildren as I can. I wish my mom could share the joy they bring to my life. Who knows, maybe she does.

“I love to share my inspirations and things that motivate me, good and bad.” – the writer

Age of Winter


By Tess M Shepherd

A lifetime, not months, had brought her to this final season. Old-woman’s bones in the chair by the window. Shrouded in blankets like the garden’s blanket of snow. Everything she once was shrunk to bare monotony. Even the memories dwindled. Without them, why live?

Outside, a flash of fire. An ember glowing amid winter’s decay. Her robin, like a symbol, sparking faded recollections into brighter hues. Children playing, before they flew the nest. Her husband, gardening beside her while he lived.

“Feed my birds,” she told the visiting carer. Then smiled …

Ever faithful, the garden still gave her a purpose.

Tess M Shepherd is currently working on two full-length historical novels. It has always been a dream of hers to be a published author.



By Training Your Child

Never-ending pressures and to-do lists;
Never-stopping expectations and obligations;
Is there someone to rescue me from all this crazy?
What if a rescuer came?
Would I receive the help?
Would I accept the new chance to start fresh?
Or would I be convinced I must earn my rescue,
become worth the time, energy and sacrifice?
Maybe I like the crazy.
Maybe it makes me feel important.
But I still ask for, beg for a rescuer.
If I add “Find a Rescuer” to my to-do list,
Will this never-ending, never-stopping have hope to stop?
Help! Rescue me, please!

“I write because I have been rescued and want others to know the truth and freedom I have.” – the writer

You Hear a Noise


By John L. Malone

You hear a noise. It’s past midnight.
So what do you do?
You hop up, turn on a few lights, tramp down the passageway. open and close cupboards, bang doors, make a lot of noise.
Then you stop and listen.
There it is again.
Those bloody mice, you say, though you’ve seen no evidence of any.
It’s nothing, you decide, nothing. House noises.
You head back to the bedroom, turn off the lights.
Someone taps you on the shoulder.

John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.