The Day Before Tomorrow


By Jim Bates

Bright sun reflecting off snow covered pines.
Ice crystals twinkling in merry abandon.
Hills drift into a hazy distance.
They walk hand and hand,
Touching the day with their smiles.
Hours slip by unnoticed.
Afternoon fades into dreamy twilight.
Day ends and night creeps over the cold land.
They warm themselves snug by the fireplace,
Deep into the night.
Then, a sleepy gentle caress and a sad smile,
A sweet kiss good night,
Until at last tomorrow,
When he takes her for her operation,
And leaves her all alone,
And then can doing nothing,
But sit and remember,
And wait.

“I hope my stories reflect how people cope with life’s challenges.” – the writer



By John Young

“I am interested in people’s hobbies,” said the elderly lady to the man seated beside her on the plane.

“I collect,” he volunteered.

Good, she thought. A long flight lay ahead. Her book lay on her lap. She much preferred talking to reading. “Really! Can I ask what you collect?”

“I collect ‘boredoms,’” he replied. “I write them down.”

“Boredoms! What on earth are boredoms?”

“Things, events, that bore people, such as people speaking like this.” He spoke the last words very slowly, in a soft, high-pitched, very flat, nasal voice.

“How interesting,” the woman said, lifting her book.

“I like the boundary areas between ‘normal’ and odd experience . I write to express what ‘bubbles up’ from … well I don’t know where.” – the writer

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

Creating an Angel


By Pennygadd51

In her day, giggles had been famous. Now she was ‘merely’ a legend. Midnight had passed. She packed her tools. Paint – gold, white, amber, olive, black and her trademark Cayman blue. Propellant. Stencils.

Carefully, listening, feeling, she clambered onto the railway. Forty minutes before the train. Using each stencil in turn, she unerringly sprayed color beside color. The tang of solvent stung her nostrils. She imagined the radiant angel taking shape, though her age-blinded eyes couldn’t see it.

She added her tag. The rails hissed. There was a rumble. Timing it to perfection, giggles stepped in front of the train.

“Human beings fascinate me. I write to try to catch the essence of experiences.” – the writer