On the shortest day I take the longest run between one jetty and the next and back again in the shortest time, rest myself against the rump of a dune while the waves whisper sea shanties. “O what shall we do with the drunken sailor?” A mermaid rises near the shore shaking her wild, wild hair in the sun-drenched breeze until spotting me she coyly slips beneath the water. The jetty wades a little deeper into the sea to catch a glimpse. On the shortest day I tell the tallest of tales.
–––––––––– “I was dissastisfied with this as a mere fantasy piece but when I added the flash fiction ending, it energized the piece for me.” – the writer
Everyone hunts for perfect gems. While I reflect on perfectly flawed stones. Precious ones. Handsomely jaded Jaspers. Once mine. Somehow lost along life’s journey. Priceless jewels from the sands of my past.
Taken for Granite
I might not have glitter, but I do have a mine of sparkling memories. My dreams may never manifest, but I relish my rocky reality. Maybe the key to finding happiness was valuing all the diamonds I took for granite.
–––––––––– Angela Moore “loves writing because it’s a powerful way to convey emotion.”
“Storm heaven on his behalf,” she cried. “How?” I whispered. “Just do it,” she screamed. Never one for storming in anything larger than a teacup, I tried. Lord how I tried. I pictured myself raging at black clouds, lightning bolts flying from my fingertips. I pictured myself hurtling through grey clouds, tornadoes whirling from my flapping arms. I even pictured myself snorting as I rampaged across fields of pure-white clouds. However, no matter what I tried, no pearly gates materialized. “I’m sorry,” I croaked, kneeling. “I can’t get there.” “I know,” she sobbed, shoving away my outstretched hand. “He’s dead.”
–––––––––– “Writing helps shed light on those shadows that lurk in my mind.” – the writer
I didn’t know you were dying until I saw what your grown daughter posted on Facebook under your name. For a moment, I wondered if I should “Like” the post as a way to convey sympathy. Probably not, right? It was the sort of dilemma that once would have had you shaking your head in amused despair at me. Your daughter says that now you mostly just sleep. Where I am, some 1,900 miles from you, the sun is going down in a profusion of toxic colors, like a ship full of chemicals burning at the edge of the world.
In the viscous moments before the crash, I realise what a fool I’ve been not to believe in God, or the comfort of an afterlife.
A reel of future memories spools before my eyes: ironing on Sundays, school runs in the rain, uncelebrated anniversaries.
But that was the life I chose and now I must lie in it, even if I struggle to breathe through each passing day. As the two cars collide, I make a promise to myself: if I live, I will believe there is a better life to come, and that will sustain me through this one.
–––––––––– Laura Besley writes to stop life falling down around her and to ignore the housework.
At your funeral I told everyone about our sessions at Quinn’s. Hours spent dissecting our favourite albums, rambling about politics, puzzling over our crushes. They laughed, remembering your mad theories and your strong views about Metallica and your great soft heart.
Somewhere in that river of words I wish I had told you, just once, what being your friend meant to me. I wish I could say it now. Say something at least. It’s too dark to see your face but I know it’s you.
I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so afraid.
–––––––––– Sarah Jackson writes gently unsettling supernatural fiction which is usually also about feelings, because sometimes ghosts and monsters are easier to face.
At the nature park, I decide to teach my four-year old a lesson in empathy. Animals have feelings too, I remind him. Don’t pull the cow’s tail. Don’t throw pebbles at the monkeys. Don’t stomp on the centipedes.
At night, back home, I pull out the electric racquet and do my daily dance of death. Mosquitoes collide and combust, making sharp buzzing sounds. In dying, they light up the dark. My son giggles at first, then frowns. “Why are you killing them, Papa?” he asks. “Do mosquitoes not have feelings?”
Time now to teach him a lesson in survival.
–––––––––– “I write to make sense of the world, and to find my place in it.” – the writer