With family gathered, she recounted her most colorful memory threads, using them to painstakingly stitch the assorted swatches of the very fabric of her life into the precious heirloom. She bled with each prick of her conscience. Sweat beaded on her forehead, tears streamed down her cheeks. All loose ends tied up, she smiled, deeming pearls of wisdom not trampled by pigs worthy of passing on to future generations. She’d done her best and had poured her heart into her life’s project. With its final beat, having given her all, she whispered, “It is finished.”
–––––––––– “God told me to write, so I do — plus, the written word is my preferred method of communication.” – the writer
Pushing pins into vintage fabric you remember before, and hear her laughter echo down the stairs. You sew a tiny dress of floral cotton, pink peonies and yellow daisies. A request, “Please Mummy Delilah needs something pretty for my party.” So you thread a needle and stitch, Misty-eyed at memories of mud pies and makeup. You lift the finished piece and hope they’ll love it. “Ellie honey,” you call, “I have Delilah’s dress.” You follow the giggles upstairs and open the door to a room, where dust motes float, refusing to settle on an empty bed, still waiting for her.
–––––––––– “I write to entertain and to see the thoughts running through my head take shape on paper. I love the thought of others reading my words, interpreting them differently, reading a myriad of meanings into the letters I’ve placed on the page.” – the poet
On the small Isle of Rousay in the Orkneys, there lies a great chambered tomb. Five-thousand and four-hundred years ago, the farmers and the fisherfolk of the island laboured over many years building the tomb, the better to house and honour their dead. It sits in a field corner, alongside the farmer’s pile of black plastic sacks, storing the cut grass that will become the silage for the animals’ winter feed. That black plastic might seem unsightly, but it is surely also a reminder that human kind are still working this field after more than five-thousand years.
–––––––––– Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland where he first discovered the exhilarations of short fiction.
Young, spry, happy, A miracle of life is born. Unbeknownst to the harshness of the world, Ignorant to the cruel and vicious.
Rebellious, immature, stressed, Welcome to the precursor of adulthood. Troubled by their looks, Fixated on the materialistic, instead of idyllic.
Tired, worn, drained, The corporate rat race is on. Tormented by the thought of dismissal, Enticed by the green paper.
Aged, seasoned, wise. Congrats, the chase is over and you’re a veteran at life. Cared for and loved by the next generation, Unaware that the hunter has become the hunted.
Things have changed, haven’t they?
–––––––––– “I write as a way to de-stress from all the chaos and melancholy of life. As a student with a love for the arts, writing is one of the few things that still brings a smile to my face.” – the writer
The girls and I have a system They are the beauty I am the brawn But we are all the brains We don’t go against anything or anyone who gets hurt And we don’t do it to anyone who doesn’t deserve it We aren’t vigilantes We aren’t modern-day Robin Hoods Because we don’t kill And we don’t share our wealth But we do take their money And we do hurt them in the place that has the most impact Their wallets We match We chat They book the hotel I show up We collect And we eat the rich Together
––––––––––– Jeff Hill writes stories and helps others write their stories.
Both walked with a rocking gait born of carrying too much weight and illness. As they washed and hung a wardrobe of generous and forgiving polyester clothes and flowery bed linens, we chatted. They told me about their approaching anniversary. Fifty-two years. They made light about cost of living, fixed incomes, and fear of falling. The dryers weren’t hot enough. We commiserated over how many quarters we’d wasted. I knew I’d be hanging my towels in the living room overnight to get them dry. As the couple slowly loaded their car, I drove away, alone and green with envy.
–––––––––– “I watch the world. Then I write.” – the writer
Shattered dreams at our feet, like confetti on our wedding day. We sign divorce papers on each other’s backs. The pen scratches your signature into my skin and I remember our younger selves, lying naked and happy, the feel of your finger tracing your initials the same way. Memories do that don’t they? They edit out the arguments and silences and forced confessions. Carefully curated scenes of idyllic bliss are all that remain – two dimensional caricatures of a flattened reality like sepia photographs of travel adventures.
You post a selfie titled “New beginnings.” I unfollow you. Same old endings.
–––––––––– Asha Rajan is a South Indian-Australian writer who writes “to make space in her head for new worlds and new words.”