Link below to read my new flash fiction story today on Flash Fiction Magazine online.
(A few summers ago I wrote one short-short story a day for a month for newsworks.org, the online news source for WHYY in Philadelphia. Here are four of them…)
Sunday afternoons are the worst, when all those imagined families draw closer in their orbits on solid maple chairs over roast beef served on the good china. On your bulletin board; a faded yellow boutonniere from a dance. I remember the girl, heartbreaking in her youthful beauty. Do you?
A brief kiss by two lovers on the street, given hurriedly. Even the moonlight doesn’t make them linger. Times like this I feel loss the most, when I see others so careless with love. When I see the moon tonight, knowing tomorrow it will be less.
How will I live knowing that darks will be washed with whites, and eggs will sit past their expiration date because no one is making cookies. It’s these things I think of, not loss of love. Maybe I could write it all down for him before I leave.
4.“And there was my husband, standing under the very tree called the widow-maker when the thirty-pound pod dropped squarely on his head, killing him instantly.” The story was tragic, however, in Mavis’s re-telling became slightly tinged with a wry humor.
(Published today in the online literary journal Cease, Cows. Read below or follow link.)
She had been waiting nearly a year for her pass to the Repository, or the Repo as most people called it. The line was long, as all lines were now, but it was moving. Her senses yearned toward the building itself, as it housed so much that she had almost forgotten. People her daughter’s age had lost nearly all of those memories because they had been so young when these things had disappeared.
The disappearance had been gradual. In the day-to-day, one thing slipped away, then another, but it was never enough at one time to cause true alarm. It was more of an erosion, grain-by-grain of something solid that had always been there. One day you noticed something was half-gone, then it was not there. Continue reading
(Today: A short-short story… One of my favorite things to write.)
“I don’t want to be a burden,” she says.
But when I consider burdens, it’s not this.
A burden would be empty hands with no sweater to button straight. Or not hearing that still-sweet warble crooning to the birds at the feeder when she thinks no one is listening.