A thought-provoking tale about ignorance versus insight and the often underestimated emotional maturity of a child.
Dying quick deaths, bugs splatter on the windshield leaving blotches and streaks. His face stuck out of the back window, long ears dancing about his head, tongue extended lapping in the scents of summer decay, Lucky wags his tail, a satisfied partner to the viewing of the open countryside being passed at seventy miles per hour.
My mother taught me to knit.
Back then, knitting was a necessity, not some artisan craft like it is today. She would get patterns from Women’s magazines and cheap wool from the market. She knitted my clothes – sweaters, cardigans, even skirts. I was the eldest. As soon as I could hold a pair of needles, I was knitting booties for my baby brother and sister.
Emma knew there were 11 children in the cemetery. She had counted. She needed to know she wasn’t alone in her suffering. Sometimes she wondered what their stories were, how their families were coping. She never saw anyone at their graves. Did nobody love them anymore? Were they lonely? Occasionally a toy would appear, leaning against a headstone, but she seemed to be the only parent who visited her child regularly. Would she ever stop coming?
A short and sweet story about the meaningful things we allow our children to steal from us.
Someone once told her that if dreams and wishes were dollars and cents, she’d be a very wealthy woman by now. Their words were intended as a reprimand, but she embraced the sentiment…
She stared fixedly at the beige jacquard wallpaper that clothed the far wall of her room. The subtlest of smile’s tugged at the faintly wrinkled corners of her mouth as she observed the sunlight dancing with the shadows of the tree branches in an exuberant waltz.
An inviting micro tale, full of warmth and nostalgia about a forgotten baby oak.
Outside, here in the garden, the fresh air has blown away the cobwebs and the sunshine has fused her neural wiring. Pulling up the roots, teasing apart the strangled knots, picking up the windfalls and turning over and over the soil that clouds the water. I stand there, at the top of the path, watching. She hasn’t seen me yet. I don’t want to jinx this moment where, in this one place, her world makes sense. She’s tiny now, with the tenacity and strength of a little sparrow.
An intense piece of Flash Fiction about a Mothers life altering choice.
SOS! What do you do with a large—a very large—bagful of wild apples, hard and green and sized like golf balls? Google doesn’t have a page for this.
Refusing the apples is not an option. Ten-year-old squidgelet took a shopping…..
Hurry, hurry. Must hurry up. In and out. Grab the plastic cups, paper napkins, no sidetracks, no impulse shopping, pray I don’t run into anyone I know…oh dear, there’s Amy from playgroup in the produce section. Turn around, quick. No time for chatting, must be back before the first kid arrives. Party supplies, party supplies…oh…
We’d like to thank Geraldine Nicole from Minnesota, USA for her Flash Fiction submission ‘Christmas Atonement’. A dramatic micro tale about a tragedy that inspires a generous new holiday tradition. Keep the stories coming guys, we are feeling blessed by your contributions! Read the story below or click here to go to the story page!…