Louella Lester is a writer & amateur photographer in Winnipeg, Canada. Her Flash-CNF book, Glass Bricks (At Bay Press) is just out. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Daily Drunk, Dribble Drabble, The Odd Magazine, Shorts, Grey Sparrow, Six Sentences, New Flash Fiction, Spelk, and a variety of other journals & anthologies. Louella’s blog, Through Camera & Pen, can be found here and she posts photos daily on Instagram (@louellalester).
I barred the windows and the doors
Yet, so, I feel exposed by the roof –
As though the east wind stirs
& sings like a hummingbird to
The house and makes it move.
It rains outside & the dotted sands,
Like poets, interchange syllables
& rhythms with the skies –
Slights of waves & gestures.
The air smells of period clouds;
Pieces of raindrops turn the street
Into an earthly river and the streetlights
Dance to the rainy screams.
Najeeb Yusuf Ubandiya is a young poet from Nigeria. He is a loner who writes to find out what he thinks and feels – about himself and the world around him – and to keep his purpose awake and breathing. His work has appeared in Ngiga Review, Blue Marble Review, Riveting Rants and is forthcoming in other literary magazines. You can find him tweeting (@najeeb___X).
You arrive home from work one Friday afternoon to discover a surprise party has been thrown in your honour. Dozens of people emerge from the living room into the hallway, holding signs, laughing, greeting you. A woman plays an accordion. It’s the wrong time of year for your birthday, so the party really is a surprise.
As the initial shock subsides, you realise the guests are all people from your past that you’ve lost touch with. Your best friends from primary and secondary school. An English teacher you were fond of. Flatmates from university. The man who owned the pub where you worked. The professor who mentored you. Various colleagues from various jobs. Every woman you dated before your ex-wife.
As they come to chat to you, you struggle to remember names. Everyone has aged. You wonder who arranged this and how they got in touch with all these people when you don’t even have their contact details. But you don’t have time to think about that because people are bringing platters of food from the kitchen, opening bottles of beer, offering you glasses of prosecco.
You might have expected resentment, anger. After all, it was you who dropped many of these people. You who didn’t return a call, didn’t respond to an email, didn’t get in touch when you visited your home town. There were neglected wedding invitations, unattended birthday parties, missed school reunions. But everyone is pleased to see you. They apologise for not being in touch, as if it’s their fault. They sing your praises to other guests, trade anecdotes casting you in a positive light. People embrace you, slap you on the back. Old girlfriends flirt with you.
It’s a great party, but then everyone starts leaving at once, as if they’d pre-arranged an end time. There are more hugs, jokes and stories as people make their farewells. Everyone wants to give you their contact details. Your thumbs get tired from tapping email addresses and telephone numbers into your phone.
The crowd thins out until there are just a handful of people left, then two, then one. Eventually you have said your last goodbye, hugged the last friend. You close the front door, open a final beer, sit down on the sofa and take stock. So many memories, so many emotions. So much affection and, yes, even love.
You take out your phone and scroll through your contact list, which has doubled in size. Then you go through the list again and delete each new entry.
Daniel Addercouth is a Scottish writer and translator based in Berlin. This is his first published story. Follow him on Twitter (@ruralunease).
caramel trees stutter on the Japanese proverbs:
swaying in the broken English sunshine before the
massacre of the third season.
A sign hidden in the moss
“Do not climb”
Abbie is a new poet from England who spends her time dreaming of words in the day and bringing them to life in the evening.
cloudassassins is a Scottish photographer focused mostly on nature and landscape photography in black and white or colour. Find out more on Twitter (@cloudassassins).
When I was a boy
and I saw that man
beating his dog
right on his front steps
under the sun
and its vivid light
I was that dog
when I saw it
and I was that man
the moment
I looked away.
John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals in the last dozen years. See his website for links to his published poetry online.
The saddened stalks of cornfields
mid-October
before the burn off
hold tight their death-row reveries.
Think of the universe, says the professor,
as a bad Tupperware container:
all that mess,
but no leaks.
The Tin Man’s arm is in need of oil.
Dorothy isn’t in the mood today.
This buffalo only has three legs,
and would make a good obverse,
sitting in a pocket,
waiting for war.
David Harrison Horton is a Beijing-based artist, curator, editor, and writer.
labhrann strainséir liom
bloghanna dá chuid dánta
(focal nó líne)
ní bheadsa im’ bhean chabhrach
cad a theastaíonn uaidh a rá
strangers speak to me
pathetic fragments of poems
(the first word or line)
i’m no midwife for their poems
what is it they wish to say
Gabriel Rosenstock is a bilingual poet, tankaist, haikuist, playwright, novelist, essayist, translator and short story writer. His sixth bilingual volume of tanka is Secret of Secrets. See more on his website.
Photo: Wikimedia
two oak trees
scheduled for removal
first man
then the trees
and somehow
we are still around
but scheduled nonetheless
Lillian Ramirez is first an admirer of language and secondly an educator.
One more week and I reckon I’ve cracked it. One more week of digging. Of early mornings and late nights. Of nursing blisters and hiding muddy clothes from Mum.
One more week until I can show Dad. Until I can unveil to him the answer to our prayers. I rest on my spade, close my eyes and imagine it. Me walking into his Amusement Arcade, past the flashing lights and kiddie rides.
Telling him I’ve found the way to keep them here. To keep the good times going through the winter too.
Telling him about our very own tourist trap.
Rachel Canwell is a teacher, blogger and writer, slowly putting her head, story by story, above the parapet. She is falling in love with flash fiction a little bit more every day!
Briefly Write 