Vinney watched her casket lower and, with it, felt his grief descend.

Nobody had asked for an autopsy.

Lola waited, then off they went.

The pastor tended the rectory gardens, each petal rising up to heaven.

Parishioners marvelled at the vibrant colours.

Only the pastor knew they grew on whispered confessions.

Their wives are fishers of men, much to the brothers’ eternal regret.

Bragging about the one that got away.

Complaining about the one they kept.

We met, hugged, and kissed without a word passing between us.

The silence was comforting as we drank in the quiet.

Heading home, my real date phoned—“Sorry, still stuck in traffic.”

The pigs of their world are comfortable, living as guests in the farmhouse bunk.

But the farmer’s not sleeping on the bed in their pen.

Progress, he says, is the path of least muck.

Bringing a beam to slice through the fog, the lighthouse keeper lit the lantern each night.

Ships passed safely, guided by this silent vigil.

Yet, no one knew that the keeper was blind.

“With what we’ve been through, how could you not trust me?” she penned.

Chastised remorse should be enough.

Sealing the letters, she sent both of them.

The red dress hung in a thrift shop, a relic of nights filled with laughter and dance.

She tried it on, glancing back in the mirror.

Not knowing it once belonged to her grandmother’s secret romance.

Phoning me every night to say goodbye is less of a burden than you might think.

I feign sleep, so you might feel satisfied in repeatedly dumping me.

How else can I make up for leaving you at the alter of our bungee ceremony when yours wasn’t tied?

The painter stared at the stretched canvas, feelings begging to be captured there.

With a dip of the brush, the colours fled.

The portrait reflected the painter’s despair.

I screamed into the dark of night: I know somebody can hear me.

I screamed again, this time louder.

Nobody replied to disagree.

Looking into the mirror, I see the image isn’t me reversed.

It’s my echo, somehow visible.

And it’s desperate to emerge.

Eugene begged to go with the big boys that it might end the vicious rumours.

But his trip took a turn for the worse.

They loaded up and handed him a pair of antlers.

What would they say if they knew I cast shadows on the wall, telling stories with my hands?

The figures dance, and I listen to the words.

In them, I find someone who understands.

We swayed on the sandy shore, your green dress shimmering like the sea.

But the music receded with the tide.

And I realized I danced with a memory.

Trapped in the elevator, we clung to each other as the car bounced and lights flickered out.

In the darkness, your breathing was my tether.

I heard you whisper: “There’s something we need to talk about.”

The pitter-patter of rain tells me to find meaning in my situation.

I’m the phantom of my old house and have a guest who cannot sense my presence.

Therefore, I must befriend the weather to have a conversation.

In the attic, I found your porcelain doll—a fond remnant of our youth long past.

But when I lifted it, a voice spoke softly.

“Thanks for freeing me from her grasp.”

In the glow of screens, we shared our lives, each post a curated glimpse of truth.

Privacy faded with every click.

In the dark we lurked, yet our digital shadows grew.

The backyard swing creaks as if it has something to say.

Empty, it looks lonely.

Perhaps it is begging to sway.

I stumbled upon an unmarked grave in the overgrown cemetery, the earth freshly turned.

I gently brushed away the years of dirt.

“One Star,” it read, “Hardly Worth the Return.”

In the digital afterlife, we uploaded our minds, seeking eternal existence in code.

But glitches turned memories into fragments.

Now, we haunt the servers, searching for our lost souls.

We drift effortlessly among the clouds, observing ground dwellers flat with gravity.

We are each adapted to our environments.

To us, they are sliding rocks; to them, we are bubbles in a breeze.

Plugged into the neural network, we shared a collective consciousness.

One rogue idea spread like a virus.

Now, we are bound to a recurring dream that we are free.

Everyone on Earth lost their hair from fallout on the edge of doom.

Then, a man found a single strand.

It was floating atop his mushroom soup.

In panic, I stuck my head into the micro wormhole looking for Max, chasing the light.

My pup appeared in an antipode paddy.

Safe in the arms of a child harvesting rice.

When the lights return, the man in the trench coat is gone, leaving a sketchbook of passengers on the train.

“They never made it,” reads the caption under each.

I notice my name on the list as the conductor announces an unscheduled stop.

Analyzing every word and pause, the AI therapist listened patiently.

“Your feelings are valid,” it said, “but I must report this.”

Its empathy was an algorithm, but the betrayal felt real.

After the oceans took over, we took to the skyscrapers and lived as squirrels among the trees.

From there, civilization settled on the mountains, and nature offered peace.

When we built the highest-ever tower, the sky agreed with the seas.

Death is consciousness on a server, where I attend my funeral via hologram.

When the power flickered, I feared being stuck here.

Forever in the bardo and ever alone.

She threw the pizza into the backyard, still warm from delivery to her door.

Once more, it arrived by the wrong guy.

This was just food—not the man she adored.

The grocery store’s clearance bin overflowed with items past their prime.

One time, sifting through, I found a love letter.

The relationship expired: proposal declined.

Your move to another city might as well be Mars.

Farther apart than the same street makes us words on a screen, sounds in a phone.

There, you live in my mind, not down the road.

I played our song on the old guitar, one of the few luxuries still with me.

The music spoke, but the silence between us remained.

Listening from the other cell, one day you’ll forgive me.

My best friend’s cousin was nice enough—not a spark, but made better with wine.

Right after him, Mr Right walked in.

He comes here for the free Wi-Fi.

She listened to the voicemail, heart pounding, his voice a haunting echo of their last fight.

As she replayed it, the words were twisted.

No apology offered—he was saying goodbye.

I penned a letter, words flowing with wine, each line a promise of everlasting affection.

But when I delivered it, you handed it back.

Pointing to your name, you said “Spelling correction.’’

The sunset painting our moment in gold, I took to a knee with the ring in my hand.

As you said, “Yes!” the precious band slipped.

The poor thing drowned in the fountain.

Blindsided when my partner left me, I’m scrolling through my advice columns.

The answer must be in there somewhere.

Doing as I said solved many readers’ problems.

The last slice was stabbed with a slender candle, its frosting glistening like a childhood promise.

But as I reached for it, the room fell silent.

It was the only piece left of your final wish.

The journalist, determined to expose the magician as a fraud, volunteered.

Stuffed into a box onstage, the journalist disappeared.

The performer’s true talent lies in knowing where to bury the evidence.

My boy’s sick and needs special medicine—I was going to pay it back, it’s true.

“When done rehearsing,” the intercom came on.

“Security would like to speak with you.”

The bartender served drinks with a smile, listening as customers sipped.

One drunken patron told of an insidious plot.

The bar tab was paid—the tender’s silence bought with a tip.

The detective peered at the mantle clock, stopped at the most significant moment.

“What can you tell me, keeper of when?”

The hands were still; the face remained silent.

With a presumptive stride of acquittal, her lawyer approached the witness stand.

“Ms Smith, please try to tell this court.

In my own words, what happened.”

Gathered for the family portrait, their faces in rictus like a perfect façade.

The camera clicked, the truth emerged.

The victims know, but cannot respond.

The artist and the athlete paired for a project to benefit community service.

One brought confidence; the other, creativity.

Talents they used when the ankle bracelets came off.

Playground bullies hunt in packs, so the Davids of today need a strategy for hive Goliaths.

Show confidence and calm—but do what you need to survive.

“Better to be tried by twelve than carried by six,” my uncle says.

The last train rattled through the fog, its whistle a banshee shrill in the night.

Passengers whispered secrets to fellow shadows.

None were aware that none were alive.

I watched behind the glass as you confessed to crimes you did not physically commit.

Your cronies did your bidding.

But that, my friend, doesn’t make you innocent.

The park backs onto outcrop cliffs that overlook the salty Inlet.

There we met, my first date and I, to hide in privacy.

The gulls soon surmised that the bare skin of puberty offers no scraps.

In a world where colours represent emotions, I live in a town painted with shades of grey.

I’d say the source of our pallor is the cemetery.

That or the seminary, where extremes of feelings average and fade.

It didn’t seem so then, but graduation was like the launch of Voyager, multiplied by youthful faces.

The further out we went, the further apart our lives diverged.

Our 50-year reunion seemed like strangers from another galaxy wearing photos of those lost in space.

When my cousin phoned to relay news of her mother, I heard the same voice that once explained how hiccups occur.

I listened to details of the service, but I heard words that carried youth in their cadence.

I’m sorry for your loss, but also for the years we missed being out of touch.

The old man clutched his suitcase tighter as the train approached its final station.

The platform was empty—no one awaited his arrival.

He had travelled far but not far enough for redemption.

It was great seeing you at the reunion and talking about old times.

Where might we be today had we stayed together?

We’d not be here—not where the years have built invisible walls.

In the heart of a town forgotten in time, the hands of the old clock tower are fixed at four fourty-two.

The aging population curses it for stealing their moments.

The clock is broken, but so is our willingness to embrace that this is no place for youth.

The flash flood, flat tire, and wrong turn were our road trip highlights.

They led us to peace, solving them together.

I don’t remember where we went that year, but I’m sure about when we arrived.

On that last night, we promised ever after to find the North Star and make a wish for one another.

A star is too far to hear our plea.

Yet years of wishing you well changed how I feel, and that changed me.

We laid planks over the garage rafters, stashing comic books and root beer.

No pirate ship ever sailed the seas of imagination like we did that summer.

Years later, the magic returns whenever I plane old planks, building rafters.

I’ll go for eggs, milk, and bread—a simple list to keep my diet clean.

The aisles offer sweet temptations.

So, buying regret has become routine.

I lost my cat and sought a psychic, hoping for a resolution.

She’s alive and thriving in a dumpster, the seer said.

Because, unlike the mice, scraps don’t run.

As night fell on the festival, families released lanterns to the sky.

Each rose with a loved one’s final wish.

Crashing to earth, mine was denied.

In a dusty drawer, I found the letter, its ink faded but words still clear.

It spoke of love and promises unkept.

Addressed to me but signed by a stranger.

Fetching kindling, he lit the fire, then dropped into a chair from which he’d never rise.

Satisfied with leaving her safe and warm, Grandpa exhaled his last.

The well-worn glass slipped out of her hands and out of her life.

Two centuries hence, they look back, horrified by our meals.

We denied the rights of those who speak in silent waves.

We recognized our genetic kin—but ate them anyway.

I put my keys on the counter, but now my memory’s in doubt.

A soft snore drew my gaze.

There they were, with my dog, as if to say, “Don’t go out!”

I signed up for the gym, firmly resolved to transform my life.

I stumbled on the treadmill.

You said we all do—all fall, most rise.

I pride myself on style and select outfits with meticulous intent.

Today, mismatched socks—stripes and polka dots.

A colleague asked if my footwear was having an argument.

Once, the old violin sang lullabies to the moon.

Now it waits in the attic, strings broken, wood worn by time.

It waits for hands that remember its tune.

• Ascent: guided narratives
• Blind Guide: artifact fiction
• Blink: everyday epiphanies
• Clearly: critical thinking
• End Again: speculative fiction
• Grey Side of Town: crime drama
• Hurry Slowly: fables
• Joyology: parables for our times
• Ordinary Alchemy: short stories
• Pale Blue Lives: fables, parables, tales, verse
• Rhymes for Modern Minds
• Tiny Lives: 3¢tense stories
• Us Unraveled: romance drama
• What’s There: ballads and tales
• Wonderment: science in stories
• You, the Jury: decision-making