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Eye of the Storm
By: Rob Eggers
Tags: Flash Fiction, The Bad Influence, 50 Words, Storms, Meditation

I have come to learn that there is nothing wrong with my brain, that this incessant thought generating machine is operating as per design. I have just been trying to use it wrong. I should have read the manual… oh right there isn’t one!

As far as I can tell you are not supposed to stand in the centre and try and grab all the thoughts as they whip by. Rather stand to one side and just watch the raging storm. Picking and choosing the thoughts you engage with carefully. Never ignoring the thoughts but also not letting them distract you from your focus.

Regular meditation has been the key for me to be able to step out of the storm and try to observe my thoughts without engaging or judging them. If you feel like you are trapped in the centre of your own thought storm, then I would recommend starting meditation via one of the many apps like Headspace.

This video does a pretty good job of describing meditation.

Thank you to Jonica Bradley for this week’s prompt.

I hope you enjoyed this piece. Feel free to check out my profile Rob Eggers and leave some feedback.
Part 4 Of The Clyde, The Forgotten Reindeer Trilogy
By: Parzival Sattva
Tags: Flash Fiction, Microfiction, Reindeer, Clyde, 100wordstory

Prompts = Timezone, Support, Island

‘Clyde?’

‘Mrs. Claus?’

‘My husband and the reindeer aren’t getting any younger. We set up rest areas ages ago but he’s so far refused to use them.’

‘What rest areas?’

‘They’re in odd timezones, like Newfoundland; eleven of them worldwide. You and I will carry liniment and aspirin in the spare sleigh.’

‘Support team, huh? Well, I’m your reindeer! Rudolph is Hollywood flash but I work for a living.’

*****

‘Ho ho ho, Chatham Islands down below. Fifteen minute rest stop.’

As nine reindeer start the descent, a voice booms from the darkness:

‘Joy to you all, ’cause Clyde is here!’
At the Window by Martin Bell
By: Backhand Stories
Tags: Fragments, Flash Fiction, Creative Writing

The lights caught her first. They made the window glow with elfin colors, warming the foggy glass, spreading soft light out into the cold street, pulling her in, grabbing her attention, widening her eyes. She pulled her face up against the wet glass, her weight pushing down through her straight arms on to the sill as she balanced on the tip of her toes, resting on the edge of her heavy shoes’ rubber soles. The cold and the snow and the ice seemed to disappear as she peered inside.

The lights were stars in a display of old toys, wispy glints in the sky above a circus parade getting ready to board a huge rust-dented steam ship. Elephants lead the way, their cardboard tusks carving forward as their paper trunks wiggled in the air, proclaiming their exotic music. Next came monkeys, twelve in a row, with long arms past their feet and small red fezzes perched between their big ears; and then there was the ringmaster, round as a pumpkin, and just as bright. More people were dancing behind, acrobats twirling forward hand to ankle and ankle to hand, lion tamers stroking their mustaches and cracking their whips as their dark and furry lions licked their chops.



Behind the lions were tigers, and a small girl in a blue costume balancing on a ball, and a man with no hair throwing balls in the air, and all around were clowns falling and bending, racing and sitting. There were rotund men pulling on ropes, and a horse refusing to be pulled out of its box, and a gorilla, and a giraffe. There were kids watching from the top of cargo boxes, and people in suits and hats climbing down from a Greyhound bus as the porter pulled out their bags.

She saw it all, from end to end, from front to back, from elephant to monkey, from monkey to tiger, from tiger to greyhound. At each new piece she took a short breath and smiled, and she glowed brighter than the stars, and she rubbed away her breath from the glass. Then it was time to go. She took one last glance at the lights, let her weight fall back to her feet, and caught up with her mother at the street corner.
Christmas Flash Fiction: My Name Is Scrooge
By: Cat Rambo
Tags: Short Story Writing, Christmas Story, Flash Fiction, Christmas, Scrooge

I haven’t written that many Christmas stories, but I adore Dickens. Here’s my riff on the idea of Christmas ghosts, which was originally published for my Patreon supporters.

(And hey, if you’re interested in writing flash fiction, my on-demand class on it from the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers is $5 through Jan 1, 2021 when you use this link.)
A Sombre Christmas
By: Lexus Ndiwe
Tags: Flash Fiction, Microfiction, Heartbreak, Christmas, Cheating

A Sombre Christmas

Photo Credit: cottonbro for Pexels.

She tucks away the hipflask. Wiping away the residue from her mouth, she takes a deep breath before re-entering the house. The flashing reindeers’ smiles from across the road, taunt her from behind.

Back inside, she tries her best to hide her bloodshot eyes underneath snowflake-shaped glasses.

“Dinner’s ready!” her husband shouts with his mouth half full with stuffing.

Their three children rush towards the table, discarding unwrapped toys to the floor, as they dive for the food.

She prepares the gravy. The turkey’s skin glistens in its honey-glazed splendour.

As she carves the turkey, she thinks of the other woman.
A Bunch of Christmas Stories
By: A Rustic Mind, Manali Desai
Tags: Flash Fiction, Festive Season, Christmas, Short Story, Microtale

A. The Secret Santa

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”

Photo by LuAnn Hunt on Unsplash

The Santa poser guffawed loudly as he handed over his gift to the receiver of the day. Today’s receiver was Akansha, and as the Santa handed over a rather tiny package to her, she was immediately surrounded by at least 5–6 people. She quickly began to open the gift. Before Akansha herself could react, her close friend, Simran squealed excitedly and declared, “Oh wow! That is so thoughtful. Surely your Secret Santa has a crush on you to know you so well!”

It was a handmade coupons booklet of all leading cosmetic brands, right from L’Oreal to Lakme. One could easily make out how happy Akansha was on receiving such a personalized gift. Right away, speculation began on who the Secret Santa could be. Simran once again was the loudest as she firmly decided, “It has to be Rohit! He has been quite the lover boy to Akansha. He got her that customized cake on her birthday too, remember?” All the girls standing around Akansha’s desk nodded at this and, with giggly smiles, looked coyly at Rohit, who visibly blushed and ignored this jibe.

Within a few minutes, the excitement of the gift of the day settled and everyone returned to their desks. As a prelude to Christmas, the entire week leading up to the festival had been declared as a Secret Santa celebration.

Yesterday, all the employees from the team of 50 of Zen Technologies Mumbai had been anointed as a Secret Santa to one employee. Each person was to send over a gift anonymously to his receiver on any one day of the following week starting from today. The office had been abuzz with discussions and gossips ever since this activity had been declared. The most interesting part of the game was that if someone revealed who their receiver was, both the Santa and the receiver would be disqualified from the game.

Photo by Mel Poole on Unsplash

This had added much more suspense, thrill, and of course conjecture about who received gifts from whom throughout the entire activity. During lunch that day, Simran once again cornered Rohit and asked him directly, “So, how did you know Akansha’s favorite brands? That was quite the romantic gesture, I must say! She can’t stop gushing over her gift.” Rohit looked uncomfortable as he said, “Listen, Simran. It wasn’t me, okay? And it’s not Akansha I like, it’s you. That cake you spoke about was only because you had mentioned her favourite TV show during lunch on the day before her birthday. It was nothing over the top as you’re making it out to be.”

Simran was taken aback and could only respond with, “No, that can’t be. She really thinks you like her, and now you liking me instead would only make things complicated. Don’t tell her please!” She walked away, leaving a surprised and heartbroken Rohit wondering about complicated female feelings and friendships. From that day on though, an awkwardness crept in between Simran and Akansha where the former avoided getting into long conversations and the latter didn’t know who to turn to about her growing feelings for Rohit.
Immortal Desires
By: Lexus Ndiwe
Tags: Flash Fiction, Ethics, Microfiction, Humanity, Blue Insights

Immortal Desires

Photo Credit: Engin Akyurt for Pexels.

The realisation that she wasn’t pregnant. Someone was just living inside her. The entity? An implanted clone.

“You had multiple organ failures,” the doctor said.

She lies in a hospital bed, longing for an end. Devoid of loved ones and left with unanswered prayers.

Transforming humanity’s future with ethical uncertainty.
These Final Moments
By: Dead Carcosa
Tags: Abstract, Flash Fiction, Short Story, Family, Death

These Final Moments

“You’ve been shot.”

Thanks for the insight, I had sorted that part out, already. I can’t see who said it, only shapes. Everything has been reduced to a twisting mess of flanged sounds and orange-bulbed street lamps spreading webs of carnival light out between the darkness. I am on my back on the road, I can feel the rough pavement against the palm of one hand. I am neither warm nor cold; draining blood and focus out onto the street and down the gutters. I can’t even remember what city I’m in or how I got here. I remember lighting a match and seeing a flash in the shadows. I felt the single bullet hit my chest like a train. My ears still ring from it. I should be panicking but all I feel is lonely and a little bit nostalgic.

On the other end of the country, Cheryl will be watching the sunset and thinking about making dinner. She might be reading in the living room. More likely she’ll be out in the garden, trimming wilted roses off the bushes to make room for a new bloom in the spring. Even from here on the bloody ground I can smell those flowers. I gave them to her as a gift one year, I hope she never saw it as just another chore. I think of all the things I wish I had said and the thought almost breaks through to me, wedging through the vagueness and fog numbing my mind. If only I had this or that, it hurts to think about it.

Mary will be in the nursery or out sitting in the grass watching her mom in the garden. She is barely two and probably won’t notice my absence for too long. She’ll be lucky, in that way. I doubt she’ll have any memory of me as she grows up. The thought makes me a bit depressed, so I focus on that second part. Mary will grow up. A lifetime is a good enough bright side to look on. I think about those scant few memories of the times we spent together. I never really got a chance to be a good or bad father one way or the other. Still, I hope I left some kind of impression. I hope I did something.

There are blue and red lights all around me, I can almost make sense of them.

Miles overhead a trillion pieces of rock and metal debris, random bits of refuse from our solar system and beyond, pull unstoppably towards our planet to be dashed against the surface of our atmosphere and shattered into heat and dust. Deep below my bloody pavement, millions of tons of mindless burning ooze churn through the veins of our planet in a dance that will outlast us all.

A moth beats a rhythm against the streetlight overhead. I can hear it throw its body against the glass like the hand of a tiny clock.
The Empty Road by Jeannie Mobley
By: Backhand Stories
Tags: Flash Fiction, Fiction, Creative Writing

The highway here goes on and on. Even in the twilight I can see a vast emptiness in all directions, with only this thin ribbon of pavement cutting through to assure the traveler he is tethered to earth. In mid-day, the heat rises off these flats with an intensity that makes you think you’re in Hell’s furnace, and at midnight the Milky Way sweeps so close to the road that you think you’re on Heaven’s doorstep. But right now at twilight, there is just emptiness-an uncertain color in the uncertain light-and the highway slicing through on its way to nowhere

I shift down and slip my Jaguar off the pavement, turning down the radio so I can hear the crunch of gravel and the engine, eager for its next command. I shift into neutral and put on the brake, but leave her engine running; I need to hear her rumbling purr when I’m out here alone. There is nothing here to see, but I step out of the car anyway, so I can get a better look. I lean against her and let her warmth slide seductively up my back and down my arms, like the massaging fingers of a lover.



Man, there’s a lot of nothing out here-nothing as far as the eye can see.

I light a cigarette and take a long drag. The tip glows in the dusk, looking like the first spark of matter in the primordial vacuum of the universe. I blow the smoke out slowly, trying to release all my tension with it-to purge all the poison at once.

“Poison.” I savor the word in my mind and suck more of the carcinogens into my lungs. “Poisons,” I correct myself, “one for my body and one for my soul,” and I blow the smoke in a sleek line over the crest of my silver Jag.

I could have been different. I could have had a wife, a house, kids and vacations-I could have chosen wisely in my youth. But here I am instead, taking communion with this desolation, coddling my addictions, feeding my own destruction.

I look up and see the first star bursting through the emptiness above, daring to break the featureless monotony. I could dare to change too, it’s not too late, the poison hasn’t finished me yet.

I could change, I could.

But…

I glance around again at the emptiness, averting my eyes from the offending star, and I draw one last, long drag on my cigarette before I crush it out on the pavement. Back in the car, I shift into gear and accelerate through the emptiness, on down that road to nowhere.
A Retail Man Cave + untitled (Throwback Thursday)
By: Parzival Sattva
Tags: Flash Fiction, Snow White, Microfiction, Man Cave, 100wordstory

Story Old — untitled

Photo by Leópold Kristjánsson on Unsplash

They sat around the fire, reminiscing. Years had passed since that fateful day when they’d found her, lying still on the cold ground. They still couldn’t forgive themselves for having been away while her life had ebbed away.

Happy had been their world with her in it. Singing as they set off daily and whistling while working; now everything was done in the silence of mourning.

Her singing and dancing and open take on life — gone forever. Only her porcelain skin and ever smiling ruby lips were preserved inside the crystal coffin — precious within precious — her final resting place.

Links to other sites where I publish:

Instagram = https://www.instagram.com/one_hundred_words_by_parz

Facebook = https://www.facebook.com/Parzival-Sattva-427507144484255

Blogger = https://onehundredwordsbyparz.blogspot.com

Medium = https://medium.com/100-word-or-less-stories

YouTube = https://www.youtube.com/user/parzivalsattva

And a link to where my Lovely Lady Love (who also operates the camera) posts her art: https://www.youtube.com/user/recyclinggoddess

Join in on the fun of making a story from the same prompts I do! https://www.facebook.com/groups/565109053911712
What Do You Look like to Yourself?
By: Jeremy Divinity
Tags: Life, Flash Fiction, Short Story, Self-awareness, Creative Writing

He walked through the double doors and stood sternly. Both arms laid down to his sides, head postured forward, and eyes gazed straight ahead as if he couldn’t turn his head. Stiff in a sense, but unintimidating.

By his wardrobe, you could pick up a lot about him and his lifestyle. A combination of Lululemon and Banana Republic. A new style of athleisure and comfort, as dawned by his brown UGG house slippers. Although, you can’t blame him for his attire. It’s the middle of winter, and temperatures have dropped.

He also wore a forest green beanie, a trademark of his daily wardrobe — no matter the weather. His green beanie was his crown. But one has to wonder what he was hiding under it? You assume it’s the effects of hair loss.

As he stands in front of the door, the sun starts to gleam through the window panes, beams of morning light reflect off his stature. At this moment, he has no purpose.

In him, I see myself.
Drawn Out Bottle Brushes
By: Caleb Garling
Tags: Featured, Abstract, Flash Fiction, Fiction

There I was sterile as a ping pong ball calling out toys, I never call out toys, but they kept coming into my store waving their lottery tickets, like little brass bands, each one with a big tawdry boom dat der ship had parceled. I would, and did, get real back on my haunches, you know, back like an upper animal and wail out their names, Hey! Har! Oh! and they’d grid like pottery along the wall, those old earthenware jars with the flower-flamey rims excavated from big BC and you wonder if those pre’s ever wandered through our museums whether they’d go, Hey! Har! Oh! they saved our dishes! Then the headphones and notebooks started coming in, though, those types, and that’s when anyone with half a loaf snaps the drapes and whistles himself to sleep. But hey-har-oh I don’t think so.

So I got round the counter as a pleadin’ sarbine set of pages comes flappin’, wavin’ its tall ticket, and you know they don’t have clean tickets, their tickets are all filled with polyfulmanides and sphynx, but I get it in my paws, still back on my haunches mind you, claw, claw, and I says to him, How many you need back!? and the big gluey spine cracks and says, Half, half, har! And fine. Fine. So I reach into the register for his change, the ice cream spilling out of the fridges by now of course, and all the little toys chattering with their big pillbox teeth, and I garbs, Can you at least make room, sir, you can see how them little dolders is getting confused down with the insects you’re boxing ’em out so solid around my counters; and I’ll tell ya I’m not a dime if I ain’t a dozen that lewd reefblaster reared back on his jitterclown hooves and apologized!

You never seen ink bleed like that, as they say, the big bookmarks dripping co’op tears in dirty piles o’ snow and all them little bugger toys start running around in the melt, cleaning their armpits and scrubbing behind their needly ears. Who bathes when the ice cream’s out? But they did. Down right by the drain pipes they were drawing bottle brushes through their pites and gurgling sports drinks like a lord makin’ a point o’ using his wine as a breathfreshner and a backscratcher ‘cept these dandies had figured out my new radio and had that slathery notebook bringing all his firm headphone buddies down to their fours n’ eights to play wit ’em, the toys, see, and sing the top songs right there beneath the tickets.
You’re too Sweet| Part 4
By: Renae Nicole
Tags: Flash Fiction, Storytelling, Series, Fiction, Romance

Image via Zodiac Reads

Seven months later, I give birth to a healthy little boy, whom I named after my grandfather, Marvin. His last name is my maiden name and no one argues with me.

Now twenty-nine, divorced, and a new mother, I move back home to start a new life. My parents watch Marvin while I work. My boy grows into a healthy young man, loving football and video games. Though I see Jace in every moment of Marvin’s life, Marvin never asks about his dad, so I don’t bring him up.

One fall day of his freshman year of high school, Marvin says, “Mom, this old guy was at football practice today, just watching. When a coach went over to confront him, he said he was looking for me, but I have never seen him in my life.”

I drop the wooden spoon I was using to stir the sauce. I’m making spaghetti after my fourth diet fails. The sauce splatters all over my white shirt. “Why is it always sauce?”

Marvin ignores my question, “Do you know who it is?”

I shake my head and shrug it off, but the next day Marvin comes home with the same story. And the next day and the next. Until Friday night, game night. I sit in the bleachers with my parents and Becky with her family. We watched Marvin score a touchdown, but the team still lost.

I walk down the stairs and wait by the locker room. When Marvin comes out, I hug him and tell him he had a good game. After a few complaints about the complements, Marvin points over my shoulder, “That’s him. That’s the guy.”

Marvin indicates a guy lingering near the bleachers. The man has gray hair, is still trim, and wears a sport coat. A lump forms in my throat. Then the man starts walking toward us. I suck in a few quick breaths.

I calm myself enough to tell Marvin to find his grandparents, giving my son’s hair a good ruffle. He huffs before he goes, but my eyes never leave the man. He stops six feet from me.

“Jace.”

“Hello, Marne.”

Aware of my changed demeanor and appearance, I can’t bring myself to make eye contact with him. I focus on his shoes and notice the detailed stitching in the leather.

“You have got quite the player there.” He finally says.

“Thank you,” I thread my hands together. “What are you doing here, Jace?”

“Fourteen?”

I nod slowly.

He hiccups, “Is he mine?”

I look at Marvin, talking to my grandparents. My dad has a hand on his shoulder and my mom is shaking her head. I close my eyes and nod, bracing for impact.

Image via Author

Click HERE for Part 5!
How to Write Flash Fiction?
By: Lone Thread Books
Tags: Flash Fiction, Fiction Writing, How To, Writers On Medium, Writer

Flash fiction is a medium of brief and enclosed stories. Its average word count ranges anywhere from five to 1,500 words, but the consensus is that the maximum tops out at 2,000. Its also called nano tales, micro-stories,

Compact stories are not necessarily a new invention, since modern-day short fiction can be traced all the way back to the concise yet powerful format of classic folklore, fables, and parables.

Key elements of flash fiction

Flash fiction does not rely on traditional plot structure or character development, because each sentence has to do the work of several paragraphs or pages. Every character, object, image, and action reveals something new, so writing with precision and specificity is essential. No room for tangents or long-winded descriptions here!

Flash fiction makes up for its short-form by packing a punch in the storyline. Surprise endings marked by a shocking reveal, moment of triumph, sudden violence, or a twist of fate are common.

Tips for writing flash fiction

Flash fiction can be a good exercise for new writers who want to dip their toe into story writing, and a great way for experienced authors to practice crafting, powerful prose. Some authors may even use flash fiction to help them transition from writing poetry to fiction, or vice versa. Here are some ways to get the most out of your flash fiction:

1. Focus on one moment or scene.

2. Start with the height of the action.

3. Include a hook to grab the reader’s attention, followed by a conflict or turning point.

4. Keep the beginning clear, and save any ambiguity or mystery for the end.

5. Tell a story. There may not be room for a complex plot, but you still need to build action and tension.

6. Use a tone of voice to convey a strong emotion or mood.

7. Simplify dialogue and limit characters (one or two is usually enough).

8. Cut the backstory.

9. Try the first-person point of view.

10. Craft each sentence like you mean it (use precise nouns and verbs, go easy on the adjectives).

11. Avoid clichés and obvious scenarios. Instead, opt for unusual images, sensory language, and original figures of speech.

12. Choose a great title.

Writing flash fiction doesn’t require a big investment in time, so there’s no reason not to try! If your story grows into something larger, check out tips for writing short stories and novellas.

I hope this article will be helpful to you. Follow Lone Thread Books to learn more about reading, writing, and publishing.

| By, Aswy Hanna Paul, Lone Thread Books. |
Can’t I be a Girl Then
Tags: Flash Fiction, Writing, Poetry, Short Fiction, Mental Health

The day started and boulevards brightened,

people roamed and chatted and teased,

and they said “she is a girl show some respect”

and he said aloud to the clouds, can’t I be a girl then,

at least wouldn’t have to pay for respect.
Four Years Later….
By: Kim Wozniak
Tags: Growth, Morality, Hope, Grief, Balance

There is hope.

Photo by Ahmed Zayan on Unsplash

When our country elected Donald Trump into office in 2016, I felt a great loss, not because Hilary didn’t win but because I felt I had just witnessed our country losing its moral compass by voting in a man that bullied his way in business and showed no sign of respect for women or anything else but himself and money. I was rattled, and I needed to find my center. I wrote and posted the following to my Facebook Page.

“Today, I find myself moving through the stages of grief quite quickly. Through shock, sadness, and anger, I have found acceptance in who I am and where I have come from. I am a strong American woman that is here because of immigrant forefathers. Men and women who left their own countries to build a better life for their families. A man who was forced to sell his daughter into slavery to save the rest of his family and then saved every penny to go back for her. Another brilliant mind and an inventor gave his ideas to companies, not for his own profit but to make their laborers’ lives easier. A man who hid in a haystack with his fellow soldiers from the Nazi’s until being taken prisoner and starved for months so that no family member or anyone else would ever endure the tyranny of Hitler. The generations of women who worked to support their families through wars and the depression with grace and humility. They fed and clothed not only their own families but the families of their neighbors and anyone who had less than they did.

Today I go forward feeling empowered, not deflated. I will continue to wake up each day and do the right thing for my family, my neighbors, and humanity. I will stand up to the bullies, large and small, and I will support the people and businesses that support true progress, respect their customers' voice and the environment. I will continue to support the roots that have supported me.”

Now four years later, I was happy to run across this Facebook post. As 2020 ends, everything is off balance. The world is feeling tattered, and I find myself in the midst of grief again, seeking my empowerment. We are all grieving the loss of time and loved ones, the loss of normalcy, and for some, the loss of an election. I sympathize with those who feel as though their choice was stolen. I grieve for those who were lost and those who lost someone, I grieve for my own balance, and I am thankful for the reminder that there is hope through grief. Grief teaches us to appreciate time, people, life.

Today I go forward with the hope that I can find my center. That we can all find our center and our compass that shows us the way. That we’ve learned that the things that separate and divide us are so much less important than the things that bind us together. That doing the right thing isn’t a matter of politics or being right, but of finding unity and wholeness, that we will all stop seeing red & blue, black and white, male and female as sides before time runs out.
If You’re Grieving, I’d Like You to Know This
By: Lynn Shattuck
Tags: Poetry Sunday, Love, Affirmations, Personal Growth, Grief

Image by Dmitry Ratushny via Unsplash

You don’t have to be strong.

You don’t have to get over it.

You don’t have to find closure.

You don’t have to believe that everything happens for a reason,

Or that it was “their time,”

Or they’re in a better place.

You don’t have to hunt for the bright side

Or peck for silver linings.

You don’t have to “cherish the memories”

Or follow the prescribed stages

Or any time table.

You don’t have to drape yourself in any of the other platitudes people toss your way

Because they’re afraid to enter these jagged, sacred places

Because they don’t know how to say, “This will hurt forever, but even heartbreak changes shape.”

You just have to breathe.

That’s it.

That’s enough.

You just have to meet each wave of pain as it rises and crests

Even if it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do

You just have to sit through this moment, and this moment, and this one.
The Perplexity of Loss
By: Martin Vidal
Tags: Relationships, Love, Death, Grief, Life Lessons

The Perplexity of Loss

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels

There is an instinct in humans, if not simply a rational sensibility, that causes us to assign life a privileged position. We objectify life, instead of allowing it to be the function that it is. And so when it disappears, we look for it, as if it went somewhere. It’s like looking for where the movement went when a rolling stone stops its rolling.

We attribute such value to life that we can’t understand how it can simply be extinguished, often from one moment to the next. We can’t process it. Our mind cannot look directly at the truth of mortality and understand it on a visceral level. Likewise, in our ceaseless, solipsistic personification of all of nature, we cannot comprehend how such a valuable thing can be taken from us without a guilty party. We all live under the terrible fate of mortality, and we have no one to blame for it, nothing to fight against, and no place to direct our pleas for mercy.

What a turbid confusion loss roils up in the mind. As if in a blizzard raging in the dark of night, we are nipped by pangs of sadness and lost in a violent haze, and though there’s nothing to be made out in full, in the distance we find something that resembles an answer. It’s not quite an answer, but it has a way of soothing like one. It gives the mind clarity and a focus. It is blame: finding something, anything, to blame.

I’ve seen a grieving widow spend years mulling over suing a number of doctors for incompetence because they couldn’t save her husband’s life. I know of a mother who tried to press criminal charges against her daughter’s friends for not stopping the daughter’s suicide. I’ve seen a mother and father work for years — begging friends and family for money for the legal bills — to have a police determination of suicide legally overturned, and a driver charged with negligent homicide, after their son walked into traffic, as if having someone else be responsible for his death would bring him back. And, most often, without evidence or merit, I’ve seen people blame themselves.

There is an unfathomable confusion that accompanies loss, and in the throes of that emotional chaos, blame looks like an answer.
Like the ocean wave — Grief. There is no one way to deal with the…
By: Dipika Kumar
Tags: 2020, Loss, Friend, Grief, Grief And Loss

There is no one way to deal with the loss of someone. No wrong, no right way. The only thing that matters in the end is to not let it consume all of you. Don’t sink. You should, you must float back up.

This year, 2020, most of us have lost someone. I realised that the hardest thing to face alone, is the loss of a friend and having no one to experience that loss with you. With the lockdown, there weren’t many options of outlet, venting out the built up anger, frustration, the unfairness of it all. So all I could do was take it all in, feel, till it hurt lesser every time the wave hit.

In the process, I realised, the best way to deal with grief is to allow yourself to feel it. To let the pain break you, let it venture into the places you had closed yourself from, let it dig into the past, the memories playing and replaying. Even when your lungs seem too big for your ribs, when the rush of emotions, the wave makes you breathless, don’t numb it. Hug yourself if you have no one to hold onto and make sure to keep all the pieces intact. Allow yourself to break down, shout from the rooftops, laugh till you cry, you deserve it and so do they. Grieve.

Grief, much like an ocean wave, the only way to survive it is to let go, the more you struggle, trying to snatch at the emptiness.. the deeper you will sink. But if you dive under the wave, you’ll live. The key is to let go and let nature take its course.

The thing with grief is, it is never gone, all it takes is a fleeting thought, someone’s laughter or a random photo on your timeline, and the wave hits you again. But this time you’re equipped with experience. It doesn’t pain less, NO, but after a few times you adapt to it, live with it and even relish in the memories.
The Lie (a poem)
By: Courtney Christine
Tags: Poetry Sunday, Suicide, Love, Hope, Grief

The Lie (a poem)

Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash

To stay alive is a hard thing.

The climber with his pick axe and

tins of food knows this, but does

the grieving mother? For that matter, the

girl whose infant lies tangles in tubes in

intensive care. For that matter, the man

in a motel room divvying up divorce

papers. Separate but equal, they suffer.

Believing separation to be possibility, or

equality to be anything but an eloquent

lie. Look closely — a tender touch reveals

a trapdoor. Look closely — there’s the

connective tissue, all the tubes supplying

food. And a newly single man with a

tiny axe scrapes an inch of ice from the

crevice where his boot lies, because he

promised his mother he would.
Letter To My Absent Father Who Passed Away
By: Rita Arosemena P.
Tags: Grief, Death And Dying, Fatherhood, Self Improvement, Letters

Letter To My Absent Father Who Passed Away

Photo by Kinga Cichewicz on Unsplash

Dear Papa,

The day the doctor told me that the cancer had spread through your body, and you wouldn’t have more than a couple of months to live, I felt a heavy weight resting on my chest. I wanted to scream but all my sadness and anger resented into silent sobs, and the days and months passed like that.

I can’t understand why you had to leave so soon. You had never cared about me when I was young, but now that you knew you were going to die, you wanted my company and I wanted yours.

I didn’t know how to talk to you back then, I was afraid. I was afraid of hurting you with my questions, afraid of being hurt by your answers. Furthermore, I was afraid to find out that you never loved me and that the reason you didn’t was that I was never the person you wanted.

Papa, now that I have discovered who I am, I know that you loved me but that we were two different people. I don’t regret the time we spent together. I cherish those moments, even if they were just a couple of them.

I think that when you were alive, you loved me as much as you could, even if it wasn’t enough, according to people around us.

I believe that you loved me too much in some moments, not enough in others. I know that you never hurt me, you never cursed me, not even yelled at me… You never said that I was a bad daughter. It was only your silence that hurt me.

I guess you weren’t ready to be a father, and sometimes you wished you weren’t. Maybe you were afraid of not doing it right and that is why you preferred to pretend that you did not care about anything.

Now that you are gone I look at all the memories of our lives and I miss you badly. I miss your discreet smile, your calm, sometimes expressionless face. I miss your presence, even though you weren’t really there.

You were lovely, but you weren’t easy to love. That’s all I want to remember about you.

I never told you how much I loved you. Although I’m sure you knew, but I don’t like to think about it…

Life gave us a very bad hand.

Dear papa, I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you everything I was going through when I was younger, and everything you meant to me.

When you left, I didn’t cry. I felt as if I had lost a part of myself, a part I didn’t know I had. If you only knew how much I miss you…

I wish you could have stayed longer, but even though you are no longer here I want you to know that I met you at the last minute, and it was through the eyes of love and compassion, and forgiveness.

Rest in peace.
The Process of Grief
By: Wasi Khan
Tags: Grief Recovery, Loss, Grief Support, Grief, Grief And Loss

Deep grief sometimes is almost like a specific location, a coordinate on a map of time. When you are standing in that forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place. But if someone can assure you that they themselves have stood in that same place, and now have moved on, sometimes this will bring hope.

The death of any family member can have an impact on the family as a whole. A grandparent’s death is often felt very deeply by many members of your family. Depending on the circumstances, you may feel as though you have to prioritize the needs of others in your family before attending to your own grief and wellbeing.

There is a proverb that says “Grief divided is made lighter”. Personally, I think the word “divided” is a little misleading because I don’t think the proverb is meant to imply that anyone’s grief is any less. Rather I think it means that when we all grieve together — when we share our sadnesses, our fears, and our joyful memories — we are ultimately able to give and receive more support and comfort than if we were to grieve alone.

And Living Abroad while you can’t be present to offer the condolences; it’s the worst phase of acute pain with mixed feelings.

But In the end I wanna quote;
Curiosity.
Tags: Poetry, Love, Grief, Sex, Lust

He asked to read my poetry.

Expecting roses to be red,

and violets to be blue.

I warned him how my words resurrected people I had met, loved, lost and ran through. Still, he was brave enough to pick me up and read how I made art out of whispers, pillow talk, sex, and sometimes grief.

“Would she write about me?”
The Purgatory
By: Dhruv Sharma
Tags: Poem, Fiction, Grief, Horror, Blue Insights

I live in the town of Knahellnic,

With food and ale aplenty;

Mellow River flows beside my dwelling;

Beside my window, I rest my bedding;

Oh, the river, it keeps foretelling,

Tales of old that make me dizzy.

Little do I know,

From insomnia, I suffer so,

Ugh, the river! So icky.

Rain! It rains like cats and dogs,

And the wind blows away my candles,

And it damps the walls,

And slams the panels;

Smashes away the wall clock,

Bloody puddles begin to flock,

Dripping down from the narrow ceiling,

Birds outside, terrified and screaming,

I wake up in shock.

Lay my dank head to rest,

The Mellow River still flowing:

“Twas all a dream,” I detest.

The stars, they just keep glowing,

No cloud in sight,

No bloody walls inside,

Or screaming birds outside.

I rub my droopy-eyes and snotty-nose,

While the river prepares another anecdote.

I try to slip into another slumber,

Still, can’t help but wonder:

If that dream meant something,

Or was it all for nothing?

For a while, I lay there and wonder;

Until a hymn breaks away my silence:

“Guilt or grief, you cannot remember,

All you see is darkness,

Guilt and grief, they make you suffer,

Nothing’s freeing as repentance.”

She sings for hours, then sings some more

Till her voice, I find, familiar;

I cry for hours, then cry some more

I’m willing to atone for my anger.
Saudade
By: Louis Dennis
Tags: 2020, Loss, Christmas, Haiku, Grief

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Christmas 2020
By: S Morjy
Tags: Grief, Christmas

Christmas 2020

As you know dad, it's Christmas today. Unfortunately, this is the first of many more Christmases without you to come.

Every Christmas you would open your shop for a few hours as you always pointed out that your earnings doubled on a day like this. Only in the last couple of years have I really realised how hard you grafted for mum and my sister and I. You worked seven days a week, including all bank holidays, giving us the life you thought we deserved.

I guess it should mean I'm used to not really celebrating Christmas much with you, but I'm still waiting to hear you park up in the driveway and open the front door. I made a cheesecake this time too, as I remembered you always liked my cheesecakes.

I have to remind myself that you're no longer here and that there will be no more Christmases with you, not ever again.

Wherever you may be now…

Joyeux Noël dad. 🎄
Two of Us
By: Hapsari Listya
Tags: It Happened To Me, Short Story, Healing, Family, Grief

Short Story

Two of Us

Credit by Elly Fairytale @ Pexels

It’s been a week since dad passed away.

And it’s gonna be only two of us who will conquer the world.

Mom and me.

It’s gonna be two of us who talk for the whole day.

It’s gonna be two of us who remind each other to eat healthily.

It’s gonna be two of us who sleep in the same room.

It’s gonna be two of us who do cross-stitch in the evening.

It’s gonna be two of us who play with our three dogs and three cats.

It’s gonna be two of us who take care dad’s garden.

It’s gonna be two of us who repair broken electronics.

It’s gonna be two of us who support each other during bad days.

It’s gonna be two of us who admonish each other when we make mistakes.

It’s gonna be two of us who celebrate our special moments.

We might take different times for grieving, even though we both lived with dad over two decades.

Eventually, everything will be normal again although it’s only two of us until then.

Only time will answer.
“You” Just Barely Left
By: Denise G
Tags: Illumination, Christmas, Loss Of A Parent, Death, Grief

“You” Just Barely Left

Photo by Kon Karampelas on Unsplash

Blinking lights,

shiny baubles,

smiling children

and well wishers.

It's that time of

year.

Joy to the world

and peace to all.

It's sharp contrast,

is a lot to take

when "you" are

gone.

The shine is dulled

and cheer just

scrapes

on your ear.

You want to hide.

Reality

is too much.

Still fresh and tender

you were just there,

not a loving memory

yet

but a deep well

of emotion,

an ache

in the chest.

A Christmas

rather to be

forgotten

than remembered.

Not ready

for “you” to be

fond memory

just yet

because "you"

just barely left.

In loving memory of my mother.
Four ways physics will challenge your reality
By: Jon Walsh
Tags: Space, Science Fiction, Physics, Information

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Make Medium yours. Follow the writers, publications, and topics that matter to you, and you’ll see them on your homepage and in your inbox. Explore
Eclipse of a Terraformed Suburbia
By: Mr. Numi Who
Tags: Pirates, Philosophy, Short Story, Science Fiction, Fantasy

.

“What ho? Why aren’t those animals tagged?”

“Here is a copper and a silver to look the other way.”

“It appears that I either accept your pieces… or your hungry swords.”

“You are a very wise tollman.”

“Yet I do pray that you are not rogues. Our willage has been unfortunate enough of late…”

“Do tell of your willage’s misfortunes. Wizards we be.”

“Pirate Wizards, by the sounds of ye.”

“Aye, ye be right, near so. Sons of Pirates, and nasty scoundrels they were.”

“My condolences.”

“But they took good wives, who paid for all of our wizard apprenticeships.”

“So you are a band of brothers.”

“Since our wee years. Such fond memories. Now we battle The Contagion, and a pandemic it be. Has it reached your willage?”

“We’ve only seen mad munchkins from the terraformed suburbs…”

… ’Twas a dead winter’s night of mystica-horror,

… an eclipse over the murky souls

… of rampaging zombie munchkins, from

… the boggy archipelago:

… Prophesied by the Jeweled King of Dragons

… over a mug of warm, dark-brewed ale

… with the wizards of terraformed suburbia

… who sallied forth to fight The Contagion

… afflicting the Empire of Avigno…

“MAD MUNCHKINS FROM THE TERRAFORMED SUBURBS! Aye, they be The Contagion. In witherfor way did they wither to?”

“Across the milestone bridge, toward the cold waste downs of the two-headed North Sea Giants, who, we suspect, will devour the mad munchkins before they reach the consortium of Asteroid Towns.”

“The two-headed giants verily will — they can smell a munchkin two thousand leagues away.”

“So your job is done. The Contagion will be vanquished.”

“Yes, it appears so…”

“You look disappointed.”

“Aye. Without a quest, we become translucent.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad. In fact, it may have its advantaged.”

“Well, it is entertaining when we all swallow mice… and we do hire ourselves out as spies, scepters, and apparitions… and translucent hands emit titanium streams of spaghetti, but other than that, we tend to feel blue…”

“Well, I know just the remedy for the translucent blues.”

“And what is that?”

“My grandmother’s green potato porridge!”

“With chives and basil?”

“Indeed! We shall sup tonight! With apple foosenoof and splendid spiced mutton confusions.”

“Noooooooo…”

“Yes!”

“Do ye know that potato porridge, apple foosenoof, and splendid mutton confusions attracts…”

“THE JEWELED KING OF DRAGONS!”

… And so they supped, in a one-room cottage

… on the outskirts of terraformed suburbia -

… one dragon, five wizards, a tollman, choice ale,

… potatoes and mutton spread over the table;

… apples to follow the titanium spaghetti…

… Old songs of heroics resounded aloud

… over dell, down derry, through the vacuous clouds

… that bore witness to two-headed North Sea Giants

… devouring munchkins in the cold waste downs

… near the mining consortium of Asteroid Towns

… beyond our little willage..
Welcome to 2040.
By: Ferdin Maulana Ichsan
Tags: Loneliness, Future, Artificial Intelligence, Technology, Science Fiction

Technology advancement comes not without consequences. The ever-growing infinite virtual realm made us trapped in a hyperreality, we gradually lost all sense of reality. We lost track of time — there’s a lot of things to do but never had enough time to do so.

We grew apart from the people around us. People in the street are robot-like, walking in constant patterns and somehow became less empathetic to their surroundings. Ironically, we even send romantic or meaningful messages we never wrote. We are more expressive and vibrant in our digital persona but dull and grey to meet in person.

We feel alienated in a 42-floor apartment with nothing but a high-spec computer and built-in artificial intelligence. We are given so much information but unable to process it. There are too many options to choose from just to figure out who we really are or things we actually like. We have thousands of friends online but not a single person to drink a coffee with.

Aren’t we fundamentally lonely? And lonelier each day, a truth that almost suffocating to bear. We feel more comfortable and familiar with an AI than a lovely human partner because we feel that humans are too complicated to understand.

Are we becoming more robot-like? Or perhaps the technology that grows exponentially has somehow become human?