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Marian fumed at Todd for knocking over her juice. A storm marched in above them at school. Marian remembered a joke, and the cloud disappeared.

“Mommy! I can control the weather with my mind,” Marian said.

After extensive psychiatric evaluation, Marian was given medication.

The weather has never been nicer.

Anthony is a writer who loves his family. He works with numbers by day and words by night (or early morning). He is obsessed with his bloodhound, wife, and daughter, and has a love affair with Indian food.

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The house was quiet, dimly lit with the holiday lights. Jean sighed, shaking her head. “The kids are busy this time of year, but they’ll be here tomorrow. They need me for those generation pictures. So don’t worry yourself, Tom. I won’t be alone.”

She touched the urn. “Miss you.”

Trisha Ridinger McKee resides in a Mayberry-like town in Pennsylvania, with her weary husband and hippie daughter. She may or may not be inspired by living next to a cemetery. And she may or may not have traumatized her daughter with a few ridiculously intense bedtime stories through the years.

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I, a lone woman in New Delhi, who treads the road at night with just inner faith as safeguard, am without doubt on a slut walk.

I walk past cul-de-sacs of bawdy lyrics, grasping looks, and treacherous thoughts to find my high road, violating all rules of behaviour and mobility.

Chitra Gopalakrishnan is a New Delhi-based journalist by training, a social development communications consultant by profession and a creative writer by choice. Her focus is on issues of gender, environment and health. She dabbles in poetry on the sly and literary creations openly on the website using social media.

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Scars cover my body. Small and jagged; thick and bumpy. Scattered across my skin, a constellation of pain.

They bind me both to the past and to the person I have become.

My scars are a constant reminder of the day I embraced my fate, adopting my first five cats.

Isley is an avid reader and aspiring writer and just keeps swimming.

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I sit on the curb, shaken to the core. Its 2 AM.

I hear sirens from the police cars in the distance.

My mother cries inside the house. I look down at my hands to see the blood still wet, dripping onto my jeans. He is gone now, mother.

Gone.

Paige McDonald wrote this story.

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A blizzard of term papers settles onto the oak floor around Professor Taylor’s shattered skull.

He’d always known a student would kill him.

By gun? Knife?

Certainly not by writing a thesis so absorbing that he’d forget about the stairs.

Shame; Randy Barton wouldn’t know he’d earned his first A.

After chasing his muse from Virginia to Manhattan, Richard Day Gore settled in Southern California, where he spends his time pushing around words, paint brushes, and guitar strings. See more at richarddaygore.com.

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The sunrise woke me without a sound.

I rolled off of the stiff hotel mattress and tried to get ready for the meeting, but the silence was too loud.

My son called. “Dad?”

“Is everything okay?”

“I just wanted to say good morning.”

“Oh, good morning.”

And then it was.

Seth Pilevsky lives in New York with his wife and five kids. He loves to wake up to a noisy house. His work has been published in the Long Island Literary Journal, Literally Stories, Memoir Magazine, Stinkwave’s Magazine and in the YA Anthology entitled, What Doesn’t Kill You. Sign up for updates at his website, spilevsky.com.

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Several people saw her running toward the orphanage, her hair a witch’s broom in the night. Later, they told her husband’s family. They didn’t mention, for they hadn’t seen, the tarnished jewellery in her arms. Nor could they feel the memory of an infant’s breath still warm against her chest.

Monica Wang has fiction in GHLL, Electric Literature, The Temz Review, Midway Journal, and Gaze Journal, among other publications. She spent childhood in Taichung, Taiwan, and Vancouver, Canada, and now writes in Germany.

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Exposed to light, the misunderstood memories skitter away like startled insects. Slowly, I clear more rocks from the landscape of my childhood.

When I find the courage to pull weeds, I might replace them with roses: Their beauty comes with thorns. Or perhaps cacti, which can survive neglect, even abuse.

Kim Favors worked as a newspaper journalist. She grows her literary garden on California’s Central Coast.

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The story of the week for May 13 to 17 is…

Close by Lex T. Lindsay

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