It was a pure voice, sweet and musical. I heard the choirboy in it, the sound a flock of birds shimmering along the length of his throat. He was always singing about love. Would he have done that if he’d known how soon it fades, or how quietly it dies?
Cheryl Snell writes stories with at least a grain of truth in them.
Meet me in the marsh, beside the pond near the windmill.
There are willows there, Cattails, distant hills, tree frogs and katydids.
No sign of anyone.
I’ll bring a boat made of folded newspaper.
We’ll watch the moon climb through the branches.
You can never see it all at once.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Even from a distance Herbert could tell the accident hadn’t happened yet. Slipping into the crowd, he quickly scanned their faces, looking for the one. When it came, the noise still startled him, and it wasn’t who he was expecting. He came dangerously close to being involved, as per usual.
This story was written by Brown Sugar Bourbon. It was transcribed and tightened up by Robert Carlberg.
I warned him not to go through the door; it was mayhem outside. He said he must because he had to live his life.
We met again, in Bogota, twenty years later. He was awfully skinny but seemed content. Looking back, he only said no door could ever stop him.
Johannes Springenseiss is a world citizen and raconteur. He mostly writes speculative fiction and creative essays, which he has published in various literary magazines.
A tapeworm’s mouth is like an exploding aril; its head, a hydrant. I washed my hands so often that they chapped and bled. I was eleven, terrified I’d be a host.
I’m forty-three now. I keep a quiet home. I invite no one over and my hands are soft.
Chad Sullivan is a father, husband, and heavy equipment operator who lives and writes in Elburn, Illinois. His work will appear in upcoming Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y, and Maudlin House issues. He exists quietly, running in the woods and roughhousing with his two children.
A floral bouquet arrives. Someone has sent me a fragrant reminder of what is, or what was, or what could be. But who and what? Loosed by the wind, the florist’s card forever holds the answers in its muddy grave. The flowers will die—but the delicious possibilities are endless.
A prolific writer, Carol Reeves is loving the freedom and challenge of Flash Fiction. Her stories are found in 50-Word Stories and Flash Fiction Magazine. Her memoir, “All the Little Miracles,” was published in 2022.
I’m not nostalgic, but I miss that teenage feeling of unbridled freedom of summer in the country. Picking up a fallen apple, inhaling its wild lusciousness. The old farmhouse filled with young voices, the floorboards creaking under wet barefoot. And the young apple tree, planted last year, taking root beautifully.
Leonie Gregory lives in Australia; she likes taking photos of nature and writing stories about what she knows or wants to know better.
Ticket in. Fryer down. Order up. Behind you. On your left. Serve the food, clean the mess, run the card. Smiles and thank-yous. Watch them leave—lousy tip. Bus the table. Side work: roll the silver, marry ketchups, stock coolers. Quitting time. Beers at the bar. Home. Bed. Wake. Repeat.
Megan Deiger writes fiction, wrangles her seven-year-old, and makes music with her husband in Chicago, IL. She spent many summers as a server slinging wings and beer. It was fun. And awful. Follow her on Twitter at @birchparkps.
The May heatwave sizzles.
In childhood, summer felt endless. Time no longer feels so kind in this so-called golden age.
Wise, dignified? Not me.
I find shade by a tree and remember: life is still what I make it.
And life is good, as the light dances between the leaves.
Brian Maycock was sixty in March. He’s enjoying writing more than ever.
Most mornings, you’ll find them at the larger tables huddled over coffees. Their caps will read Semper Fi or USS Somebody DDG-xxx. They do this often, know how to rib each other just shy of nasty, wonder where Joe is when he doesn’t show. There will be an empty chair.
Dr. Thomas Reed Willemain is a former academic, software entrepreneur, and intelligence officer. His flash fiction has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Granfalloon, Hobart, Burningword Literary Journal, The Medley, and elsewhere. He holds degrees from Princeton University and Massachusetts Institute of Technology.