Grandma believes in traditions: homemade pie crust, Sunday morning prayer, peanuts at the ballgame. She also believes comfort food can mend anything.
Shortly after her team loses in the World Series, we wait for the clatter of silver tablespoons and egg-beaters and the aroma of cake batter to set in.
Lisa Marie resides in Northern California. She’s had stories published in Blink-Ink and The Ocotillo Review, among others.
After a year of combing through my memories on social media, I’ve finally deleted every photo, check-in, and tag with my ex. Public records and memories are all that’s left of our relationship.
Coincidentally, there was a devastating fire at the courthouse last night.
Now only those who remember remain.
When Eddie D. Moore isn’t playing with his grandchildren, he is driving and visiting strange new worlds via audiobooks, or he is lost in his imagination writing his own tales. Pick up a copy of Poe-ish Tales Forevermore today! You’ll be glad you did… if you can sleep tonight.
What was once an uninhabited rock blazed into light.
Looking up from Earth, children wished upon its neon cities and dreamed of winter vacations to Mare Imbrium, now outfitted with low gravity ski slopes.
After illuminating the moon, we will sally forth into the darkness beyond our outer solar system.
Angela Acosta is a PhD Candidate in Iberian Studies at The Ohio State University. Her work has appeared in ¿Qué Pasa, Ohio State?, Rainy Day Literary Magazine, and mOthertongue Literary Journal.
The market was crowded, lot of noises, people chatting out loud.
I didn’t want to lose you so I grabbed your hand.
Felt so different, so distant. I thought: what could I possibly have done wrong?
I had to stop, ask you why, then I realized…
it wasn’t your hand.
Heidi Beltran lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She has seen the evidence of God’s love daily throughout life.
I run so fast I might fall and ruin my dress. My heart is about to explode! You wait for me on the front porch. I scream your name. I hug you. I tell you we won 500 dollars at the lottery: we can pay rent, buy groceries this month.
Linda Moon really loves flash fiction! She writes every day and reads short stories collections while working in (mostly sustainable) fashion collections in Italy.
It’s late. (No, it’s early.)
Merwin jumps up, pads silently beside me, and collapses into cat loaf position.
(Is that a purr or a roar?)
The clock ticks, too loudly. (Why do I still have a clock?)
I twirl the sheet into roses under my fingers and dream of sleep.
Erin Gilmore is an artist and editor living in Los Angeles.
Pools of water glisten where tidy lawns once grew. Streams gurgle and rush along the roads. With the kids gathered close, we lean from windows and perch on roofs. The more fortunate propel themselves around town in dinghies. They hail us. “Neighbor,” they call to those they once ignored. “Friend!”
Katherine Gleason’s stories have appeared in journals such as Cheap Pop, Derelict Lit, Every Day Fiction, Gone Lawn, Hobart, Juked, Jellyfish Review, and Menacing Hedge. Her play “The Toe Incident” won the Christopher Hewitt Award for Drama in 2020.
They take so many photos. Hold it up, down, wave it about! Nancy! Over here! Smile! A purple balloon, shiny as a sixpence, more beautiful than she has ever seen. She holds tight onto its string and the decades float away. She is six. She is happy. There is cake.
Marie writes poetry and flash fiction and plays with writing prompts on Twitter at @jamsaucer.
My friend, in his early 70’s, was out and about doing errands during the most recent brutal heat wave. Dying from the heat, he stopped at Dunkin’ to get an iced tea. He said to the teenaged server, “It’s going to be 98 today.”
“Oh!” she said brightly. “Happy birthday!”
Edward Mcinnis wrote this story.
Anon essayed a purely descriptive tale. The result? A formulaic editor’s dream, but a story enthusiast’s nightmare.
By telling perusers nothing—despite showing plenty—the disjointed narrative had a ho-hum beginning, a muddle, and an enigmatic ending.
With no explication whatsoever, readers could only wonder what it was all about.
John H. Dromey thinks this story is about someone’s pet peeve (inspired perhaps by comments from a particularly inflexible show-don’t-tell editor). As always, and as it should be, readers can decide for themselves.