WILLIAM J JOEL: Skin Deep

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“Become an Intergalactic Ambassador,” the sign had read. If she’d only knew then what she knew now.

“Fake it till you make it,” she was told by her superiors. But it wasn’t quite so easy once they’d added four legs and two arms and removed your ears for your assignment.

All things are connected. That’s the premise of what William J. Joel does. Each of Mr. Joel’s interests informs each other. Mr. Joel has been teaching computer science since 1983 and has been a writer even longer. His works have recently appeared in Common Ground Review, DASH Literary Journal, The Blend International, Liminality, and North Dakota Quarterly.

MIRIAM N KOTZIN: The Big One-Way

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On my last visit, Granny fretted. Were the aliens treating Grandpa right? Until now she’d opined that if aliens could do space travel, they shootin’-sure could do the wash and fix a proper dinner. A blessing Grandpa wasn’t fussy about his meals or collars. Her faith in Him remained unshakable.

Miriam N. Kotzin writes fiction and poetry. She is the author of five collections of poetry, two collections of short fiction, and two novels—most recently the novel Right This Way (Spuyten Duyvil). Her 50-word stories have been published in 50-Word Stories, 50 Give or Take, and Blink Ink. She teaches literature and creative writing at Drexel University.

PAUL D’ARCY: Inheritance

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The kerchief was stiff with salt, sweat, and machine oil. She pressed it to her face.
It was him, alright. Not much of a dad. Always working, drinking, fighting, womanizing. Never home.
He couldn’t make her bedtime, but could always make her laugh.
She breathed him in one last time.

Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.

GRAHAM FORTIER: My Ex-Wife No Longer Calls Me

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She used to call every month. When we last speak, she asks if I think about her. Every day, I say. But she doesn’t believe me. She hangs up in a fury, and I stare into the last piece of artwork our daughter ever made, still taped to the refrigerator.

Graham Fortier lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children. He is a survivor of the Altadena wildfire.

GEORGE EVANS: Until Death Do They Part

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Spirit asks Flesh what he’s gonna do once that thing is through?

Flesh squints, blinks, thinks.

Then he puffs on the cigarette, sends a curling finger of smoke trailing up to heaven through the warm rain.

“I don’t know,” he says, “wanna find out?”

And she’s his.

Until she isn’t.

George Evans is a querulous nuisance from Birmingham, Alabama. When he isn’t teaching (and sometimes when he is) he writes poems, essays, and stories. You can find him on Substack at Fourth Castle on the Left.

CAROL HUEBSCH REEVES: Reflections

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If I could do it again, I’d worry less about the package and more about the contents; less about the calories, and more about nutrition; less about the cost, and more about the value; less about being liked, and more about being likeable; less about wanting, and more about thanking.

A prolific writer, Carol Reeves is loving the fun, freedom and challenge of Flash Fiction. Her stories frequently reflect on the blessings and vicissitudes of aging—and can be found in Flash Fiction Magazine and 50 Word Stories. Carol’s memoir, “All the Little Miracles,” was published in 2022.

GRACIE LYLE: Grandpa

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Mom knocked on my door after school and told me we were having dinner at 6. We always ate dinner, but when we had dinner, that meant at the table. With napkins and an important conversation.

“Who died?” I asked when I sat down.

“That’s not funny,” Mom said. “Grandpa.”

Gracie Lyle is an emerging writer from Brooklyn, NY. Her work has appeared in Elegant Literature. You can find her online at @gracielyle.bsky.social.

MELANIE STERN: A tuft of her hair

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A tuft of her hair sits in my drawer. She asked that I cut it so it wouldn’t get in the way as she died. We stood in the bathroom, sharing our last mother-daughter moment. Catching each other’s eyes in the mirror, we smiled: a final gift to each other.

Melanie Stern is a journalist and writes poetry. She misses her Mum.

MICHELLE MEYER: The Widow

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Adam’s shirts and pants were hung in tight rows with cardboard protectors. The officer had never seen cardboard protectors.

“OCD,” I said.

He’d seen OCD. Said the stress could make a heart attack plausible, even at 38.

I found him. The neighbors heard me scream. No reason to suspect me.

Michelle Meyer is a poet who is experimenting with (and loving) micro flash fiction. She is the author of The Trouble with Being a Childless Only Child (Cornerstone Press, 2024) and The Book of She (2021). Poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, ONE ART, Pearl Press, Tiny Spoon, Welter, and elsewhere. Micro flash has appeared in 100-Word Story and Ink-in-Thirds. Find her at michellemeyerwrites.com.