They said no one gets stuck anymore and then I got stuck.
So I wailed and hollered and banged with my palms flat on the slick white plastic.
No one.
Nothing.
And then came the sound.
That terrible, horrible cry.
Someone was coming behind me, fast.
And then a shadow.
Ron Fromstein is a largely self-taught writer from Toronto who has also lived in Chicago, New Orleans Vacouver and Iceland.
Tears soak the freshly turned earth beneath her knees.
Her womb flutters gently, like the butterfly hovering over his flowers.
Fresh-cut daisies, white like surrender, mark his gravestone.
She wipes away her tears and steels her aching spine, leaving empty.
No.
She leaves, but she is not empty.
Daisy.
Theirs.
Collette Night is an Australian writer who crafts lyrical fiction with bite. Her work has been featured in various online and print publications. When not writing, she can be found juggling motherhood while drinking obscene amounts of caffeine.
I learned from you to lure them in by radiating loneliness. To cup them gently in my hands so I wouldn’t crush their small wings. To whisper my last goodbye and let them go. I still heed your words every time I catch one. After all, it might be you.
Alyson Floyd is a writer, poet, and amateur zine-maker drifting around the east coast.
We used to bike to the canal, improv outrageous cat symphonies. Wind rippling the water, we kept time with shadows creeping up walls.
Now we meet on screens the size of our hands. Exchange thumbs, hearts, yawns.
“Meet me at the canal?” I text.
Purring, you bat away my phone.
Michelle Wilson’s words have appeared in Wigleaf, Gooseberry Pie Lit, The Daily Drunk, Bending Genres, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Rejection Letters, Maudlin House, Litro Magazine, 50-Word Stories, and Flash Fiction Magazine, among others. Her story ‘Fish Brain’ was nominated for Best of the Net 2022. She lives with her partner in Washington, DC. Read more of her work at michellekwilson.wordpress.com.
As the minister talks well of her mother, she can only remember the insults. Sit straighter. Lose some weight. Who will want you? You got yourself a man? You don’t look good in white.
She hides her smile in the front pew. You are right, mother. Black suits me best.
N.J. Chan is a Toronto-based writer of short stories, essays, and poems. Her work has been published in magazines, journals, and an anthology, including most recently in the international editorial collective NüVoices. She received a second-place win with Flash Fiction Magazine and an honourable mention in 2023 Askew’s Word on the Lake Anthology (under the name Natalie J. Chan). See more @njchan_author.
The story of the week for April 13 to 17 is…
Life of the Party by Marc Young
Sometimes, looking out the window at passing trees pushes the boundaries of anxiety. The little one in the backseat senses this as I open the moonroof.
“Those aren’t the good trees.”
You’re right, dear, those are not the good trees.
I don’t remember when we last saw the good ones.
Kristie Macris writes occasionally as she splits her time between Seattle and Nice. Very strong NDAs keep her from admitting to anything she wrote before she mostly retired.
Once, I caught a rust-red crawdad in the muddy forest creek. I took him home to a plastic tank, where his red bled out to deathly white. Crying salt, I buried him in the garden.
I only watch the crawdads now, their ruby bodies moving fast beneath the water’s surface.
J.C. Pillard is a writer and editor living in Colorado. Her work has been published in Hearth Stories, Abyss & Apex, Corvid Queen, and elsewhere. When not writing, J.C. can be found gardening and playing too much D&D. Find more of her work at jcpillard.com.
She is on the play mat, looking at the ceiling. He is above her, looking at the app. It says eighty-third percentile. It says he’s crushing it. She looks up at him with her cobalt shade of blue eyes, the same way she looks at the ceiling. He scrolls down.
Robin Koczerginski is a Toronto-based writer. He is completing a memoir on parenting his daughter, born with a genetic condition deemed “incompatible with life”. He lives with his partner and their two daughters.
Who stole the heart from my tin chest? You were flagged, a person of interest:
You flew away. I met a steely woman with lips of pewter, eyes of bronze. You were no longer of interest; a passing storm.
Tom Walsh writes these days from Cambridge, MA. His stories can be found in Emerge, Hobart Pulp, Lost Balloon, Bending Genres, HAD, Flash Frog, The Citron Review and elsewhere. He’s working these days on a flash-novel play about wildfire and fate. Say hi at @tom1walsh.bsky.social.