Gone are the summers where she stood in the downtrodden orchard picking leathery tangerines with white fuzzy splotches, trying to find a good one. Gone are the melted ice cream nights on the unmown lawn next to the golden retriever who, when she lifted his paws, danced in her arms.
Meg Pokrass lives in the Scottish Highlands. Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals including New England Review, Electric Literature and Five Points. She’s the founding editor of Best Microfiction.
I silently mourn the beheading of my neighbor’s flowers; my son doesn’t know why we can freely pick dandelions, but should leave the tulips alone. He sees a colorful thing suddenly growing from nothing, something magical, and thinks of me. He’ll forget this; I’ll never forget how his hair smelled.
Matilda Albright currently lives in Detroit, and is just trying her best.
City dwellers have converted derelict farm buildings into holiday homes, the fresh paintwork aggressive against their forlorn neighbours. Yet behind their steel security shutters, within their cocoon of comfort, these newcomers fear the future, aware that AI might steal their jobs and destroy a prosperity they imagined would last forever.
Madeleine McDonald’s published work includes radio stories, flash fiction and romance novels.
The story of the week for April 27 to May 1 is…
You Break It by Adele Gallogly
In my dreams, the sky’s blue.
I belong everywhere, though I’m a child of nowhere. Summer comes. I snorkel in Malta and spend full days with the sun in Reykjavik. My passport is indigo; the stamps inside are free.
I awake to a view of clouds stained gray with soot.
Gopika Nair likes to write, but typically gives up on drafts halfway through. She has made it her 2026 mission to actually finish some stories.
She was dancing barefoot at the festival. Flower-crowned, hands lifted to catch the sunrise, beads and bangles clattering. The ancient stone circle rang with music, wild chants. She claimed she’d met witches there, and real fairies. Pretended she’d stay with them.
We searched afterwards. Found only flitting shadows, faint laughter.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
He sees tomorrow but never tells anyone.
He never places bets, never profits. He grieves before grief is due. He never phones the authorities. He never buys stocks.
His days are consumed with uttering a single prayer: that he is wrong about tomorrow.
He has yet to receive an answer.
Adrian L. Cook is an artist/scholar who is currently stuck in linear time…but he’s working on it.
I hear your laugh when I walk in. The voice in my head likes to play tricks.
Our song is playing. Sometimes, I can hear both when I’m alone.
Other times, there are only stolen grace notes.
The song ends, and I hear you again.
But you aren’t laughing alone.
Dan enjoys the art and science of writing 50-word stories.
She offers to shoplift the bull instead, kicking the chipped tadpole under an antique cart. But her kid won’t hear of it.
“GREEN!” he screams. Never mind that she passed her colourblindness on to him, along with her dimpled chin. She pockets the tailless figurine.
Later, she’ll pay for everything.
Adele Gallogly lives and writes in Ontario, Canada. Her work has appeared in the 2025 Bridport Prize Anthology, FlashFlood, Paragraph Planet, Six-Sentences, and elsewhere. You can find her on BlueSky.
After you died, I took a walk in the fields by our house and pretended the blades of grass were things we fought about. The wind helped push them away. I stayed until dark and danced with fireflies in your memory. For a moment, I almost forgot I was human.
Amanda Rivard holds a certificate in creative writing and has been published in 101 Words and Blue Villa.