Crestfallen, needing air, he stepped outside.
A neighbor’s voice, so close and urgent in the dark, startled him. “Look!” she said. Just in time he caught the streak of a meteor, and in its disappearance another bright trace against the stars.
“Look!” he said.
And that had to be enough.
M. Henninger-Voss is an award-winning historian, a personalist, and writer of essays, fiction, and poetry.
The urn’s cold, hard exterior matched the heart of the man it held. When I hurled it off the pier—the same pier where Mother disappeared—it sank quickly, swallowed by the incoming tide as if the sea understood what it meant for me to erase him from my life.
Bud Pharo is a permanently disabled American who writes short stories and flash fiction. His work has been featured in a number of literary magazines, both in print and online.
The radiator clicks without warming the room. He crosses out sentences until the paper softens beneath his hand. Outside, trucks hiss along the highway. Inside, unfinished thoughts press against his teeth. Near dawn, one finally escapes him whole enough to survive the page before morning enters the room.
Louie Rivers is an emerging poet from Mississippi whose work explores labor, isolation, and emotional endurance through compressed imagery and lyric intensity.
I wasn’t driving, even though my dad’s knee was a bruised balloon. My job was to converse. We talked about Nebraska’s only good quality: sunflower fields for miles. We laughed, pretending he wasn’t dropping me off and driving back cross-country by himself, only to arrive at an empty home.
Cozette Annemarie Calderon is an undergraduate student at The New School where she studies Literary Studies. She was previously the Editor-in-Chief for The Benicia Paw. Now, she is a copy editor for the New School Free Press. She is based in New York City and Vallejo, California where she works as an American Sign Language interpreter.
The psych ward is ten paces long.
The washroom beyond? Just five.
So what’s behind the rest?
I’ve mapped this whole place – voids everywhere. And they all link up.
Is every building like this? Whole cities, parallel worlds, meshed with ours?
“Harmless obsession,” my caseworker reckons.
Tomorrow I’m breaking through.
William Mitchell lives in East Sussex in the South of England. He is an award-winning author, having had early success with various Horror and Science Fiction publications before winning the Writers of the Future contest in 2012. His first novel, CREATIONS, came out in 2014 with John Hunt Publishing.
Back in 1947, BioMother relinquished her baby for adoption under a pseudonym. BioFather was “Unknown.” Masters of misdirection, they’d multiplied and vanished. Baby searched for decades, a woman sawed in half.
Pencil-bending bureaucrats. Palmed-dollar private detectives. A DNA card-shuffle. With a wave of the wand, the magicians remained forever invisible.
Writings by Lisa K. Buchanan (www.lisakbuchanan.com) appear in CRAFT, The Citron Review, and elsewhere. Foes: fellow bus passengers with shoulder bags near her nose. Friends: anyone not preceding her in the bakery line for a lemon bar. Heroes: public librarians. Current favorite banned book: Bus 57 (Dashka Slater).
My girlfriend lives in silence
And she speaks in signs.
Her phone vibrates a text.
“Flight LX327 to Zurich now boarding.”
We kiss. Sigh. Hold hands,
let go. Kiss once more.
She picks up her bag, turns to sign
“Good-bye. I love you.”
Her hands leave fingerprints in the air.
Sherry writes poetry as an excuse to hang out with the poets of County Waterford, Ireland.
There’s that distinctive sound freshly frosted fern fronds make when stepped upon. It’s different than the snap of exhausted twigs, or a bed of pine needles gathered for their winter sleep over.
It’s the sound of saltine crackers being crumbled into that first fall minestrone simmering on the wood stove.
Jimmy is a writer from Portland, Oregon. Having worked in the horticultural side of life for over 30 years, he is now working on a book about his backpacking adventures around South Asia in the early 1990’s.
Pushing her daughter on the swing always made her world seem much brighter. She was sent home early today. Her hours were cut again. Where would their next meal come from? A second job was out of the question.
One envelope stood out among the bills in the mailbox.
“Pre-approved.”
Christa Lyon-Moon spends her free time crafting flash fiction that finds meaning in small moments where imagination meets real life.
Dear Forest,
Take me, this day. Be it thorn or splinter, poison leaf or needle, or by way that does not make a sound.
May we dance with broken limbs, bleed with rotting hearts, and burn with contagious crowns of fire.
Let’s be the wind upon our last falling bough.