As archaeologists, we benefit from tragedy
and the human response to it–
the interrupted meal, the sunken ship,
the broken obelisk, the bog-claimed child.
We are consumed by the bread of the grave goods,
and the fields that once nourished cities;
we marvel. We hold broken bones in our hands.
Maria Cargille wrote this story. Her desk is punctuated with lines of beach glass, one stray press block, and countless second-hand postcards.
The story of the week for March 30 to April 3 is…
Wearing Clouds by Angela Carlton
Sometimes, my dad turned me upside down and I walked on the popcorn ceiling, so short it became my whole moonscape. Each pink toe pad pushed like a button. Now, clouds ribbon the blue above me and I gaze upwards, longing. Clouds like ethereal moss, sliding through between my toes.
Sarah Sorensen (she/her) MA, MLIS is a queer writer based in the Metro Detroit area. She’s honored to be named a 2025 Best Small Fictions author and runner-up in the 2025 RockPaperPoem Poetry Contest. Sarah’s poetry chapbook, Light Splits Down the Wolf’s Tooth is now available through Bottlecap Press.
For the first time in 15 years, I couldn’t find your place.
I parked where I always park, but the whole area looked unfamiliar. Valentine roses in hand, I walked around for 11 minutes before giving up.
I should’ve asked at the office but couldn’t admit to losing you twice.
Nancy Stephan is a writer and poet living in Atlanta, GA. She won Georgia Author of the Year (GAYA) for her memoir, The Truth About Butterflies, and spends much of her time reading and writing poetry. See more at nancystephan.com.
Mother’s thoughts: Why must you melt down every time we come to the grocery store? I hate autism.
Son’s thoughts on experiencing sensory overload: Lights on, off, on, off, on off. Noise. People move. Many people. Stuff. Bright colors. Too much! Eyes hurt. Ears hurt. Head hurts. No. NO. NO!!!
Lynn Messing is the mother of a young man with autism. At some point in his youth she came to realize the reason he hated grocery store outings was that he felt his senses were being assaulted by the flickering fluorescent lights, the bright colours, movements, noises and scents. She then tried to make all grocery store runs when the stores were relatively empty and to make them as quick as possible. She submitted this story this month in honor of World Autism Awareness/Acceptance Day which takes place on April 2nd.
Amy scrubs the farm potatoes; water browns. Grips the vegetable brush, knuckles white; scrapes off marks, blemishes, turning them pure, clean.
The potatoes smell of lingering looks, hidden kisses, regret. She rinses away that night, but a layer of residue remains as her husband’s tires crunch gravel on the driveway.
Ellen Townsend is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Fairfield Scribes, 50-Word Stories and others.
The mountains’ song had always been a soft buzz in the background.
“Come here” was a melody without sound.
Eventually I slipped as the gang of peaks encircled me.
“Give me your soul,” they boomed.
I fought, briefly. Futile.
Dropping my pack, I stepped off the trail,
and joined them.
Tom lives with his young family in New Zealand and works as a primary school teacher. He has had a passion for stories ever since learning to walk and is currently working on a series of fantasy novels.
You pushed me high on swings at five, mother, so I could FLY.
Sometimes, I’d jump on merry-go-rounds, spinning-spinning, giggling, catching breath, before I was in your grasp.
After cancer took you, I found my way back, swinging, spinning, at nineteen, you, a faint whisper in the breeze, wearing clouds.
Angela Carlton’s fiction has been published in Every Writer, Everyday Fiction, 6S, 50 Word Stories, Spillwords Press, and Paragraph Planet. In 2018, her story “The Roommates,” was made into a short film. In 2023, her story “Swallowed,” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. See more at Angela Carlton Stories & Art on Facebook.
My daughter loves swinging. She can ride it for hours. I wondered what she found so captivating about it. One night, after putting her to bed, I sat on the swing behind our house. Nothing happened. The difference, I realized, is she has a pair of hands behind her, pushing.
Si Chen is an oceanographer by training and a fiction writer by instinct. He is working on a collection of short stories.
Sarah G. follows her lover’s funeral procession at a respectful distance, toward the waiting grave. Snugs her frayed coat collar along her throat.
His fancy woman, they called her. His bit on the side.
She studies his wife’s impassive face, dry empty eyes.
Her grieving heart throbs against her ribs.
Gary Thomson prefers celebration of life gatherings, their conviviality, storytelling, bonhomie, over formalized funeral ceremonies.