When I was little, they tried to teach me to eat spaghetti properly; twist it round and round my fork, then stop. I always froze, mesmerized by the spinning.
Anxiety’s like that, too. They tell you to worry, worry, then cope. But I just get stuck watching my mind whirl.
Maria attends college in the Midwest, and loves that microfiction fits neatly into her study breaks.
An office drudge’s gloom always characterized James’s daily commutes.
Today, he smiled as he slid into City Station’s unisex washroom. Jaimie emerged, boarded the train and bypassed his regular stop.
At line’s end, she gazed across the sun-dappled street at New Beginnings’ help-wanted sign. Perfect place to restart my life.
Alan Kemister is a retired scientist experimenting with more fictitious writing. Get the gory details at alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com.
A silent man still sat at the mahogany bar, hours after ordering a single drink, still staring at his scotch glass, yet to take a single sip.
His eyes were cold and sober. “I’m done,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve had my last drink.”
And then he left.
Ketevan is a Georgian university student who is currently pursuing a degree in Computer Science. She writes in her free time and aspires to one day publish a book.
We sat by dad’s deathbed, my sisters and I. He opened his eyes and stared at us with urgency.
“You only ever got to know my shell,” he said. “Quick; I gotta show you!”
Curious, we all leaned forward on our chairs and waited.
But he never said anything more.
David Derey wrote this story.
A man wrote a song and died.
Trembling, the song tried to sing herself. Each day she practised, flexing melodic limbs, strengthening pale notes, until she came to understand discordant beauty.
That day, her song spilled into rivers and comet trails, spread throughout galaxies.
The universe leaned in to listen.
Lisa Alletson is an emerging writer whose work has been published in The Globe and Mail, Ginosko Literary Journal, and The Write Launch. She was born in South Africa and lives in Toronto, Canada. Follow her on Twitter at @LisaAlletson.
Sani and I stood in a hotel parking lot once and watched two children who were standing silently, holding each other’s hands and looking at the ground, while their parents fought.
That night we promised each other we’d always talk gently.
Those were hopeful days, before we knew the world.
Owen Yager is a senior at Carleton College. His work has recently appeared or is upcoming in multiple publications, including Flash Fiction Magazine.
Despair of evening gives way to terrors of the night, to sleep, disrupted, dreaming of elegance, of past and future nightmares. To wake to morning and rise, to work, to read, to listen for wisdom, to love again and hope for another evening, another night, another dream of another day.
Originally from New York, Janet Clare lives in Los Angeles with her husband. She’s had short fiction and essays published in literary journals online and anthologized. She studied at UC Berkeley and UCLA. Her first novel, Time Is the Longest Distance, was published December 2018 by a small press out of Australia, where the story is set. She is at work on her second novel, A Different Happiness.
He turns off the flashlight. They’re in total darkness. Water laps against their boat. A drop of water lands on her head.
“It’s just a cave kiss,” he says.
She doesn’t like caves or boats. She does love this man. She closes her eyes and dreams she is the moon.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
Finally, the call came, after six months of mystery liquid
dripping from her nose–
a cerebral fluid leak originating from a hole at the base of her brain.
The enemy had been unmasked after not one, not two, but three lab samples.
No time for fear; she prepared for battle.
Vernae is a wife, mother, and grandmother who is getting off the sidelines and into the art of writing for better or for worse. Vernae is currently completing three books of poetry that reflect the joys, challenges, and hope throughout the human experience.
The day fertilizer was delivered, he showered it down hollering, “Girl, watch our corn grow!” His eyes always checked the skyline for clouds.
Fallow fields all around; only thing growing fast is cancer. Rain healed the crops. Now I wheel Dad into the storms, praying it will heal him too.
Madeleine Kleppinger is a writer with a day job as a scientist in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She hosts a blog that helps readers discover their greatest story, with weekly posts that range from book reviews to original short stories to lifestyle pieces about adventurous living. Her free time is spent bounding through the wilderness with her American Bulldog, Sonnet.