His mother-in-law wears PTSD like a crown. She regales anyone within earshot about leaving her government job after her coworkers were mean to her and collecting disability for years.
He never mentions it, but he has not set foot in Lower Manhattan in the twenty-five years since the towers fell.
A recovering lawyer, Liam MacDonald has seen some things and carried a few burdens. Some weigh more than others. Find him at liammacwrites.com.
Mother spray-painted the car; “voices” told her to hide.
Psych meds scattered everywhere, memories of lullabies linger, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird, before grabbing you from bed, at six, screaming, “Lord, take us!”
Now, if sleep comes, you snatch that swift, dark bird from clouds, to hear it sing.
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.
Akari Osaka got her first violin at four. Crooked pigtails, bow trembling like a nervous bird. Her father, a Nisei, sat cross‑legged, watching her saw through “Twinkle, Twinkle” like scripture. He didn’t clap. He just nodded once, slow — the same nod he gave remembering patrols in Italy with the 442nd.
L.F. Graubard is a noir‑jazz writer whose work explores illness, trauma, institutional logic, and moral absurdity. His fiction has appeared in ExPat Press, and his flash piece “The Insecticide Parade” is forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly (March 2026). He is completing a novel‑length cycle set within the federal prison and medical systems.
The scent of my dead grandmother drifts past me, luring me home. I return willingly to her, following the rosewater scent of my childhood. Like last summer’s relentless rains driven by the early winds of a devastating hurricane, memories long buried flood inside my studio. Too late to forget. Regrets.
A short story and creative nonfiction writer born in Pennsylvania, Lilian resides on the west coast of Florida. After living three decades in California, she trekked back east in 2003 to a state where the sun shines brutally hot most of the year. An inveterate wanderer, former weekly journalist and technical writer, Lilian dreams of moving to points unknown. While she works on a memoir series grounded in her discovery of her grandmother’s poems written during the years 1899 – 1931, she writes flash fiction and 50-word stories.
They shrilled for seventeen years underground. When they rose that warm June afternoon—dozens, then hundreds—no one listened. So they screamed louder. The town buzzed, trembling like spent paper, then fell still. Forgetting helped. It was better that way. No one noticed the tears crawling down my cheeks, soft as legs.
Nathan Doyle (he/him) is a poet and writer from Boston, MA. He received a Scholastic Silver Key in Poetry and three Honorable Mentions. His work explores silence, survival, and the spaces between perception and memory. His debut poem is forthcoming in Feral Poetry. Find him on Instagram at @geekgumo.
The morning moon blots against the blue sky like a thumbprint dipped in milk. A strange, off-kilter day. Grandma Lil in her kitchen sipping peyote tea. She still had a stash from that lost year in Mexico. Some bad trips. Numbs her headaches. Visions of Lucy in trouble are clear.
Nina Welch’s short stories appear in Literally Stories online anthology in February and March, 2024. Her poetry appeared in Rats Ass Review, Aaduna Press for National Poetry Month, Girls on Film, Fandango 8 Poetry, and Fandango 8 Poetry and Short Stories. She was awarded first place at the University of Arizona’s Academy of American Poets competition judged by esteemed poet Carl Dennis. She lives in San Clemente, California and is a contributing writer for the San Clemente Journal.
Yesterday, we buried another cat, pure and innocent, eight more lives ahead of him. Someone forgot to shut the front door, despite Papa’s constant warnings.
Sometimes, He’s a prophet. Other times, a military man.
“Your grief is an artwork,” He’d say.
Every day he paints his trauma on a canvas.
Viabel Oluwatosin, from the shores of Lagos, is an enthusiastic short story writer and a poet. Formerly known as Oluwatosin Okupa, her creative works have appeared in Five Minutes Lit and several other literary journals. With a creative focus centered on restoring hope and sanity through the enriching power of words, she breathes fearlessly on oluwatosinokupa.medium.com and tweets at @ladyviabel.
The first cat he loved died when he was young.
Time weathered. Age hardened. Pain grew familiar.
But after the divorce, the scratch that cat had etched into his toddler-sized ring finger started stinging, and that wailing child reemerged, scarred by something he had assumed was exclusively soft and warm.
Tim Weighart grew up near Boston, but he lives in Colorado now. He enjoys words, and the trials that come with finding the right ones.
The smoke attacks his lungs as the blue Salvador Dali clock ticks above him. But he continues looking for anything—no, anyone left.
“Anyone here?” he yells to the embers. Burning faces of stuffed animals glare in silence.
He hears the cry and wakes to find himself in bed, yet again.
Alexander Holcomb (he/him) lives in Knoxville, Tennessee with his wife Olivia and has written fiction featured in Wrong Turn Lit, Bright Flash Literary Review, and various other presses. His other work can be found at alexanderholcomb.substack.com.
She hears that rotten limb finally snap. Waiting for a scream, she freezes. But the only sound is birds welcoming the new day. She pushes away the reminder of the sound her arm made when he hit her with a baseball bat. She smiles as she fills the watering can.
Debra Kuzbik lives on Vancouver Island and watches out for creaking branches.
Editor: To refresh your memory, look back on Tim Boiteau’s Widowmaker and Stephen Tilden’s Widowmaker Revisited.