by Jim Harrington

She'd been young, brash, married to a banker, an older man. Happiness didn't matter. Money and prestige did. That's what her mother had preached unceasingly. Now, withdrawn, widowed, childless, and nearly broke, she stared out the cracked window in the direction of a rotted oak, happiness still an unachievable feeling.

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JIM HARRINGTON lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Free Flash Fiction, Short-Story.me, and others. More of his works can be found at https://jpharrington.blogspot.com.

by Suzanne Hicks

Everyone’s chatting and forking lunch into their mouths, but I can’t take my eyes off the fish tank behind the bar, remembering the lake back home, watching hooks pulled from jaws, mouths gaping, gills pumping to breathe, smelling that lake water no matter the distance I put between us. If only I could plunge into the tank, gather all the fish in my arms, take them to salty, open waters. But I know they’d suffocate before I could find a place where they could feel what it’s like to swim free.

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SUZANNE HICKS is a disabled writer living with multiple sclerosis. Her work has appeared in matchbook, Gooseberry Pie, Milk Candy Review, and others. Her stories have been selected for Best Microfiction and the Wigleaf Longlist. Read more at suzannehickswrites.com.

by Clodagh O Connor

My child is an unsolved equation. Doctors try to figure him out, cancelling out known factors until only his difference remains.

My child is a statistic. Normal children can’t help but be mean—it is their nature. He finds himself far from the centre, hiding in the long tail almost disappearing to nothing.

My child is not the problem. Why should he integrate himself into our way of thinking?  He must find his own solution, and I will be here to balance things out.

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CLODAGH O CONNOR lives in Dublin, Ireland, and is working on becoming a writer. She particularly enjoys the challenges of tiny fiction. She can be found on Bluesky at https://bsky.app/profile/iamagnat.bsky.social.

Michael Roberts

As I drove her to the doctor’s office, my grandmother said, “it’s disorienting this business of getting old, all these aches and ailments, fuss and trouble, and thinking you’re 16 until you pass by a mirror.” I was 16 and nodded like I understood. Now 74, I’ve had an epiphany.

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MICHAEL ROBERTS is a retiree enjoying life and good writing, and writing good, even if bad.