by Terri Mullholland

"Imagine your ideal world," whispered The Weaver, "and I will make it come true."

On her loom, she began to weave a whole kingdom. By her hands, my dreams blossomed—a castle and forest of soft threads. 

All night she toiled. 

In the morning, she spread her silk-spun land on the barren earth outside her cottage—where nothing had grown for generations. 

Immediately, it sprouted and spread, sending forth a forest with a winding pathway. 

"It will grow as you walk to your castle. Follow it. Do not stop. Do not look back. I will meet you there. I promise."

* * *

Terri Mullholland (she/her) is a writer and researcher living in London, UK. Her flash fiction has appeared in various journals and anthologies. She loves stories, cats, and tea. 

by Lori Cramer

Something about Marjorie intrigued us. Was it her hair color? Her sense of style? The way she walked?
 
We soon figured it out: She reminded us of us.
 
So we agreed we’d let her sit at our table. Lucky her! She lunched with us every day for a month.
 
But then she met Harry.
 
Now she eats her meals at his table. Watches doubleheaders with him instead of double features with us. Strolls right by as if she doesn’t even know us.
 
The nerve!
 
So we’ve made a decision: That’s the last time we befriend anyone in this retirement home.

* * *

Lori Cramer’s 100-word stories have appeared in The Drabble, The Meadowlark Review, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Her work has been longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Best Microfiction. Find out more at https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com. X: @LCramer29.

by Michael Brockley

My white German shepherd’s ghost sleeps in the passenger seat as I wrestle my road-weary Silverado onto the Ghost Road. We have survived half-resurrection and tombstone blues in magic cities. And practiced nighthawk songs with devils in blue dresses. Sadie barks as I shuffle through the biography of a phantom. As I grope for the name of Bluebeard’s first wife. Lady Blue or Black Cherry. Last night a blue angel serenaded us with a song coaxed from a rose drum. I’ll let Sadie sleep through the cross-dog hours. Through the three shades of dream. Even ghost dogs get the blues.

* * *

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Superpresent, and Dreams of Rust and Glass, Volume 2. Poems are forthcoming in Last Stanza Poetry Journal and confetti. 

by Elysia Rourke

I am born on a whisper of your breath. A sigh of wind volleys me skyward, the corners of your mouth in close pursuit.

Can you see all you’ve created, mirrored on my cellophane skin? The garden, masterpieces scrawled in colourful chalk, and two children with remnants of homemade raspberry jam sparkling from spring-kissed cheeks.

I settle on the grass, its blades dulled by winter. There is still time.
​
You lift your wand again. My siblings flutter from your lips. The children squeal, “You made a rainbow, Mummy!” You’ve made their smiles too.

Here, enough simple joy I could burst.

* * *

Elysia Rourke lives in Almonte, Ontario with her husband, two sons, and dog. She has a weakness for London fogs, Christmas morning, and a salty ocean breeze. Her writing can be found at www.elysiarourke.com.

by Natasha Mihell

Wraith; fearless. She inscribes a course over root, under branch, kicking up snow glitter with her leaping. Borne by shadow, she ignites. Relentless. The forest is noiseless no longer; she sings into its maw. It returns the favor. She smiles. She has known loneliness, and hers does not live here.

* * *

Natasha Mihell is an artist-at-heart living amidst the forests and urban decay of Canada’s West Coast. Her writing explores the reclamation of self-love, hope, and power, amidst systems and circumstances that threaten hearts and minds. Connect at natashamihell.com and @natashamihell on Instagram. 

by Miranda Ray

He started out growing matchbooks in his backyard when he was ten. Every year, and every subsequent science fair, his craft evolved until he was growing birdhouses, doghouses, toolsheds, and drive-through espresso stands. By the time he turned twenty, he could seed the earth with a shingle, a doorknob, an unbitted key, and grow a one-bedroom one-bath house complete with an antique claw foot tub.

The houses gestated in two weeks, and could be moved into by the third. In six months, he had single-handedly solved the homelessness problem on all six habitable continents. The middle class moved out of suburbia in droves, trading Venetian blinds for venation wallpaper, electricity and wind power for chloroplasts and photosynthesis.

He was the youngest living recipient of the Nobel Prize, and went on several well-documented dates with many well-received actresses. He was invited to demonstrate at TED Talks, and was the keynote speaker at the New Earth Summit. In autumn, when houses around the world were just starting to change their colors, he delivered a rousing commencement speech at the University of Oxford and unveiled an orchard of new dormitories. Amid rapturous applause, a lone student put her hand up and asked:

"So what's the plan for when the roofs fall off in winter?"

* * *

Miranda was raised on a small island in the Pacific Northwest. She is the author of Lustily Ever After, the first erotic audiobook musical for adults. Visit her online at www.mirandaray.com, or find her @dammitmiranda on Instagram.