by Thomas J. Misuraca

Footsteps upstairs. Reminding me of my old apartment living days.

The upstairs residence switched renters quicker than the leases allowed. No matter how well I knew my upstairs neighbors, I heard them more than I saw them. 

Edna, the little old French lady, woke up with the sun every morning and stomped over my head as if she were a charging rhino. She dropped things constantly, scaring the life out of me with the sudden crashing on my head.

Gil, the large Latino, had a softer step. Most days I heard nothing of him, but at night, he paced the floor endlessly. 

The one guy I never met was a night owl. I heard him running around his bedroom as I was about to fall asleep. Then a second set of footsteps joined him until they transformed into bed springs squeaking. 

Footsteps upstairs. A whole other life I could only imagine from their sound. 
​
Footsteps upstairs. I counted the days until I no longer had to hear them.

As I awake in my new home to the sound of thunderous footsteps, I remember…

Nobody lives above me. 

* * *

​Tom Misuraca has had over 150 short stories and two novels published. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. He’s also a multi-award winning playwright with over 150 short plays and 13 full-lengths produced globally.

by Gabriella Brand

Years ago, she would have screamed. Hit it with a rock, the edge of a hoe. Killed it, if she could have, because life hadn’t yet mellowed her.
​
Now she just stared at the young, coiled snake that had surprised her in the garden. She had lifted up a cinder block that had fallen off the fire pit—and there it was, pale khaki with thin blue-green stripes, like a military uniform.
​ 
She waited for it to slither away. But it didn’t. Fear glued it to the earth.

She stood there for a little while letting awe creep over her.

* * *

Gabriella Brand’s fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in such publications as The Citron Review, Vita Poetica, Shiuli (India) and Room. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Gabriella teaches French and writing in the OLLI program at the University of Connecticut. 

by Rebecca Klassen

Harry comes home after work.

"Right where I left you both," he says. Shivering and tired, I swear at him while Lily's head jiggles at my breast.  

The streak of light is sudden like a gunshot from the wall. From its root, the tiny porthole above the mantlepiece, I see the diminishing day, swallowed up by baby.

When Harry peers through the hole, it casts a bright monocle around his eye. I press Lily to him, then retreat upstairs for shallow sleep until Lily needs me again.

   ~*~

Harry arrives home and asks about dinner, and I babble about initiative, swearing again. He calls me a prickly cow. More holes appear in the lounge walls, and Lily screams when Harry slams the door.

   ~*~

Lily teethes, and Harry and I jostle for position of most impressive martyr. The walls become more pocked, the holes weeping brickwork. What do I know about plastering? It’s probably impossible when you’re holding a baby.
​
   ~*~
​
Harry comes home and looks at the walls, the light freckled across his dark suit. Tears plop from my jaw onto Lily’s cottony body.

"Everything’s going to collapse," I say.

Harry sits next to me and strokes Lily’s head.

"She’s beautiful, like her mama."

I shake my head. "Now way; she looks like you."

He slips his arm around my shoulders as the light in the room fades. I hear the rattle of stones and catch the scent of disturbed dust.

"She looks so content," he says. "You’re doing an amazing job with her."

I rest my head on his chest, sleepy in the rapidly dimming light. "It can’t be easy, being away from her all day."

As Harry kisses my cheek, the room darkens, but I can still see his face as he rests his forehead against mine, Lily nestled between us.

* * *

Rebecca Klassen is co-editor of The Phare and a Best of the Net 2025 nominee. She won the London Independent Story Prize and was shortlisted for this year’s Alpine Fellowship. Her work has been performed on BBC radio.

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 Linda M. Crate

​when best friends
transition to
ghosts,
this aching heart
feels as if it will
ache forever;
i wish i could let her go
but she was my childhood— 
i still see the auburn and gold
of her hair in the summer sun
when i look at the childhood in my past,
how am i supposed to simply forget her
as she has me?
i hate living ghosts,
at least you know where to visit the dead. 

* * *

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose works you can find at her social media links: 
​Facebook 
Instagram
Twitter

by Colette Coen

Our argument seemed trivial now, but as she approached, I wondered if she would stop or even say hello. I stood my ground, determined not to shrink into the detergents and tissues. I might not have noticed her slight hesitation if I had not been watching her so closely, but it was there. I could almost see her mouthing the words I had said to myself when I spotted her. She kept coming until she stood in front of me, our trolleys side by side, blocking the aisle.

"He’s dead, you know."

I nodded, smiling slightly. "Water under the bridge."

* * *

Colette Coen was a runner-up in Mslexia’s SS Competition 2023 and most recently published in Causeway/Cabshair. Her books are on Amazon. She lives near Glasgow where she runs Beech Editorial Services. She’ll swap a story for dark chocolate.

by Ed Ahern

Years ago, hunting deer in a forest, I stumbled onto an abandoned farmstead. There were no traces of roads or pathways into the site, no wood or glass or iron. Just the stone cairn of a chimney, and tumbled rock fences, strewn by trees. Connecticut is stoney soil, the clearing and stacking would have been the labor of years.

A chill, soft rain was falling, birds and animals were silent and still. The smell was of sodden leaves and the mold of rotted trees. As I moved cemetery-slowly through the grounds, I wanted to put a name to the ruined labor—the someone or other house, the something or other farm. But there were only age scattered rocks.

And there, where I thought a sitting room might have been, was a neatly stacked cairn, three feet high, that weathering could not have accomplished. A body perhaps, or a keepsake interred at the home it belonged to.

I propped my rifle against a sapling and lifted off the cap stone, intending to burrow down to discovery. And hesitated. And put it back. Undisturbed. What I imagined was more than I could discover, more than I could unearth.
​
I moved on, the farmstead undisturbed and unrecorded. And have long since forgotten its location.

* * *

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had about 500 stories and poems published so far, and ten books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories where he manages a posse of seven review editors, and as lead editor at Scribes Micro.

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 Gabriella Brand

Melissa cut her hair, preemptively. The bathroom floor looked like two gray cats had been fighting, tearing out each other’s fur. The cut hair curled around the base of the toilet and stuck to the porcelain. She would clean it later. Or maybe not.

When she looked in the mirror, she told herself not to cry. It was better this way, rather than waiting for the portal, and the drip, and the nausea. 

When John came home, he stared at Melissa in the same way he had when she had told him she was pregnant, thirty years before. As if an asteroid had hit the earth. But, once again, he regained his composure and once again, he said, “Hmmm… that’s amazing.”

He did not tell her that she looked pretty, because she didn’t. And John was nothing if not honest. 

He did not tell her that it would grow back, as he had once told their toddler who had gotten adventurous with scissors.

He did not tell Melissa that he loved her just as she was, because she already knew.
​
But he said nothing of real comfort, either.

The person who made her feel a little better was an acquaintance in her book group.

“You look like Pema Chodron, you know, the nun?”

Melissa nodded and ran her fingers over her stubble, suddenly feeling more tender towards herself. More charitable. More inclined to breathe.

She wondered if Pema Chodron had ever been a mendicant, wandering around asking for alms. Probably not.

She had heard that the traditional Buddhist way to beg was to just wait. Not ask. Not plead. Not bargain. Not cajole. Not pray. Just wait.

So when no one was looking, she made the shape of a bowl with her fingers and began waiting.


* * *

Gabriella Brand’s fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in such publications as The Citron Review, Vita Poetica, Shiuli (India) and Room. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Gabriella teaches French and writing in the OLLI program at the University of Connecticut. 

by Jeffery Johnson

I retired six years ago, and in a fit of perceived liberation, I discarded all my dress clothes. I’d live the rest of my days in jeans, shorts, and sandals. I was at a sartorial disadvantage, therefore, when I got the news.

Jonathan Francis Glidden’s wife, Danielle, called with the news that about five thousand steps into his daily stroll, he dropped over dead from a massive heart attack. “Oh, Denny, he was gone just like that,” she reported. “Would you do the eulogy? You’re the best talker in the group. It’ll be next Thursday.”   

​    ~*~

Johnny had led a pretty mundane and undistinguished life. I’m sure there must have been many things that deserved recognition but damned if I knew any of them. Oh, I had plenty of funny stories to tell, but this was problematic as well. Johnny was the constant butt of our collective jokes growing up. How could I tell any of the narratives immediately coming to mind without making him look like a fool or an idiot?

He never had a prestigious career, But being a father was his forte. His son and daughter flat-out adored him. They each recounted times when he had been loving, generous, and wise. So, I was able to come up with a fine little speech that paid tribute and even got a couple of good laughs.

Oh, lest I forget. I looked pretty damn good too. After a careful survey of my closet, it was clear that I needed to start from scratch. Dress shoes, shirts that really fit, and a lovely grey suit were in order. It was a thousand or so bucks well spent.

I kind of suspected that I’d reached that point in life where I’d need the ensemble again.

* * *

​Jeffery Johnson is a retired professor of philosophy and an aspiring mystery and short story writer.

by Joshene Bersales

She finds an old dress
in her closet
by accident.

Black
cheap cotton
a hole in one pocket
(she was proud of those pockets)
and two missing buttons.

“It’s all wrinkled up
like me,”
she says with a laugh.

He steps into her space.

"Still beautiful— 
that dress 
and you."

She doesn’t feel beautiful
most days.

But in that moment
with that wrinkled ol’ dress
in her arms
and she in his

she feels
the fairest
of them all.

* * *

Joshene Bersales is a writer, editor, and translator from the Philippines. She self-published her first digital short story collection, Box the Stars and other stories, in 2021. Connect with her via https://linktr.ee/joshenebersales.

by Paul Lewthwaite

She is envious of her shadow.

It flickers in and out of existence, oblivious of bills, bawling kids, screaming husband, and the toothache that’s bothered her for months.

Would she swap? Escape the noise and grind for grey-scale monotony? 
​
Perhaps not, but when life burns too bright, jealousy still lingers.

* * *

Paul is a retired physician living in Scotland with his wife and a small, but all-powerful cat. He’s always surprised when he can write a story. Some appear at Dark Moments, fiftywordstories.com, and 101words.org.

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 Daniel Rogers

autumn wind
the busker's guitar
out of tune


sunset
the fruit bowl
full of oranges

​
starry night
flicking through
an old diary
​
* * *

Born and raised in Lancashire, England, Daniel moved to Poland in 2015, where he now teaches English as a foreign language. When not divulging the finer points of English grammar, he likes to write.

by Chip Houser

We are the occupants of the village you created, the village you abandoned. We are here because of you, but we are not yours. We are not your property or your prisoners, your mistakes or your consequences, your problems or your solutions. We are all of these things, and not. We are here because of you, but we are not here for you.

We are the street cobbles, heel-polished and moss-ringed. We are the cats, languid wanderers, sprawling on sun-warmed stoops. We are the dry leaves skipping along empty streets.

We are the rocks cleared from surrounding fields, set into walls. We are the mice, eyes shining in the damp shadow of a broken terracotta pot. We are the grapevines climbing the tower, roots grasping plaster.

We are the brick archways, mortar receding like gums from the pocked teeth of our inverted smiles. We are the lizards, darting out of sight. We are the lichen blooming across clay roof tiles.

We are the empty windows, the sagging doors, the crumbling defensive walls. We are the wild boar, foraging for pomegranate and fig in overgrown gardens. We are the pines, stretching for more light.
​
We are not your village, we are ourselves, and we are all each other. We are the village now, together, and we have grown beyond your reach.

* * *

Chip Houser's short fiction has appeared in Pulp Literature, Bourbon Penn, Every Day Fiction, and elsewhere. Red Bird Chapbooks published a collection of his very short fiction in 2023 called “Dark Morsels.”