by Karen Schauber

We hug the coastline, the water lipping and lapping, squeezing us against the scrub brush and pink granite boulders. Sophie stomps her feet in plops of seafoam eddying in tide pools. We let her play. So much has been lost. But not this. Her innocence glinting in the sunlight, giggles clutching our heartbeats. We safeguard this last remnant, this singular, unsullied, untarnished, vestige. Otherwise, what is it all for. Trudging at night beneath ribbons of greenish-blue light, the auroras coxswaining us toward safety in the northern hinterlands. We press ahead. Agents two days behind at most. Our precious cargo intact.

* * *

Karen Schauber’s flash fiction appears in over 100 international journals, magazines, and anthologies with nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction and the Wigleaf Top 50. Schauber curates Vancouver Flash Fiction – an online resource hub. Read her at: https://KarenSchauberCreative.weebly.com 

by Katie Thorn

Mark watched his newest wife throw the bouquet over her shoulder. You’d think he’d be used to it: the bouquet toss, the party games, and drunk uncles. 

It set his teeth on edge.

Abbey was a safer bet than his previous wives. Laurel had impeded his plans. Roberta couldn’t keep up with him. Abbey, though—he’d known her since childhood. Heck, he’d dated her sister at university. 

Abbey would know how to keep him happy. And it didn’t hurt to have the sister waiting in the wings. He downed his champagne and stepped into the sun, clapping with the guests. 

* * *

Katie Thorn, currently studying creative writing online through Falmouth University, divides her time between writing, baking, and listening to odd musicals. Her stories have been published in Livina Press, Prompt Press, The Writer’s Workout, Magnolia Magazine, and Candlelit Chronicles.

by Liz deBeer

Mom’s quiet as we drive to the beach, not even complaining that my music’s too loud. Since summer’s over, the parking lot’s empty when I pull in. Holding onto Mom, we follow the path as memories flick: building sand castles, body surfing, kite flying, picnicking on peanut butter sandwiches. Kicking off my sandals, I step into the salty surf, ignoring its chill, then dive through waves, clutching Mom’s urn tightly. Her ashes cling to my wet skin when I shake them into rocking ripples that cradle me with calming consolation before I submerge myself and swim back, stroke by stroke.

* * *

Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her latest flash has appeared in Switch, Bending Genres, Sad Girls Diaries, Lucky Jefferson, Every Day Fiction, and Libre.
Liz's website is www.ldebeerwriter.com. 

by Nissa Harlow

She died. But her soul didn’t leave her body like it should have.

Maybe it figured the old graveyard, full yet forgotten, was a good place to spend eternity.

So it stayed, clothing her bones, keeping the flesh company as time melted it slowly away.

The camera lies abandoned at her side, images of headstones captured in pixels within. She didn’t take a photo of the stone that caught her heel, nor the one that now stands guard at her head, its age-blunted corner smeared with blood.

When they find her bones, someone will take a picture. It seems fitting.

* * *

​Nissa Harlow lives in British Columbia, Canada where she dreams up strange stories and writes some of them down. Her short fiction has been published in Weird Lit Magazine and 50-Word Stories. You can find her online at nissaharlow.com.

by Michael Brockley

I ramble the noonday route through my neighborhood wearing new Keen hiking boots. When the small dogs on Berkeley bound across their lawn to greet me, I boast about their territorial imperative. The pleasures harmonized by their pacing the fence beside my joy. Along Lanewood, I inhale the fragrance from a pie someone is baking. Perhaps cherry crumb, a confection deliciously sweet and sour. When my left shoelace works loose, I tighten both shoes on a bench by the free library box. It is the day the last pear petals fall, the time before serviceberries ripen from pink to plum.

* * *

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, and Gyroscope Review. Poems are forthcoming in Stormwash: Environmental Poems, Volume II and 912 Review. 

by Paul Lewthwaite

“This isn’t working." My words mix with the thrum of our car. You start to cry, fists pounding the steering wheel, ignoring the road.

Wheels skid on ice—we slide onto a mad helter-skelter of blurred tarmac, looming headlights, and adrenaline.

I come to, dangling upside down, hot petrol fumes thick in the air, the engine running.

Your eyes are shut. Blood trickles from your nose. Outside, distant shouts and the wail of sirens. Flames burst into life behind us.

I call your name. Your eyes flicker open.

I croak out the words I should have said. “Let’s try again.”

* * *

Paul is a retired physician living in Scotland with his wife and a small, but all-powerful cat. Occasional flashes of inspiration generate stories. To his continuing surprise, some get published. Paul's fledgling website can be found at Can I Call Myself a Writer? 

by CJ Erick

They came from the sky in shining, oblong ships.

When they came for our water, we gave them our last icebergs and sent them back to their home world with festivals.

When they came for our grain, our fruits, our sugar, we helped them harvest, gave them seed, and taught them to plant.

When they came for our children, we wept and begged them, and watched in anger as they lifted away, our homes and hearts emptier.

When they came for our wine and chocolate, we built jump-drive plasma ships and our suicide commanders burnt their world to ashes.
​
Amen.

* * *

CJ Erick has published with Brilliant Flash Fiction, Camden Park Press, and others. His short fiction received a Pushcart nomination and inclusion in The Best Small Fictions 2023 anthology. He writes in multiple genres, self-publishes a space fantasy series.

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 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 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 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.