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.

by Lucy Barker

I watch you enter. Sunlight penetrates the stained-glass, suffusing your pale cheek.
Once, from that  pulpit, the Reverend Swales preached forgiveness, his gimlet eyes resting upon me; the sinner of his flock.

I reach out. I have come too close. Startled, you flee towards the headstones encircling those weathered walls. My empty, unmarked grave lies beyond; above the wind-buffeted waves raging far below.

He waits for you by the lych gate.

With venomous whispers I bid you not to go.
​
Convinced it is merely the rustling of trees, you rush inexorably towards him; oblivious of my pursuing shadow.

* * *

Lucy is a retired tutor living on the beautiful South Coast of England, which inspires much of her work. For some strange reason she is fascinated by the eerie and macabre, but that’s another story!

by Michael Brockley

The red maple rises above the crowns of pears and serviceberries. Trees an arborist planted in my yard twenty years ago. Now the maple’s roots girdle the trunk, and the bark darkens with stoic resilience. In the evenings, I spread the palms of my hands across the knobs where limbs were trimmed back so a mower could cut the grass beneath the canopy. I ask what songs the neighborhood forest sings through its underground choir. What sustenance might be received from nearby silver maples. From spring’s transient redbuds. My calendar reads mid-October. The tree’s leaves still green. And summer strong. 

* * *

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 Lorette C. Luzajic

The seagrass, like woodcut lines zigzagging across the dark water. Rippling cords all tangled in the shallows like some kind of labyrinth. The soft moon illuminates a hushed halo over her brow. Sometimes she wails for her drowned child and the eerie sound fills up the whole world. Sometimes there is mere silence. No wind, no waves. I crawled off of the same shore, the epigenetic trauma of hate and war. Want spun through and through my story. Like a ghost, I wandered after her, needy and damaged and desperate, tugging at her silk nightgown, begging her to see me. 

* * *
​
Lorette C. Luzajic reads, writes, edits, publishes, and teaches flash fiction and prose poetry. She is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review and The Mackinaw.