Anne Marie Lyall

Seth placed his mother by the hearth. It had been her favourite spot. Until that night. When she’d stormed out. Swore never to set foot in his house again.

He supposed she’d kept her word.

Banjo whimpered as he sniffed the opaque jar. He had always been fond of mother. 

* * *

ANNE MARIE LYALL is from Scotland. She can almost see Loch Lomond on a clear day. She is published in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize Anthology, 101 Words, Cafe Lit and long listed in the Myslexia Flash Fiction Competition.  

by Lori Cramer

Dressed in a neon-pink sweatshirt, leopard-print leggings, and Reebok high-tops, Barbara pushes a grocery cart from one aisle to the next. Nearly every song on the supermarket’s retro playlist sparks a fond memory of her youth. Dances. Frat parties. Games in the quad. As she’s selecting a Lean Cuisine entrée for tonight’s dinner, a ballad comes on, stirring tender recollections of her first love, Barry. Over by the frozen pizzas, a man in khakis and a blue oxford like Barry used to wear catches her eye. He smiles. And, for just a moment, Barbara could swear that it’s 1987 again.

* * *

Lori Cramer’s short prose has appeared in Fictive Dream, Flash Boulevard, Scaffold, Splonk, Switch, and elsewhere. Her work has been longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Best Microfiction. Links to her writing: https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com.
Bluesky: @loricramerwriter.bsky.social.

by Colleen M. Farrelly

He says do you have a lighter and I say no and he says can I borrow twenty bucks and I say no and he says I love you and I say okay and give him twenty bucks. He goes wherever he goes, and I promise I’ll say no tomorrow.

* * *

COLLEEN M. FARELLY is a mathematician and haibun poet from Miami, FL. She's trying dribbles and drabbles, which seem to fit well with haibun.

by Adele Gallogly

Why does Faye keep giving the same line to library staff asking, “How are you?” When they emphasize are, she pictures a single, careening letter R. 

“Oh I’m good, besides missing the old lump in my bed!” she says. Exactly. Breathlessly. Unfailingly. To the retiring director. To the teenage volunteer. To the brusque clerk returning one-word titles Ron was too confused to begin: Endurance, Unbroken, Atonement.
​
Near the exit, Faye starts to answer the janitor tipping a black wastebasket, but stops after “Oh.” She hears herself tucking her beloved husband into a soft mound of grief in her throat. 

Oh.

* * *

ADELE GALLOGLY is a writer and editor in Ontario, Canada. Her very short stories have been published in FlashFlood, Writers' Hour, Six-Sentences, and Paragraph Planet. You can follow her on BlueSky.

by Ariel M. Goldenthal

You told me that the ocean held your family’s secrets for centuries and that the rope tethering us ashore could fray without warning. We danced along the edge of the icy water, your hand in mine, smooth rocks coarse against fresh cuts on the soles of my feet.

You said the stairs were too steep; the electrical, too old for me to be alone by the sea. You didn’t tell me you’d be the nightmare worse than the wind-scraping of oak tree branches against shutters.

Now the house keeps all my secrets and more than the remnants of your pain.   

* * *

ARIEL M. GOLDENTHAL is an associate professor of English at George Mason University. Her work has appeared in The Citron Review, Fractured Lit, Exposition Review, and others. Read more at www.arielmgoldenthal.com. 

by Sarp Sozdinler

So we up and swapped lives for a day: she would have two healthy breasts, and I would still have a mother.

* * *

​SARP SOZDINLER has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, Vestal Review, Fractured Lit, JMWW, and Trampset, among other journals. Their stories have been selected for anthologies including the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Wigleaf Top 50.

by Lori Cramer

Natasha greets me at the door. Once we’re settled on the sofa, I confide that Gavin has, once again, broken a promise to me. Though Natasha has had to listen to countless chronicles of Gavin’s disingenuous deeds, she kindly lets me vent without interruption. I wish she could tell me what I should do, but I must make up my own mind. So I decide: I’m going to break up with him. As soon as I’ve said the words aloud, I feel better. And, apparently, so does Natasha. She curls up into a ball, closes her eyes, and begins purring.

* * *

LORI CRAMER’s short prose has appeared in Fictive Dream, Flash Boulevard, Scaffold, Splonk, Switch, and elsewhere. Her work has been longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Best Microfiction. Links to her writing:
​Wordpress: Lori Cramer Fiction 
Bluesky: @loricramerwriter.bsky.social.

by Chris Tattersall

In days gone by, family meals were obscured by the smog of tobacco. Three generations dining together, with just a damp rasp from deep in the lungs of Pete’s father to break the silence. Everyone being passive to its significance.

In later years, Pete was exiled to the garden, whether it be the home or beer variety, to enjoy a cigarette and time with his own son.

Now head of the table, Pete was comforted by the three generations gathered. They ate in silence, only to be disturbed by his son’s cough, a damp rasp from deep inside his lungs.

* * *

CHRIS TATTERSALL is a Health Service Research Manager who lives with his wife Hayley and Border Collie in Pembrokeshire, Wales. He is a self-confessed flash fiction addict with some publication and competition success. He also hosts his own flash fiction website.

by Louella Lester

No one lives above us, but there is a woman who is part of the refugee family that lives across the hall. When she is there alone her screams sometimes escape. Slide right under our door where they wait for translation.

* * *

Louella Lester is a writer/photographer in Winnipeg, Canada, author of Glass Bricks, contributing editor at NFFR, and is included in Best Microfiction 2024.
​Instagram: @louellalester  
Bluesky: @louellalester.bsky.social    

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 Paul Lewthwaite

I taught mathematics, but dabbled with him.
When the affair ended, no formula could encapsulate his rage.
The police were useless.
I withdrew from life; silent anger bubbled in my shell of shame.
A year later, I tracked him down.
Subtracting guilt, an equation arose that I could solve.
Fatally.

* * *

Paul is a retired physician living in Scotland with his wife and a small, but all-powerful cat. Occasionally he writes stories, some even get published. Paul's fledgling (and sadly neglected!) website can be found at When Can I Call Myself a Writer?

by Tim Love

He tried to catch her eye across the room. Maybe he imagined that she smiled back, but it was enough for him to start talking to her.

"Can you still hear me?" he asks forty years later, sitting by the bed. "Smile for me, that's all I need. One smile."

* * *

Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet “Moving Parts” (HappenStance) and a story collection "By all means" (Nine Arches Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His prose has appeared in The Forge, Stand, JMWW, Under the Radar, etc. He blogs at http://litrefs.blogspot.com/

by Marcelo Medone

Flavius hurried towards the two-masted vessel that had just docked.
His friend Titus came down the ramp and they embraced.
“How was the trip? Did you have good weather?” asked Flavius.
“Better than here, for sure,” answered Titus, observing the leaden sky.
That night, burning ashes rained down on Pompeii.

* * *

Marcelo Medone (Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee fiction writer, poet, essayist and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in more than 50 countries, including Canada. He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay.

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.