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 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 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 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 Cortni Merritt

I saw you with the box today,
pink and mirrored,
dark-skinned figure,
twirling to that tune I know but not by name.
It was in your hand but it held something you'd forgotten or maybe misplaced,
a dream or a wish or a past person you thought you would be.
I pretended not to see you
wipe your eyes when you asked, 
"Do you think she'll like it?" and you whispered,
"my little girl." 
It was perfect, even though empty. 

* * *

Cortni is a mother, writer, editor, and college instructor living in Central Florida. She enjoys cats, karate, and a well-cooked curry. Find her at www.srdeditingservices.com.

by Cheryl Snell

I was selling raffle tickets but he knew a long-shot when he saw one. Told me he was a cook and right off the bat invited me in for his homemade soup. “So you’re the literal girl next door,” he mused as he brought the steaming bowls to the table. “That’s what we should tell people.”

“Who would we tell?” I said. He was getting way ahead of himself, but the next Friday we went out to dinner. “I listen to the scuttlebutt from the kitchen,” he said, hand partly-covering his mouth. On a whim, I pulled his hand down and kissed it. He was so rattled he could barely demystify the ingredients in the dishes on our table.

The next time I saw him, he had recovered from my gesture and his shyness. We were in his kitchen making dumplings. As he shook the packet of rice-and-lentil powder into a bowl, stirring in yogurt, he said, “This shortcut will have no bearing on the taste.” We held hands and kissed a little as we waited for the mixture to ferment. When he dropped the batter into perforated cups, I watched it puff into snowballs. The sight made me think of the coconut Snowballs my ex liked to stuff in my mouth, practicing for our wedding.

I must have made a face because my host raised his eyebrows before he went back to chopping mint, onion, and cilantro for the dipping sauce. “Spices are the friend of physicians as well as the pride of cooks,” he said, as if he knew something about me I didn’t. And when I took one perfect white ball from his fingers, I remembered that deaf people imagine the sun makes noise as it rises. I bit into the round sphere, and listened.

* * *
​
Cheryl Snell's books include poetry and fiction of all sizes. Her work has or will appear in Blink-Ink, Roi Faineant, Switch, and Does it Have Pockets?      

by Louella Lester

The sun’s down and his outstretched hand seems mud-painted midair. He’s on the field side of the road’s marshy ditch. Crickets spitting out confetti streams of babel. Frogs gulping deep. Headlights sweep past, disappearing into their own dust. He only needs one set to slow. To turn. Bring the starlight.

* * *

Louella Lester is a writer/photographer in Winnipeg, Canada, author of Glass Bricks (At Bay Press 2021), contributing editor at New Flash Fiction Review, and is included in Best Microfiction 2024. 

by Petra F. Bagnardi

Under the moonlight you showed me the line of your story;
it appeared not like the silvery path of a boy,
and it did not look like the tale of a purple girl.
It involved a complicated soul and the broken being of a human.
It took all your courage to tell me about your journey;
and for your brave honesty, I loved you.

* * *

Petra F. Bagnardi is a screenwriter, a theater playwright and actress, and a poet. She was short-listed in the Enfield Poets' Twentieth Anniversary Poetry Competition, and her poems are featured in numerous literary journals.

by Ani Banerjee

The fan overhead makes a creaky sound; somewhere, a dog howls, and from downstairs, Baba coughs. The couple toss and turn in bed and he says, "Let's go to the roof."
 
Under the stars, their bodies meet, sweat dripping salty over her, both breathless, air thick as mango pulp.
 
“Like dipping in the Ganges,” she jokes.
 
“Next year, we should get some air conditioning,” he says. 
 
“Or we could just hop on a cloud and go to the mountains,” she replies, and he laughs.
 
Below, on the street, four flights down, the night watchman stomps his cane and asks, “Everything ok?”
 
On cue, from downstairs, his ninety-year-old Baba calls out to her, the disposable daughter-in-law, “Munni, water, water.”
 
She says, “Coming, Baba,” but she can’t get up; her saree is crumpled and wet and tangled. As her feet keep slipping beneath her, she clings to the railing, but like old houses do, it groans and the railing gives way.

​* * *

Ani Banerjee is a retiring lawyer and an emerging writer from Houston, Texas. Her flash fiction has been published in Lost Balloon, Janus Literary, Dribble Drabble Magazine and others.