The sheriff calls me twice.
He tells me they have to transport your body across the Bay Bridge.
To San Francisco.
To get an autopsy.
I pay $500 to move your body.
No charges against him. The one who pushed you.
Me. I get emptiness.
Nothing but a silent siren.
Yesica is a Mexican-American writer who lives in California.
A thump against the window, again. This time a goldfinch.
He sputters on the deck, one wing dragging, the other spiraling like a paddle, frantic. Flightless now, he seeks cover, flails underneath the grill.
I did not need this sorrow today. I do nothing to help because I’m not God.
Luise Bolleber recently published her first book One War Ago, a biography about her father’s experiences in World War II. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Cereal City Review, The Dolomite Review, and elsewhere.
It was supposed to rain. They went to the arboretum anyway. She wanted to see the peony garden where they were married.
It started to drizzle, then pour. Her son held an umbrella over her while she leaned down to sniff the battered but fragrant blooms already past their prime.
Lauren Budrow is an Assist. Professor of Mortuary Science.
Hummus and pita chips. White bread. Sometimes fries. Non-sticky fruits.
Experts warn: Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder.
The boy still grows. Sometimes grey circles under his eyes.
He is taller than his twin, but doctors don’t know why.
Bribes fail. Nothing tempts him.
At night we wonder, how do bodies work?
Gabriella Brand’s fiction, poetry and essays appear in a variety of international publications including Alchemy Spoon (England), Shuili (India), Cordite (Australia) and Room Magazine (Canada). Her flash fiction can be found in Blink Ink, Moonpark Review and elsewhere. She lives outside New Haven and teaches languages in the OLLI program at the University of Connecticut.
A strange sensation shatters my illusion of protection.
A lump… surgery, and again I’m safe, but less of me today than yesterday.
Flesh heals. My mind wanders. I consider wings.
How many feathers can fall before the bird follows?
My destination still awaits. I’m arriving one piece at a time.
Through pencil and pulp, Mike Keyser shares his best pieces.
She wasn’t breathing. My mother stopped breathing in hospice. Cradling my face, I tried to catch my breath, I tried, as the air conditioner kicked on-off-on-off, a constant groan, before her hand gripped mine, ONCE.
And I’m that frightened child, in the dark, the one who can’t close her eyes.
Angela Carlton’s fiction has been published in Every Writer, Everyday Fiction, 6S, 50 Word Stories, Spillwords Press, Friday Flash Fiction and Paragraph Planet. In 2018, her story “The Roommates,” was made into a short film. In 2023, her story “Swallowed,” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. See more at Angela Carlton Stories & Art | Facebook.
It was the night she learned that the moon shone brighter in a village than in the city. So bright she couldn’t open her eyes. So bright that the bones of the dead in the illuminated graveyard lay wide awake.
It was the night she was afraid of the moon.
Soofia Mahmood taught herself English as a teenager in Pakistan so she could become the first girl in her family to attend university. She found a love for writing strange things instead. Now in Toronto and having a late-midlife crisis, she just wants to be read. Read her short-story thought experiment, Tiny Tyrannies.
Inez stalked into position and began dancing. Hustle. Twist. Interpretive. Chicken. Electric Slide. Macarena, because he hated it. Salsa, because he refused to learn and accused her of cheating when she went alone. Her heels tore new sod. She smiled, dropped her wedding ring, and strutted out of the cemetery.
Nancy Bagato collects words and images to turn into bite-sized stories. When not writing, she is reading, making art, or substitute teaching.
The story of the week for September 7 to 11 is…
Cradle by Mikaila Nalbantova
“…Bea’s Alzheimer’s – Don’t ask! She’s become a stranger. If my mind ever wanders like that, shoot me.
Kisses.
PS Wish Charles luck with his university applications. His great aunt is cheering him on.”
“Charlie’s a sophomore at Emory,” I answer, then start over.
“Thanks, Auntie G. I’ll let Charlie know.”
Joanna Norland is an expat Canadian playwright and writing coach based in London.