Muted

by William Cass

Late one night in a desolate foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So, I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William Cass has published over 380 short stories and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. He’s been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, six times for the Pushcart Prize, and had three short story collections released by Wising Up Press.

 

We Are At War

by Oskar Greenblatt

I open a window to get some fresh air, and she turns up the thermostat. I tell her to wear a sweater, and she says, “That won’t warm the air I have to breathe.” When she clamps an icy hand to the back of my neck, I jump and shudder, and she laughs. I decide to make her an appointment with an endocrinologist. Meanwhile, I sit on the porch, drinking lemonade.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Credit: This piece originally published at Paragraph Planet.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Oskar Greenblatt is a retired software developer.

 

I Attended My Doctor's Funeral

by R.K. West

I attended my doctor’s funeral. Five years my junior, he died from complications of old age. My complications are of a different sort. Doctor Romanov understood me - or his patience seemed like understanding. I mourn for myself as much as for him. Now I must find someone who will be open-minded regarding my chronic toe spasms, mystery allergies, and a disturbing tendency to suddenly laugh heartily without provocation, as I did at the funeral.

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Credit: This originally appeared at Paragraph Planet

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West is a co-editor of Sudden Flash

 

Garage Band

by R.K. West

The guys started a garage band, but they had no access to a garage, so they rehearsed in the house and jokingly called themselves the Living Room Four. The drummer’s girlfriend changed it to Living Room Floor. The living room floor was where they were all found, unconscious, after the gas leak that could have blown the place up, but didn’t. Everyone recovered fully, but the experience was unnerving. They suspected sabotage by a music-hating neighbor, but the city inspector said the old pipes had simply cracked under the stress of an already-faulty foundation further weakened by months of excess vibration.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West left a good job in the city, sold everything, hit the road, and ended up living next to the mighty Columbia River. West's writing has appeared at Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Right Hand Pointing, Bright Flash Literary Review, 101 Words, Six Sentences, and others.

 

Reunion

by B. C. Nance

He saw her in the produce section of the grocery, smirking at him over the apples and pears. She was out on parole after twenty years in the state prison. He had helped put her away when he was still very young.

No longer a boy, and less a wonder, he was making his own way in the world. The old boss, starting to go a little batty, had finally hung up his dark cape, and now he kept to his man cave.

She was older and less feline, but still attractive.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Maybe a saucerful,” she purred.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
B. C. Nance is a writer who hasn't given up his day job. A native of Nashville, Tennessee, he works by day as a historical archaeologist. At night, after roaming his neighborhood, he writes fiction and poetry, then stays up too late reading.

 

Catch of the Day

by Indira Sammy

I laid the four-foot bull shark, weighing over 75 pounds, on the slab. The other fishermen had sold out and left. No one bought fish at this late hour, but I needed money. Mid-afternoon, I resorted to praying for a sale. Before long, two people argued over my catch. They both wanted the whole thing and wouldn’t give up. After 30 minutes, they agreed to steak cuts and shared the shark. I slit the stomach, and out rolled two fish, along with an attached pinky and ring finger. Quickly, I slid everything into the bin as I sliced the shark.

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An early enchantment with West Indian Literature fuelled Indira’s fascination with the reading and writing of epic stories; a passion which has since transcended borders and cultures, to simply embrace 'imagination'. She pens skits, monologues and even poetic works as opportunities present themselves.

 

Hunting Earthworms

by K. Mark Schofer

With my Dad on a night darker than expected, much darker as lightning bugs flicker. He dug. I held the flashlight. He shoveled. I was sleepy, almost sad as I never liked fishing, and put worms in a day old tin can which we used to lure a fish to its ultimate death, the worm forgotten until the next day. My Dad would forget the unused worms in the back seat of the car, baked by the sun. That smell lives forever, it lingers, and the memory of the fish that we killed. I remember its one eye staring back at me with its last breath.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
His friends observe Mark as wired a little differently. Perhaps it’s more likely that noticing little things often missed by others is a relic of a quieter, simpler time. He has a way with words, which he refuses to let be hindered by sub-par typing skills. People have great stories to tell if you sit and listen. A belief dear to Mark is that there is certain beauty in the world. You simply have to look for it.

 

Bright Pools of Solace

by JS Apsley

Sleep is a stranger. Do I hear my neighbour's TV through the wall? I grapple with an over-active mind; imagining her lying there, prostrate. Her lifeless eyes peering upwards. Unease drips over me like tar. It’s not the sound of the TV. It’s not the thought of her body slowly seizing up like stone. It’s those damn open eyes, forever searching, never seeing; unforgiving in dark repose.

Yet, I realise I should applaud the fertility of my imagination; for with Damascene revelation, I understand her open eyes are bright pools of solace.

If I’d closed them, I’d have left fingerprints.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
JS Apsley is the pen name of an aspiring author from Glasgow, Scotland. He won the Ringwood Publishing short story prize 2024 for his debut fiction submission, Immersion. See www.jsapsley.com.

 

Certainly not trees in winter

by Karen Walker

In spring, when the trees aren’t hungry and naked, he’ll return to the park bench. Hardwoods fallen on hard times, birches silver, but penniless. He gets it. He’s there too. So no point in twig fingers, bending low under the weight of snow, tapping his shoulder for help. He’ll wait until the trees have been fed by April, clothed by May. After all, he isn’t their keeper. He has his own troubles, and, damn it, no one cares about those. Certainly not trees in winter.

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Karen Walker draws and writes in Ontario, Canada. Her work is in or forthcoming in Stanchion, Weird Lit, Club Plum, Underbelly Press, coalitionworks, and Certain Age.

Credit: Originally published in Briefly Zine in March 2022.

 

To Do List: Buy Sharpies

by Beth Sherman

Label medications by the day of the week. Label appliances in big block letters: STOVE, DISHWASHER, FRIDGE. Label the cat’s collar so when it darts out the door, a kind stranger will return it. Label the door. Label your wrist: name, address, daughter’s cell. Label the toilet. Label your past happy – who’s to say otherwise? Label your memories, fragile as soap bubbles, before they drift away and pop. Label your children: the good one, the pretty one. Label the stranger’s face confused when he appears at last holding a struggling animal that might, in the right forgiving light, be yours.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in over 150 literary journals and appears in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on X, Bluesky, or Instagram @bsherm36

 

Ghosts

by Selene Ibarra Rubio

Rain pattered on the train’s roof as it glided through the hills surrounded by crumbling mountains. I observed the other souls on the train- a pale little girl with a hospital gown, an elderly man with a missing arm, and a female with numerous slashes. And I- my tattered suit, bloody violin case, and bloody thighs with dangling skin and exposed bone- couldn’t remember how. I’d asked the charred man ahead. He said that was common for new souls. He told me I’d remember eventually as we voyage on the never-ending train ride; but I still felt I’d forgotten something.

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Selene Ibarra Rubio is an eighteen-year-old woman. She is currently attending San Jose State University for a degree in mechanical engineering. She also has an upcoming story publication with Collective Tales Publishing in their new anthology "Darkness 102: Lessons Were Learned."

 

A Griffin’s Ransom

by Catherine Brown

I crouch, hidden in the dragon’s garbage pile. It reeks of fresh blood and ancient decay. Her snores reverberate off the stalactites and the phosphorescent walls of the cavern.

I mustn’t fail. Her gold is my cherished griffin’s ransom. I creep past the hollow ribcage and snaking spine of an elephant.

Cramming gold in my pack, I take only what I can lift.

Silence. My knees tremble. Her left eye opens, revealing my distorted reflection in her inky pupil. It wasn’t a snore. It was a purr. She’s not purring now.

I grab my pack and unsheathe my sword.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Catherine Brown’s flash and short fiction has been published in Havok Magazine, The Offbeat, The Veggie Wagon Journal, and a 2 Elizabeth’s anthology. Her short fiction has been a finalist or placed in multiple writing contests, including the grand prize in the Chanticleer Book Awards SHORTS Contest. Website: https://www.chbrownauthor.com/

 

On Being Phil Marlowe

by James C. Clar

Detective Spangler moved behind my chair. Breeze, his partner, stood in front and said, “We’ve got two stiffs connected to the Matthews dame you’re working for. It’s time to spill what you know.”

“Sure. And to hell with detective-client confidentiality, right? Go pound salt!”

Spangler’s sap hit just behind my ear. From the floor I watched the dust motes dance gaily in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window of my office.

Marlowe, I thought, you’re an ass. It’s like you’re always playing out a scene in some cheap dime novel. You really need to mature as a character!

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between Upstate New York and the mean streets of Honolulu, Hawaii.

 

The Wear and Tear

by Richard Lehan

"What causes a hernia, Doctor?" Martin asked, curious. "It's not like I strained myself lifting something heavy."

Doctor Kang, the surgeon, had just finished examining the bulge protruding from the right side of Martin's groin.

"The abdominal wall weakened due to the wear and tear on your body." Doctor Kang, who was old himself, was bemused by the look of mild surprise on Martin's face. "Not an uncommon occurrence for a person your age."

"Huh," Martin responded. He prided himself on having no other visible signs of wear and tear.

"Welcome to the future, my friend." Dr. Kang laughed.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Richard Lehan is a fiction writer living in Massachusetts. Most recently, two of his flash fictions were published in May 2025: "A Labyrinth for the Pandemic" in Feed the Holy, and "Wandering Joy" in Suisun Valley Review. In addition, his one-act play "Conflagration" appeared in the Autumn 2024 edition of Rushing Thru the Dark magazine, his short story "Ambulatory" appeared in the Spring 2024 edition of Coneflower Cafe magazine, and another story of his "Ambulatory" appeared in Story Sanctum in December 2023 and was included in their year-end anthology "Tales from the Vault. Finally, his flash fiction "State Forest" also appeared in the 2024 edition of Stolen Shoes Literary & Art Magazine.

 

Behind Every Man

by James C. Clar

Isabelle had never been prouder of Edward. He looked magnificent in his elegant suit. Everyone commented as well on his magisterial bearing. He was, finally, the center of attention; attention that, in Isabelle’s opinion, was his due. Nor was Isabelle being ignored since the goal of everyone who entered was to be seen with her.

Edward was, of course, in the limelight because of her and the three drops of colorless liquid she had placed in his martini last week. As the mourners passed, Isabelle basked in the glow. It was true. Behind every successful man, there was a woman.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently his work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, Sci-Phi Journal, Antipodean Sci-Fi, Freedom Fiction Journal and The Literary Fantasy magazine.

 

Only Ever Three

by Ron Wetherington

There are only ever three things that Emily prays for at night, kneeling at her bed. To hear what the nightingale hears, to sing with the crickets, to see the world through the eyes of a damselfly. Her mother tries not to question this unusual longing, given her young daughter’s severe handicap. She seeks instead to quietly encourage more realistic dreams. But in her happy, tiny world Emily is stubbornly confident.

Occasionally, Emily disappears for an entire night, her empty room falling silent except for the soft chirping in a distant corner. And at times a cautious response.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Ron Wetherington is a retired professor of anthropology living in Dallas, Texas. He has published a novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press), and numerous short fiction pieces in this second career. He also enjoys writing creative non-fiction. Read some of his pubs at https://www.rwetheri.com/.

 

Book Begone

by Peter Gregg Slater

“Am I correct, you want this book banned?” the President of the Wonham High School Board asked the parent standing in the overflowing auditorium.

“Yes, from the classroom and the library. Like the Board did earlier this evening with Keith’s Prom Dress.”

“Give us more specifics.”

“Where to begin? There’s drunken driving, a fatal hit and run, adultery, violence against a woman, racketeering, a homicide, and a suicide. Plus a racist.” Murmurs of dismay in the audience.

The Board conferred, sotto voce. after which the President announced, “By a vote of 8 to 1, the Board bans The Great Gatsby".

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Peter Gregg Slater, a historian, has taught at several institutions, including Dartmouth College and the University of California, Berkeley. In retirement, he has devoted himself to creative writing. His poetry, fiction, parody, satire, and creative non-fiction have appeared in DASH, Workers Write!, The Satirist, Masque & Spectacle, and Defenestration.

 

The Ventriloquist’s Wife is No Dummy

by Jon Fain

His thrown plaints bounce off the salt shaker, his half-eaten hamburger, her coffee with skim. She deflects rebounds, ignores the begging, looks at her watch. Can’t believe she thought this dull piece of wood was the better showbiz option. True, with the other chap there’ll be the top hat menagerie and the sawing-in-half thing. But better a nightly sashay in high heels and skimpy spangled outfit than boxed into surrogate mommery with hinge-jawed sidekicks. Outside the diner, skimpy trees bordering the parking lot sashay in the wind and the window she’s next to rattles—picka card, picka card, picka card.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Jon Fain’s micro fiction has appeared in Six Sentences, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Daily Drunk, Blink-Ink, ScribesMICRO, Molecule, The Woolf, and elsewhere. https://www.chillsubs.com/profile/jonfain

 

Doing the Math

by Linda D.

In junior high, my friend Jeannie was baffled when the math teacher said "show your work". Jeannie had a natural talent for math, and didn't have to work hard at the stuff we did in 8th grade. She would look at a problem and understand it in her head. No calculations needed, apparently. Some teachers suspected her of cheating. (As if she'd be foolish enough to copy a lesser person's answers). I showed her what I did, working it out on paper the way we were taught back in 3rd grade. "Oh, they want us to do it the hard way!" she said.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Linda D. publishes excerpts from her semiautobiographical memoirs.

Knighted

by Oskar Greenblatt

In my elementary school, half the boys in the fourth grade were called Larry. Officially, they may have been named Lawrence, Laurence, Larrimore, or even Larkin, but they all answered to Larry. The predictable incidents of mistaken identity brought the easily-amused class of nine-year-olds to hysterical laughter all too often. The teacher, Mr. Barnes, was not amused. He decreed that all Larrys would be called by their surnames. To me it sounded delightfully Arthurian: “Greetings, Sir Name.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Oskar Greenblatt enjoys reminiscing.