One For the Ages

by James C. Clar

November 22, 1963

Elm Street shimmered under the Texas sun as municipal workers hung red, white, and blue bunting across Dealey Plaza. Crowds already lined the sidewalks waiting for the President’s motorcade. At 11:12 a.m., Officer Bill Sprinkle squinted up at the brick facade of the Texas School Book Depository.

“You see that?” he asked his rookie partner, Carl Fernandez.

Fernandez raised a hand to block the glare. “Where?”

“Fourth floor. Window to the right.” Sprinkle pointed. “Flash of light.”

“Maybe a scope,” Fernandez said, narrowing his eyes.

“Exactly.”

“Should we call it in?” Fernandez asked.

“We’ll check it out ourselves. Probably nothing.”

Moments later, they were climbing the echoing stairwell of the Depository. Sprinkle’s hand hovered over his revolver as they reached the fourth floor. The hallway was quiet. They found the door to an office ajar. Inside, a man stood by the window, mounting a camera on a tripod.

“Sir!” Sprinkle barked. “Step away from the window!”

The man startled, nearly dropping his Nikon-F.

“I’m a photographer,” he said, raising both hands. “Bob Bletcher, Lone Star Gazette. I got cleared two weeks ago. I’m covering the President’s visit.”

Fernandez scanned the room. No weapons in sight. Just camera gear.

“There was a flash from that window,” Sprinkle said, still wary.

Bletcher pointed to the tripod. “Probably light on the lens. I was lining up my shot.”

“Got ID?” Fernandez asked.

Bletcher opened his wallet and took out a laminated press card.

Sprinkle exhaled. “Alright. High alert today as you can imagine.”

“No problem,” Bletcher said, smiling now. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this. The president and the governor. A shot for the ages maybe?”

Sprinkle and Fernandez left the office.

“Look around some more?” Fernandez suggested.

“Nah. Let’s get back down to the street.”

They descended the stairs just as a new shift of officers took up positions around the plaza.

“You were right,” Fernandez said. “It was nothing. Glad we didn’t call it in.”

Meanwhile, back in the Depository, a thin, young man sat nestled behind a wall of textbook boxes on the sixth floor. His Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm, rested on the windowsill. He watched the police and, as they approached the building, he had gone still. Now he relaxed and readjusted his line of sight down Elm Street.

At 12:24 p.m., a glint of light came again, this time from the sixth floor.

“Looks like our guy moved,” Fernandez said.

Sprinkle nodded. “Bletcher, trying to get a better angle. Photographers! They’ll do anything to ‘get the shot’. Saw a guy one time dangle from an overpass to get a picture of an accident.”

The two policemen turned away.

Inside the Book Depository, Bletcher hadn’t budged. He checked his viewfinder.

A cheer went up as the motorcade turned the corner.

Bletcher leaned and depressed the shutter.

Simultaneously, the man on the sixth floor exhaled slowly, finger tightening on the trigger …

Shots rang out against the blue Texas sky.

Bletcher gasped, nearly dropping his camera again.

On the street below, chaos erupted.

Sprinkle and Fernandez turned and looked back at the building they had so recently exited.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Sprinkle said as comprehension hit him like a sledge hammer.

“Let’s go,” Fernandez shouted as he turned to run back to the Book Depository.

Sprinkle grabbed him by the arm. Shook his head.

Fernandez looked his partner in the eye. He understood. There’d be hell to pay if they went back.

“No need to get hung out to dry by an honest mistake, son.”

Sprinkle and Fernandez were soon lost in the frenzied swarm of uniforms converging on the scene.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared recently in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, MetaStellar Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Antipodean SF, The Blotter Magazine and 365 Tommorows.

 

The Influencer

by Linda O'Grady

“You sure it looks OK, babe?”

“Gorgeous, babe. You’re beautiful.”

“And you’re getting the sunset? The waves? My hair?”

“Come on, babe, I know what I’m doing.”

“I know, babe. It’s, just, like, really important to the brand..."

“Maybe a step back, babe – really capture that dramatic windswept look.”

She wobbled slightly. “Like this?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

“But can you still see the logo, babe?”

The twist of a stiletto. A shriek swallowed by the wind. A last flash of glossy blonde hair.

He switched off the camera and started walking back to town.

Finally, a hot meal.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Linda O’Grady is an Irish woman living in Bordeaux. When not busy with her day job, she can be found sampling wine, frolicking in the French countryside, and partaking in pub quizzes as la petite Irlandaise.

 

Cappy's Crabs

by Liz deBeer

We jump up, knocking over our checker game, the blacks and reds clattering to the floor, in our rush to greet Uncle Cappy. Gripping a bushel of live crabs, their claws snapping, Cappy sends us outside to fetch more food from his car. When we stagger back with unhusked corn, dirty potatoes, and warm beer, Mom’s cursing god-damn Cappy, coming without calling first again. Who’s he think’ll cook the god-damn crabs and husk the god-damn corn and clean the god-damn mess?

And how’d he pay for all this, with no job? Don’t say it’s snatched, not in this house.

Cappy cracks open a brew, hands one to Mom, who refuses it, waiting for his answer, not a damn beer. The snaking scar on his forearm glistens in the dim overhead light as he gulps down a swig and swallows a burp. Mom once told us Cappy’s scar was from a cooking accident, hoping we’d never find out about his fights and heists, worried we’ll mimic his no-good path.

“It’s like this, Sis.” Cappy wipes his damp lip with a calloused thumb.

Rocking on her heels, Mom rolls her eyes, then leans on the kitchen counter stained from a previous renter.

“I bet on the Bisons. Wild guess: Bisons, 24. Cougars, 14. Bet money I didn’t have­—” Mom starts in, but he talks louder, drowning out her curses. “Sis, I hit it.”

We watch Mom’s face morph, processing first the illegal betting on high school sports with her clenched jaws and shaking head. Then blowing out air, sputtering, “Bisons won? Ten points! We need a win ‘round here.”

Cappy and Mom clink beers, “To the Bisons!” He pulls out two dented stockpots, filling them with water while we husk the corn, golden silk strands dropping to the floor like we’ve both morphed into Rumpelstiltskin. Forgetting the irresponsible gambling, Mom balances on a wobbly stool, listening to Cappy recount the game as the crabs clack-clack-clack, clambering to the basket’s rim, pulling each other down in their desperate attempt to escape.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Switch and others. She is a volunteer reader at Flash Fiction Magazine. Follow Liz at www.ldebeerwriter.com or https://lizardstale.substack.com or @lizdebeerwriter.bsky.social.

 

Final Rest

by R.K. West

As Henry scattered Gilbert’s ashes in the pet cemetery, an elderly lady who had just placed a small bundle of catnip on a nearby grave looked at the box in his hands. “That’s a rather large container,” she said. “A pig? A horse?” “My brother,” Henry replied and saw her smile quickly vanish. “It was his last wish to be interred with his beloved dogs, but unfortunately, human burials are not allowed here.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Credit: Originally published at Paragraph Planet.

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

 

Suggestions

by David Sydney

The "Suggestion Box" was Marge's idea. She was the waitress at AL'S DINER.

"People might get, well, more interested in the place, Al."

He frowned. "Don't expect any better tips, Marge."

He wasn't wild about the idea. But he wasn't wild about many of the customers either.

After a month, Marge emptied the contents of the box.

“So… What'd they suggest?”

The last diners were gone. AL'S was closed until 6:00 AM.

Sitting at the plywood counter in the poor light, she tallied the results.

“Three people want real cream in the Cream of Tomato Soup… Four thought we should remove the soup entirely from the menu…”

Al had a large stock of canned soup. It wouldn't happen.

“One said to rename Pot Roast as Pot Luck.”

That he'd consider.

She looked up from the largest pile of slips. “But most thought…”

“What?”

“...that we should offer flyswatters with every order, Al.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).

 

Marinated

by David Sydney

“You're back already, Ed?”

Edna looked up from her coffee. She’d hoped to be alone for more than 30 minutes in the kitchen as Ed shopped that Saturday morning. They alternated shopping.

“I bought us a half dozen cans of herring, Edna.”

Whenever he talked about a reduced price, Ed was animated. He displayed one of the jars which featured cream sauce.

What did he mean by "us"?

“But we have a lot already, Ed.”

She didn't need to point to the refrigerator with an entire shelf of Ed's jars.

Who else eats that kind of stuff anyway?

Of course, Ed did get a terrific price.

She grimaced, looking at her coffee, but thinking of the unnecessary fish. She added a few extra frown lines to her forehead as she spotted another fly.

“How about the flypaper, Ed?”

Damn. He'd forgotten the flypaper. And that was the main reason he'd gone that Saturday at 8 AM, just to make sure the market wouldn't run out.

“Flies, Ed.”

How many times did he need to be told?

She brushed another one away from her coffee.

“When you have flies, Ed, you need flypaper.”

The stuff works. A fly on flypaper is as good as, well, dead. It's the end of that fly at least. But, on this Saturday, they had more fish – almost anyone but Ed would say way more – but no adhesive paper.

The flies of this world are a constant problem. There will always be flies. Long after Edna, Ed, and the entire human race exit this planet, there will still be plenty of the filthy bulbous-headed insects.

But fish? Marinated fish? That's, well, another matter.

And how often could Ed get three jars of herring for the price of one?

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).

 

The Assistant

by James C. Clar

For years I had been unable to find an assistant capable of maintaining order in my shop. Applicants came and went, leaving behind only more misplaced volumes and unfilled orders. Admittedly, my bookstore—Aleph Books – was a labyrinth of paper and dust. I reconciled myself to the idea that chaos was forever to be my natural element. One fog-shrouded morning, however, I opened a crate of rare Hebrew manuscripts acquired from the estate of a rabbi in the Czech Republic. Among them was a slim volume bound in calfskin: Sefer Yetzirah. The text bore the unmistakable annotations of Rabbi Eleazar of Worms.

One marginal note, penned in almost indecipherable Aramaic, seemed to describe a formula for forming life from inanimate matter. I copied down what I could make of it, more out of curiosity than actual belief. One dark autumn evening, under a dim bulb in my storeroom, I followed the text’s obscure instructions as closely as I could. My materials consisted of freshly dug soil plus the resin and clay used to restore old bindings and book covers.

To say that the results exceeded my wildest expectations would be an understatement.

The following morning, my new assistant, Lem, got to work. Within hours, my shop possessed a new coherence. Long lost books were stacked neatly on the tables. My inventory had been alphabetized, cataloged and cross-referenced by subject and author.

When customers asked for obscure works such as The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim by Bahadur, for example, Lem’s pale hand reached unerringly to the exact shelf. My clientele, a mix of mystics, dilettantes, and eccentrics, took to him at once. One elderly collector whispered that the boy’s eyes reflected letters when the light struck them a certain way.

His appearance did not phase them. I had fitted him out in some of my old clothes. They hung on him in a rather shapeless and somewhat disturbing way. Nor did the fact that he spoke only in inarticulate grunts precipitate complaints. I explained his sudden arrival as a favor to a cousin in the “old country” who wanted their boy to see a bit of the world.

Business flourished. Orders arrived from London, Buenos Aires, Paris. Lem stood silently behind the counter, committing each transaction to infallible memory. It was inevitable that others would covet him. A bookseller visiting from Helsinki offered to “borrow” him for six months. Another collector hinted at a buy-out. I refused both. But envy moves in far more insidious ways. I began finding notes for Lem tucked in volumes throughout the store. The idea of allowing him to work for someone else was, as you can imagine, out of the question.

I knew then what I must regrettably do. The formula’s reversal was mercifully brief: a mystical letter erased from his forehead; a mere breath released. Lem dissolved into dust finer than that which had at one time coated my bookshelves.

Predictably, in time, the order of the shop decayed. Customers grew impatient; I could no longer locate the most mundane texts. I tried to reconstruct my catalog, but the handwriting blurred, the pages defied sequence. I had promised to set aside a first edition of Runeberg’s Kristus och Judas for a collector from Trieste. When he arrived, I couldn’t find it.

That very evening, I reopened the Sefer Yetzirah. I gathered my materials and began again, this time telling myself it was for the sake of scholarship, not profit. Still, if I worked quickly, perhaps my new assistant – who would henceforth remain behind the scenes – could locate the Runeberg before the buyer left the country!

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Author's note: Apart from the Sefer Yetzirah, the names of the other texts in this story are the invention of the incomparable Argentinean fabulist, Jorge Luis Borges.

James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher who divides his time between Upstate New York and Honolulu, Hawaii. In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, his short fiction, essays, book reviews and author interviews have appeared in print and online.

 

Lucky Brick

by M.D. Smith IV

Bill and Nancy Martin married in 1955, two fresh college graduates brimming with optimism and a kind of earnest innocence that only youth and the postwar years could inspire. They moved into a modest three-bedroom house at the end of Sycamore Lane. The place had flaking white trim, a sagging porch, and a promise written into every cracked board. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs. Bill was good with his hands and had been since he was a boy taking apart radios in his father’s garage. Nancy, patient, soft-spoken, and filled with love, could turn any room into something warm just by being there. Together, they made that house their dream.

First thing they saw in the empty house, was a fireplace brick on the hearth. It was the single item that tumbled from above. That afternoon, Bill scratched their initials on it with a steel awl, BM + NM 1955, and mortared it back in place.

They enjoyed lovely fires with oak and cedar logs that winter.

Bill Jr. arrived first, a chubby, wide-eyed baby who grew into a curious boy with a habit of dismantling toys just to see how they worked. Then came Sally, with her mother’s auburn hair and a laugh like wind chimes.

Life filled every corner of the house, toys underfoot, school shoes by the door, the scent of cookies mingling with sawdust from Bill’s constant repairs. The hearth saw Christmas mornings, birthday candles, teenage tantrums, and late-night talks when the kids came home from dates.

And always, that brick.

Every year or so, without fail, it tumbled free, landing on the hearth with a muffled clatter. Bill would sigh, fetch his tools, and lie on an old painter’s canvas, re-mortaring their “lucky brick” into place. The family joked that the house simply needed to be reminded who it belonged to.

“Guess it wants a little attention,” Bill would say, grinning as he worked.

Each time, he’d point out their initials to the children, as if retelling a fable. And each time, Nancy would smile and shake her head, her eyes soft with memory.

They went through their share of kids in accidents, a few hospital stays. The kids graduated colleges, married and had good jobs in cities far away and began their own families.

Later years, Bill needed two hip replacements from his jogging. After that, Nancy got a new knee. It never slowed the family down.

By 2020, when Bill and Nancy celebrated their sixty-fifth anniversary, and nearing ninety years old, they decided to move to a furnished care facility and sell the house. The kids got everything they wanted, and an estate sale took care of most everything else. After the movers cleaned out the house, it was as bare as when the couple bought it.

Closing the door to leave, Nancy remarked, “Oh, look, Bill. There’s something left behind.” She pointed to the fireplace brick.

He turned it over, thumb tracing the groove of their carved initials.

“What say we leave it for the next couple?” he said. “They’ll need to fix the fireplace anyway.”

Nancy smiled through tears. “Then maybe they’ll have as much luck as we did.”

She kissed him softly, and together they placed the brick where it had fallen and closed the door.

Outside, the evening sun caught the windows, setting them aglow.

Inside, the brick sat waiting on the hearth, patient as ever.

And when the door latched shut behind them, a faint sound echoed through the empty house… a quiet clink, like a promise resetting itself for the next dreamers.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
M.D. Smith of Huntsville, Alabama, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Frontier Times, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bewilderingstories.com, and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats. https://mdsmithiv.com/

 

The Ballerina from Brighton Beach

by Olivia Stanfield

The air in the windowless corridor was heavy with competing smells; hairspray, saccharine body mists, ballet chalk plus something sharp and acidic; nerves.

“Do you know what happened?”

“No, do you? My agent got a call; they want everyone who made it to the final round back so they can replace her.”

“Didn’t she have an understudy?”

“Yeah, but apparently she has crabs.” Chirps of embarrassed laughter bounced along the hall. “I’m not kidding. She got caught itching like crazy in Wardrobe. I heard she can only come back with a doctor’s note. ”

“Oh my God, that’s so gross.”

“Right?”

“I heard the prima tripped.”

“Slipped is more like it. You know who it was. I bet it was vodka.” The “v” is pronounced as a “w” and the chirps crescendo quickly and become snickers.

“Really? You think it was her? That’s terrible.” A stage whisper, chins tilt towards that ballerina, the one whose face was hidden as she leaned over the phone that rested in her lap.

“For the prima it is. Not for her.” Now there was a gesture, a subtle jolt of a fist with the thumb arching backwards, in that ballerina’s direction.

“I guess.”

The ballerina in question, straw-yellow hair perfectly glazed to her skull, bun tightly pinned below her crown, unfolded her long pink-clad legs and rose from the floor along the wall.

She tightened the belt of her black wrap sweater and asked, “Tуалет?” The chatter faded; the foreign word hung in the stale air of the crammed hallway. No one answered.

Turning her bird-like neck to the right, she looked down at a young woman seated next to where she now stood. Bending at the waist, she leaned down, loudly exhaling the offensive word: “Tooo-a-lee-yet?”

“Toilet? You mean bathroom? Downstairs, by the front door.”

“Spasiba.”

The ballerina lifted her bag. She picked her way through the minefield of legs, duffels and water bottles to the door that opened onto a grimy staircase. The fresh air from the street door below cooled her flushed cheeks.

At the bottom of the staircase she turned, colliding with a short stocky woman pushing a janitor’s cart, thick dark hair wound tied loosely at the nape of her neck. The woman’s broad forehead ricocheted off the ballerina’s sharp sternum. She read the tag above the woman’s breast: Milagros - Liberty Cleaning. Milagros moaned, rubbing her brow with one chapped hand. “Oh my gosh,” the ballerina whispered in perfect English, “I am so sorry. Come here, let’s see.”

She herded the stunned woman into the restroom, wet a paper towel and placed it on the woman’s forehead. From her bag, the ballerina pulled a small pouch and from it, an unmarked bottle. She popped the lid, knocked two pink pills into her palm, swallowed them dry. She grimaced into the mirror, then towards Milagros. “I need this lead so bad, but I think they know.”

“Qué?” Milagros looked up the stairwell. The stick-limbed shellacked girls from the first floor made her nervous.

“It was me, I spilled water onstage. I’m so screwed.”

“Someone iz eslipping? Where? I go clean.” Milagros reached for her mop.

The ballerina from Brighton Beach stared down at the concerned woman whose forehead wrinkled. Regret spread under the ballerina’s black leotard, prickling her skin. Playing Confession with this random cleaner in the bathroom, in English? She pulled her thin shoulders back, recovered the swanlike angle of her neck. “Nyet, spasiba,” the ballerina said harshly. In a flash of scissoring legs and pink tights, she flew up the stairs and back to the claustrophobic lycra-filled hallway.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Olivia Stanfield is an author and mother of three who lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Originally from Manhattan by way of Middleburg, VA, she is querying her first novel and preparing to start her second in addition to occasional bouts of poetry and flash fiction. You can find her in all her bilingual bizarreness online at www.oliviastanfield.com or @buenosairesmonamour.substack.com

 

Cafeteria Rebel

by Liz deBeer

Davey Tooker – angry that failing his fucking history test got him cut him from fall football – threw a plate of spaghetti, greasy marinara sauce dripping down the cafeteria cement wall. Cracked plate pieces, strings of pasta, clumps of tomatoey ground beef broke apart conversations about Homecoming Dance dates and after-party plans.

In silence, we waited for the principal to drag Davey to the Main Office before resuming our lunch-time banter. But then Davey’s best friend Jon Mitchell flung a handful of brownish-green beans at the same wall, just above the reddish glop, so we rose up in solidarity, chucking rubbery hot dogs, warm chocolate milk, jelly-oozing-peanut-butter sandwiches, and over-cooked Tater Tots at each other while Davey stood with his fist raised in the center of the cafeteria, bits of vanilla pudding smeared on his head like bird droppings on the Statue of Liberty. We roared: We want pizza! We want fried chicken! Never surrender!

Later, Homecoming Dance cancelled, parents asked, What-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you? Don’t-you-know-how-to-act? We stared at the adults like they were idiots, later congratulating each other for our righteous protest. Davey, punished with a week-long suspension, ate stale bread and ketchup alone at home, secretly craving the cafeteria’s spaghetti, garlic bread on the side.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Switch and others. She is a volunteer reader at Flash Fiction Magazine. Follow Liz at www.ldebeerwriter.com or https://lizardstale.substack.com or @lizdebeerwriter.bsky.social.

 

The View from Here

by Cheryl Snell

Vanessa is driving me to the eye doctor, but I don’t want to go. A man will look into my eyes and make the scales fall but what is that to her? Vanessa is already clear-eyed. There are people who do not flinch but at the same time are melancholy about it. She’s one. Have I told you about the time she ran after a boy stealing her bicycle? She overtook him on foot but then gifted him the bike after hearing his desperate story─ everyone home hungry, sick or dying; his sloping shoulders. And there was the time she bought a shack at auction, sight unseen, and hammered it into something inhabitable. Painted it pink and gold until it rose out of the dun-colored gravel to glow all over the neighborhood, which looked to be perpetually bathed in sunrise. The neighbors all loved her, except for the felons next door. She promised me she’d get a guard dog, but keeps bringing home abandoned puppies from the street instead. They need me, she shrugs. So, on this dirt road where cherry-blossom confetti floats on hills from which leaping rabbits emerge flashing swords of grass between their teeth, I embrace my contradictions the way Vanessa does. If I ever want to reframe the meaning of halos around streetlights beyond the cringe of my shades, I need to see what she sees when the sun first slaps her face in the morning.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Cheryl Snell’s books include poetry and fiction. Her most recent writing has appeared in On the Seawall, Maudlin House, Ghost Parachute, Flash Boulevard, Bending Genres, and Midway. She has stories in the 2025 Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions anthologies, and lives in Maryland.

 

The Grocery List

by Jenny Morelli

I grab Mom’s list and limp out the door.
Hotwire Dad’s truck.
Roll over loose gravel quiet as I can.
Two lefts. One right to the corner store.
Old Sophia nods at me, her lips a tight straight line.
I start with day-old bread. Peanut butter. Jelly.
Next, eggs and orange juice.
No. Grape juice won’t hurt my split lip.
Wait. Can’t forget frozen peas.
Two bags. One for Mom’s face. One for mine.
Duct tape’s less than bandaids.
Old Sophia shakes her head. "Not enough for aspirin, hon."
My shoulders sink.
She slips a pack of cookies into the Have a Nice Day bag.
Slides it to me, her smile sad and forced.
"Thanks," I croak as I leave.
I pull out a cookie for the ride home.


━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Jenny Morelli is a NJ high school English teacher who lives with her husband, cat, and myriad yard pets. She seeks inspiration in everything and loves to spin fantastically weird tales. She’s published in several print and online literary magazines including Spillwords, Red Rose Thorns, Scars tv, Bottlecap Press and Bookleaf Press for four poetry chapbooks. Website:JennyMorelliWrites.com

 

 

You're Here

by Huina Zheng

It started by accident. The first strand of hair was tangled around my toothbrush. Stretched across the bristles, abrupt and silent. I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. It was longer than my short hair, split at the ends, still carrying the cheap floral scent of her shampoo. Mom’s. I curled it onto my tongue and swallowed. The second was caught in my backpack zipper. Stiff and stubborn, like the tight line of her mouth when she scolded me. I tugged. It snapped in two. I swallowed it too.

Soon I started searching. Strands clung to the underside of her pillowcase like cobwebs; a few were buried in the couch, tangled with crumbs. At the collar of her black sweater, I pressed down clear tape and peeled it off, zzzt, my favorite sound. I even knelt by the bathroom drain, digging out a clump of hair knotted with soap and skin. I rinsed it, wrapped it in tissue, and swallowed it like a dumpling.

After chemo, she always wore a beige cap, brim pulled low. Cherry-red lipstick brightened lips drained of color. I imagined the smooth scalp beneath.

I used to hate her long hair. She never let me grow mine out, said I had to learn to wash and braid it first. But hers flowed to her waist, shed on pillows, coiled in combs, floated in our soup. I used to gag at the sight.

Now, she won’t let me see her head. Says it bothers her.

I place my hand over my stomach. It feels heavy. “You see?” I whisper to her cap. “You’re here.”

My body has finally learned how to hold her.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.

 

The First Word She Wrote

by Huina Zheng

Lan’s knuckles stiffened, her grip on the pencil awkward, clenched tight as if it might slip away. These hands had planted rice in the paddies, scrubbed dishes in restaurant sinks, scoured hotel toilets, yet never once held a pen.

Six-year-old Lilin leaned close, her soft little hand propping up Lan’s coarse finger. “Grandma, your index finger should go here.”

Lan lifted her gaze to her daughter, Mei. Her face gave nothing away, but behind the glasses that had corrected countless student essays, her eyes glimmered. “Remember how to write 人?” Her voice was deliberately stern.

After dinner, the living room turned into a classroom, the dining table their desk. Lilin would start first grade in half a year. “Learn alongside her,” Mei said. “Isn’t your greatest regret never setting foot in a school?”

Lilin’s small feet swung beneath the chair as she clamored for a contest. Lan bent low, the pencil tip inching across the paper: one slant, then another. The character stood like a tiny figure, legs spread apart, just as Mei had explained the first time.

Mei leaned down to compare the words, the corners of her mouth lifting. “They both look good.”

Lan gazed at the trembling character beneath her hand, her heart turning soft. She thought: whether at six or sixty, the first scratch of a pen breaking ignorance rang just as clear.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.

 

Breathing in Circles

By Richard M. Ankers

A chest rises. A heart beats. Two synchronous lungs expel the waste of this life into a world gathering more. I’m breathing in circles, suffocating myself slower than slow. What’s worse, I want to.

Outside, indefinite people look at me in indefinite ways. There’s no reading them, these dark-shaded visages living in sonic worlds of their own. They stand as apart from reality, as I do from them. I’ve never felt so alone.

The clouds pass overhead in a lacklustre display of what was and what might never be repaired. Repaired! I sneer at my stupidity. It’s not like sticking a plaster on it. Something either is or isn’t. There’s no could or might or perhaps, not in the real world. Is this real?

The dogs go around in pairs here, but the cats wouldn’t dream of it. Shadows linger longer than they should. The night comes as a blessing, not a curse. The darkness disguises what the sun only ever reveals. This endless night is a balm to the barmy, succour to the suckers. But what is it to me?

These vitriolic outbursts define me. Unanswerable questions are all I know. I want more, though, to skip and play and laugh and dance and live. Yes, live. I want to live again. To be as a child, carefree and joyous. To believe in Father Christmas and not see him shot into red and white chunks. I want to play on green grass and dip my toes in azure water. These are my hopes and dreams. Are they too much to ask?

I remember when the air was precious, and the clouds rained clear water from only temporarily unclear skies. When the sun rose in tangerine segments and set in tomato horizons, this was my time, one of fresh fruit and nature. Now, the rain runs thick with filth, and thicker still when it strikes humanity’s work. The sewers fill with it and oceans choke on it. Yet, we do nothing, refusing to stop.

Breathing in circles, I term it. The unnatural act of un-purifying the soul, of topping up on chaos and drowning eyes open wide. I feel it in my every atom, see it in my dreams. I want to scream, to cry, but my box for a room has no door or window, and no one cares to listen.

Outside, a tree rustles one last leaf to the floor. A flower closes with a creak. A stream pleads for fish to swim its empty channels. Gaia groans her last.

The circle is closed.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series, Britannia Unleashed and co-author of The Poetry of Pronouns Books 1 & 2. Richard has featured in Daily Science Fiction, Love Letters To Poe, Starspun Lit, and feels privileged to have appeared in many more. Richard lives to write.

 

 

Post-Funeral Taco Bell (Modern-Day NDNs)

by Kiara M. Tanta-Quidgeon

After the fire, we pile into my old Elantra—six cousins, four shades of skin, two lost earrings, and no plans except Taco Bell before it closes at 1:00 AM.

It’s 12:45 now.

“Faster! Faster! Faster!” the youngest cousin demands from the back seat, sandwiched between his sister and my brothers.

“This thing doesn’t go any faster, dude,” says my passenger, the eldest cousin, his long hair dancing in the wind.

Even with the windows down, the car smells of cedar, smoke, and salt—like prayer songs and old sweat, like the funeral clinging to our clothes.

The boys wear dress pants and pressed shirts with floral appliqué blooming from the seams. The girls, outnumbered four to two, pair plain tees with ribbon skirts. We all wear sneakers—Nike, Adidas, New Balance—mixing streetwear with tradish pieces like a couple of modern-day NDNs.

There’s a handful of dollar bills and quarters at the bottom of my purse, sticky with tobacco and gum residue, but just enough for a $5 Luxe Cravings Box. We order at the drive-through window and park in the back of the lot.

The drink is passed around from eldest to youngest—six mouths, one straw, no worries about swapping spit. “What’s mine is yours” has always been our motto, and what are germs to people who share grandmothers and grief, anyway?

We tell stories about Grams between bites of our burrito and taco. We talk about how much she loved this place. How she brought us here every Sunday, still dressed for church, heels clicking on the pavement so loudly that the employees, who knew her order by heart, could hear her coming. How she’d tear open hot sauce packets with her teeth, saying a Southern woman’s food wasn’t right without spice, and smiling when it made us sweat. How she’d eat so much, she’d fall asleep for the rest of the afternoon once we got back to her house, sprawled across the living room couch until supper.

When the box is empty, the straw chewed and bent, our words trail off. The lot is quiet, save for the faint chirping of crickets, but I do not start the car.

Tomorrow, we’ll wake to the ache of Grams’ absence, our clothes still laced with the scent of her funeral. Next week, we’ll go our separate ways—three of us back to college in different corners of the country, the eldest to his job in New York City, the youngest staying on the rez for his final year of high school. But tonight, six cousins sit under the flickering glow of a Taco Bell sign in a rundown Connecticut town, carrying Grams’ stories on our tongues, her spirit in our hearts, and her blood in our veins.

And I’m not ready for that to end.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Kiara M. Tanta-Quidgeon is a Mohegan researcher and scholar of Indigenous health and well-being, as well as a storyteller who writes poetry, short stories, creative nonfiction, and blog-style essays. She is currently based in Boston, Massachusetts. https://www.kiaramtantaquidgeon.com/

 

A Sky Stitched with Stars

by G.R. LeBlanc

Maya stood at the ocean’s edge, gray-streaked locks twisting in the wind, the tang of salty mist filling her lungs. The pendant around her neck weighed on her like an old, rusty anchor. She clawed at it, struggling to banish memories of his lies and betrayal, until it slipped free into the breaking foam, releasing the life her young, naïve self had once clung to.

She’d give anything for the chance to turn back time, to experience the magical melody of whale song again—to feel it reverberate through her body.

Memories flooded her mind: the vibrant colors of coral reefs, the sound of the ocean waves, and the salty tang of the sea.

Maya…

Scanning the waves, she wiped her cheeks and, as if drawn by a magnet, waded out into the frigid, shadowy water.

She dove under, letting the current carry her until it pulled her into its inky darkness. Her chest constricted as she struggled, limbs flailing to reach the surface.

Let go…

Maya stopped fighting, let her thoughts drift and surrendered to the sea. Something deep within her shifted, then she heard it: the mystical lullaby of whale song. Its tendrils wrapped around her, set her cells tingling, humming, unraveling, then reweaving. The cold faded as her burning lungs quieted, soothed by the rhythm of the sea.

Maya’s tail sliced through the water, laughter bubbling from her lips. She twirled, basking in this forgotten, delicious surge of freedom.

Ripples stirred nearby. Hope and uncertainty churned in her chest. Her sisters emerged from the murk, their gazes wide, their untamed, sea-glass-adorned tresses shimmering in the moonlight.

With palms pressed to her cheeks, Maya blinked back tears. She had assumed her sisters had already moved on. Their safety depended on it. But they were here before her, and as beautiful as she remembered them—Neve, Ondine, Brina, and Seraphine.

One by one, they gathered close, tentative hands caressing her face and hair. The weight of Maya’s journey wordlessly passed between them, weaving itself into their shared memories.

And then, under a sky stitched with stars—where nothing mattered beyond this moment—Maya finally exhaled.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
G.R. LeBlanc is a haiku poet, fiction writer, and managing editor of The Hoolet’s Nook, an online publication dedicated to short-form writing. In her downtime, you’ll often find her puzzling over NYT word games with a chai latte in hand. Learn more at https://sleek.bio/grleblanc.

 

Diagnosis

by Beth Sherman

Why do I have to go to the doctor? my mother asked.

It’s been awhile since you’ve had a check-up.

Remember when you were little and you bit Dr. Kirschenbaum?

That was an accident.

The way he carried on. The man didn’t like children. He should have been an accountant, not a dentist.

I made an appointment.

An appointment for what?

The doctor.

Why do I have to go to the doctor?

There are 85 billion cells in the human brain that knit together fragments of the past into memories and many tools for diagnosing dementia, including a thorough physical examination, neurological and psychological exams, a review of the patient’s medical history, medications, an EEG, and an MRI.

My mother’s brain was moon white, with steep cracks meandering through it like rivers that had lost their way.

Her cortex has thinned, the doctor told me. There’s been some damage to the smaller blood vessels.

The edges of her brain appeared ruffled, reminding me of flames or fairy tale trees that come to life when no one’s watching.

The middle part of her brain was black. I saw twin lakes. A nose and a frowning mouth. It looked like a dangerous mask I didn’t want her to wear.

Late onset Alzheimer’s, the doctor said.

The word landed like a blow.

There will also be a cognitive evaluation, which tests for visual and spatial skills, helping to guide prognosis and treatment.

Draw a clockface, said the nurse.

A what?

The face of a clock or a wristwatch.

My mother looked at me with alarm. She wasn’t wearing the silver Tourneau watch my father gave her for their 25th anniversary. She claimed the watch had been stolen. Now I wasn’t so sure.

She picked up the blue marker, put it down, handed it to me.

This is ridiculous, Lauren. I’m not a child.

Mrs. Goodman. Sylvia. Are you able to draw a clockface?

The biology of the brain remains among the deepest mysteries in neuroscience.

I’m going to give you four words: Kite – zebra – pen - microwave. Could you say them back to me?

My mother stared at the nurse. She had a fearful, withdrawn expression as if she’d lost something irreplaceable.

I . . . don’t . . . microwave?

Only a few years after symptom onset, neurons in the frontal lobe and cerebral cortex will start to perish – disrupting mood, spatial awareness, face recognition and long-term memory.

What will I do when she doesn’t remember me? I imagined placing her hands on my face, like I was teaching her to read Braille.

Hippocampus is the Greek word for seahorse.

We emerged from the air conditioning of the medical center into an unseasonably hot June afternoon.

My mind was doing handsprings. Care-money-insurance-comfort-sick. Everything had shifted, but the world looked the same.

Let’s go to the beach, my mother said, as we walked to the car.

We have to go home first and get our bathing suits.

The last thing I wanted was to go to the beach and see all the happy people doing happy things.

We don’t need those. Let’s just go. I’ll buy you a Creamsicle.

My favorite ice cream when I was little. I loved the orang-y taste, a little milky, sweet but not overly.

She remembered.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured 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 social media @bsherm36.

 

Hongbao

by Huina Zheng

“I don’t want to go back,” Lan said, her voice calm and firm. “I’m not paying for a family reunion.”

“You don’t usually go home anyway, and you hardly call your parents,” Yong said uneasily. “If you don’t even go back for the Spring Festival, they—”

“They have more than just me,” Lan cut him off with a glance. “You think they’ll miss me? Their son’s right there, with two grandkids around. What more could they possibly want?”

“It’s not the same. They still miss you—”

“Let’s not argue,” Lan sighed. “On the second day of the Spring Festival, all my cousins are going to visit my parents. Do you know how many cousins I have there?”

Seeing Yong’s blank face, she held up her fingers. “Eight.”

“The more the merrier, right?”

“Do you know how many kids they each have?” Lan fought the urge to smack him. “At least two per cousin.”

“So?”

“So how many hongbaos stuffed with lucky money do you think we’ll need? You do the math.”

A week later, hongbaos bulged in Yong’s pockets, making his jacket puff out awkwardly. One by one, he dug out a hongbao, grinned, and handed it over, moving from child to child like a man emptying a treasure chest.

Lan stood by, watching him with a tight smile. With each hongbao he pulled out, she felt their year-end bonus shrink a little more. The lambskin quilted handbag she had hesitated over for months, the limited-edition matte 999 lipstick, the SK-II essence, the silk summer dress, the Kyoto trip they had dreamed about, all vanished, one hongbao at a time.

The kids clutched their hongbaos and passed them straight to their parents, whose faces lit up with satisfaction.

Lan clenched her fists in secret, thinking: Should’ve had kids earlier. Two at least. Might’ve gotten the Arashiyama train ride and kaiseki dinners paid for.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.

 

Grandfrogs

by John Brantingham

Travis is there for his grandfather, who can’t get around fast any more, there for him in the old man’s backyard when he notices that his grandfather is watching a frog waddling slowly across the backyard.

There’s a memory, something way back from that time when he might have been four years old or so and not in the surreal haze of early childhood when he knows that his grandfather caught a frog for him, gave it to him like a gift. He’s lost in that memory when he feels someone staring at him and turns to find his grandfather’s knowing face.

They’re not close enough to have a psychic connection, but his grandfather says, “I gave it to you because you were having a bad day.”

Travis can feel himself smile and blush. He’d never let the kids down at the high school see that, but it’s funny. People can just be themselves around their grandparents. “What was wrong with me?”

“Your father was deployed back to Korea, and you were scared.” His grandfather points at the frog. “The animal was there to protect you like a talisman.”

Travis gets up and takes this frog in his hands and offers it to his grandfather, who waves it off. He says, “I’ll tell you a secret. Even when I was grown up I’d go out and find frogs when I was nervous.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. I wasn’t lying to you that day. Frogs are talismans. They keep away the fear. Stick it in your jacket pocket. Feel it wiggle around and try to be anxious.” Travis does and the frog moves around, settling in and it’s true. He can feel high school slipping away, all the tests both in the classroom and out. They’re gone, replaced by the frog. His grandpa says, “I don’t have a lot of money, Travis.”

“I know that.”

He points to Travis’s pocket. “That right there is my legacy.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
John Brantingham is the recipient of a New York State Arts Council grant and was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate. His work has been in hundreds of magazines and The Best Small Fictions 2016 and 2022. He has twenty-two books of poetry, nonfiction, and fiction. Check out his work at johnbrantingham.com.