Our new publishing schedule is alternating Wednesdays. Look for some delicious new stories right here,
November 19.
Curse Word
creative non-fiction
by Marie Cloutier
I only did it because I knew it was bad, scrawled that word, the worst of the four letter words, on the brown pressboard wall of my nursery school cubby. How did the teacher find it? Then I saw the sun flowing in and illuminating the pencil marks like graphite neon. I forget the punishment now but I know it made me cry, maybe not the punishment but the shame of it, being called out, getting caught, even though I probably wanted to, get caught that is. Show that teacher I wasn't just a goody-goody, not just anyway. Not just.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Marie Cloutier (she/her) writes about girlhood and womanhood and complicated loves and losses. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, Dorothy Parker's Ashes , the Sheepshead Review and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.
by Marie Cloutier
I only did it because I knew it was bad, scrawled that word, the worst of the four letter words, on the brown pressboard wall of my nursery school cubby. How did the teacher find it? Then I saw the sun flowing in and illuminating the pencil marks like graphite neon. I forget the punishment now but I know it made me cry, maybe not the punishment but the shame of it, being called out, getting caught, even though I probably wanted to, get caught that is. Show that teacher I wasn't just a goody-goody, not just anyway. Not just.
Marie Cloutier (she/her) writes about girlhood and womanhood and complicated loves and losses. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, Dorothy Parker's Ashes , the Sheepshead Review and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.
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.
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.
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.
Give It Up
by Franz Kafka
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Franz Kafka (1883 – 1924) was a German-language Jewish Czech writer and novelist born in Prague. Widely regarded as a major figure of 20th-century literature, his work typically features isolated protagonists facing bizarre or surreal predicaments and incomprehensible socio-bureaucratic powers. The term Kafkaesque has entered the lexicon to describe situations like those depicted in his writings. His best-known works include the novella The Metamorphosis (1915) and the novels The Trial (1924) and The Castle (1926). His work has widely influenced artists, philosophers, composers, filmmakers, literary historians, religious scholars, cultural theorists.
This is a vintage piece from a historic author.
It was very early in the morning, the streets clean and deserted, I was walking to the station. As I compared the tower clock with my watch I realized that it was already much later than I had thought, I had to hurry, the shock of this discovery made me unsure of the way, I did not yet know my way very well in this town; luckily, a policeman was nearby, I ran up to him and breathlessly asked him the way. He smiled and said: “From me you want to know the way?” “Yes,” I said, “since I cannot find it myself.” “Give it up! Give it up,” he said, and turned away with a sudden jerk, like people who want to be alone with their laughter.
Franz Kafka (1883 – 1924) was a German-language Jewish Czech writer and novelist born in Prague. Widely regarded as a major figure of 20th-century literature, his work typically features isolated protagonists facing bizarre or surreal predicaments and incomprehensible socio-bureaucratic powers. The term Kafkaesque has entered the lexicon to describe situations like those depicted in his writings. His best-known works include the novella The Metamorphosis (1915) and the novels The Trial (1924) and The Castle (1926). His work has widely influenced artists, philosophers, composers, filmmakers, literary historians, religious scholars, cultural theorists.
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