Each Death Gets Us Closer
A flipped boat, he clings to the metal bench seat slick with mossy water, his feet spasming in the unknown depths below him. Because at sixteen, there’s something fucked up about not knowing how to float or tread water. He had skipped swimming lessons because he couldn’t imagine a world where he wouldn’t know how
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Yesterday in Sand
I carve deep grooves into the face before me, loose sand falling to the ground in small red piles. The eyes stare back at me with conspicuous intent, concentrating as I do on the task at hand. I do not know why my touch forms the sand as it does, why it holds shape against
Visha
V isha screwed the silencer onto her Glock-19 and rested its tip on the SUV’s steering wheel. She aimed past the windshield and fixed her sights on Igor’s forehead. Visha wore all black: her lean jumpsuit, boots, gloves, and a scarf that concealed a shock of blond hair. Everything was black. Igor would never spot
Mother, Shift, Mother
I hugged you, and I hugged you again before you stepped out that door. Did I warn enough about the monsters? I didn’t want to make you worry. Maybe I should have. But now you’re gone. Out in the wild world, armed with nothing but laptop and laundry bag, books, and posters. With nothing to
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Imagine Dandelions
I magine Genesis, order from disorder. I sat on the sun-warmed tarmac with seventeen other female prisoners waiting to board a transport named Eagle of Peace. Ironic name for a sinister-looking vessel, which reminded me of something cobbled together by a mad scientist using mismatched nuts and bolts. But the
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Get OFF the Title Treadmill: 3 Simple Tactics for Flash Fiction & Short Story Submitters
You’ve written your flash fiction or short story and are ready to hit submit—wait! You churn out title after title but cast each aside as worse than the last. That’s when you realize you’re stuck on the dreaded title treadmill. None of your selections fit your story. What do you do? Do you use a
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Crew, Yeah?
Y ou do this man, we crew, yeah?” I nod, but it’s lost in the shake that has taken hold of me. I try to speak, but the drum and bass beat of the car radio batters my heart into a rhythm. I grip the steering, feeling my knuckles blanch. “We
To Do
O n my desk, nestled among the chess pieces I use for paperweights, is a To Do list with a single entry. Plan Life This should mean that sometime today I’ll be doing whatever such a note is meant to imply. It should mean that, but,