Why Do You Admire Water Bears
Because they’re resilient no matter the extreme environments they find themselves in, from the scorching vents of the ocean’s floor to the icy, intolerable temperatures of Antarctica. Because they spend their days in peace, munching on plants and bacteria, content with life.
Because they are survivors, just like you, formerly known as Displaced, Invisible, Nameless… all those years ago, when the future seemed bleak and hopeless when daydreaming was a welcome escape with all the ‘ifs’ rummaging inside your head.
Because you know that had you been born someplace else, you would have never discovered so many similarities with Water Bears. They would have been the furthest thing from your mind. Ultimately, only in extreme circumstances do we master survival. Boil them, freeze them, shoot them to outer space, and they survive. Deprive them of nutrients, and liquids, torture them even and they’ll still find a way. As you did, when surviving on food scraps, always hungry.
Because this is one of those human characteristics that is utterly unfathomable, fighting against all odds. Indiscernible to the naked eye, almost indestructible, contrary to all expectations - Water Bears don’t give up, just like you didn’t.
Because the one thing you were envious of was the microscopic state of them. All you wished was to stay hidden from the world, to live in the state of ‘cryptobiosis’ even if just for a little while. Especially at the tween age. Because at that age, every day seemed like the end of the world, an unceasing battle with the lacrimal gland.
Because you had never expected to have so much in common with Water Bears. There’s something soothing in knowing that they could outlive us all. After all, we are just a blip in the nature’s interminable odyssey.
Because you hope they inspire someone else not to give up…
Andrea Damic (Sydney, Australia) wears many hats as her daughter likes to remind her. Andrea’s an artist, a writer and a contributing editor of a newly founded Pictura Journal. She's also an accountant with a master’s degree in Economics. You can find her fiddling with her website https://damicandrea.wordpress.com/.
Kali
You will see her. Even though you are only seven, even though some people, like your Ma won’t believe you, and those who believe you will want to worship you; don’t fall for them, you are not God, no one is, but you will clearly see her on the Ganga, in the shadows of gathering darkness, enough daylight to make out, she is there, her skull necklace dangling, her tongue sticking out, her spears glinting as it catches the last ray of sunlight. Behind you, the bodies of Manikarnika Ghat laid out in neat rows, burn, sending plumes of fire into heaven, hissing as if chanting a mantra. Your mother is beside you, but won't see her when you point it out. She will say you are describing Kali, but this is not Kali’s place. This is Shiva’s place. And you will ask if those skulls in her necklace, are those from the bodies burning, and your mother will say no, don’t even think of the bodies. But you are not afraid. You know death is just crossing a bridge.
Thirty years from then you will feel her again. By then, you will not even believe in Kali. You will be the Federal prosecutor in Southern District of Texas. You will step out of the courtroom, at dusk, victorious, and tell the gathered reporters that you’ve managed to put the white supremacists who dragged his black body, could have been Shiva’s body, chained to the back of the pickup, joy riding, that those monsters are slayed and wont harm anyone else. And you will proclaim victory over injustice, and in the gathering darkness you will look just like Kali, your necklace glinting, your red tongue satisfied.
Ani Banerjee is a retiring lawyer and an emerging writer from Houston, Texas, who was born and brought up in Kolkata, India. Her flash fiction has been published in Lost Balloon, Janus Literary, Five on the Fifth, McQueen’s Quinterly, , Dribble Drabble Magazine and others. Find her at
Twitter @AniBWrites
Insta: Annie.Banerjee
Bluesky: @anibanerjee.bsky.social
The Salt Whisperer’s Resignation
Holding court in the old Victory Cafe on Markham, squeezed into the back-left booth, none of us ever heard the whispering woman’s voice except Slug Boss. He dispensed rasping advice to shifty cops or private military types, or nodded to Joser, who placed envelopes into quivering hands. But before every decision Boss sat back, corpulent, sighing, hand on his warm glass of Heineken, the shimmering woman draped across his shoulder, a shadow
growing from the corner where the ochre bulb once flickered out and was never replaced, her raven hair across his lap, in his beer, unnoticed, unaddressed, whispering. Boss listened to the silence, and then he would proclaim: a loan extended, reaching
out to a judge for mercy, taking toes, whatever. And these were all the right moves; we were eating. But it was her, right? How did she know?
Never talk directly to her, never talk about her, even if she had you fixed and stammering. We all understood that to survive.
But one evening Slug Boss got greedy, I guess. “Speak up, Mirai,” he scolded, raising his hand. “Say what I need you to say,” and accidentally spilled the salt across the table, into her lap. Then he clapped sausage fingers to his mouth as she leapt up with an ear-piercing shriek, like a sleeper in the spotlight. Boss cried her name again, but already she was gone: wild-eyed, salt scattered in her trail.
And from that day onward, our world began to shrink.
Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. His stories have appeared in Invisible City, JAKE, The Dribble Drabble Review, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.
Richard Pays His Respects
Richard tries to shoo the cat away because he’s allergic, but also because a warm cat in his lap is oddly arousing, and now is not the time to be aroused. An open casket is strange
enough, but staring at the stiff Cliff while the deceased’s cat kneads his nether regions is truly surreal. It shouldn’t surprise Richard the memorial is at Cliff’s house; Cliff has always been
annoyingly proud of this house and of his dazzling Russian wife, (now widow) Nadia. For years, Richard and Cliff were the only bachelors at the office. They’d hunted haplessly at happy hours and conspired on how to get ahead at work. Richard had even shared tips on how to win over their icy Vice President, Claire. But showing a complete lack of gratitude, Cliff went on to secure the only promotion available. Then, inexplicably, Cliff had somehow charmed Nadia, even though Richard was the one who’d studied Russian literature.
And now, just to prove himself first again, Cliff has kicked the bucket.
As Richard scrutinized the poorly applied rouge on Cliff’s pallid cheeks, a twitching tail emerged from underneath the casket. Richard was sitting in the corner, struggling to come up with some sympathetic remembrance, when the flat-faced Persian pounced. Cats always gravitated to Richard. And Richard loves cats. Only God has made it impossible for Richard to have one as a companion. It’s not unlike his relationship with women, he supposes. A passing
co-worker squeezes Richard’s shoulder, apparently mistaking the cause of his watery eyes and
runny nose.
While the persistent Persian sheds and applies steady pressure to his crotch, Nadia’s weeping grows progressively desperate. Richard wants to steal her from the room. He pictures the two of them on an old wooden sleigh cutting tracks through an apple orchard blanketed in fresh snow. He imagines their retreat to a cabin in the woods, where he will bed Nadia on a blanket of the finest caribou pelts.
After his VP, Claire, has finished comforting Nadia, she shoots Richard a stern Well, don’t iust sit there look. So, Richard stands—and, as he does, the cat leaps down and Claire throws a hand over her mouth. Nadia, still sobbing, rushes over and flings herself on Richard. Her curtains of dark hair envelop him. Richard hugs her awkwardly, sticking his butt out as far as possible.
“Oh, Richard,” Nadia sniffs. She pulls him closer, and he worries her hand will brush against his throbbing protuberance. “It’s so good of you to come,” she murmurs in her delicious Slavic accent. Richard pats her back. “I know how hard this is,” he whispers, trying to avoid
Claire’s disgusted stare.
Nadia stops crying and steps back to survey him. Her eyes glow like portals to some frostbitten land—a land filled with harsh vodka, hidden moles, and wondrous lovemaking. Her
full lips curl into an appreciative smile, then her slender fingers wipe his moistened cheek.
Somewhere below Richard’s erection, the cat purrs and rubs his leg.
Other recent oddities from Coleman can be found in Cleaver, Ghost Parachute and Gooseberry Pie. His first first flash fiction collection: "In Rare Cases & Other Unfortunate Circumstances" is available now. More at: www.colemanbigelow.com or follow him on Instagram @cbigswrites and Bluesky @cbigs.bsky.social.
Texas Is International Thanks To Texas Hold ‘Em
And Glen placed the final card down, the four of spades, careful not to get his still-wet nails on the card, and the two men looked at their cards, lips puckered and dresses shimmering, and Bernie threw down his cards with anger, his bluff down the toilet, not knowing that Matt had certifiably nothing in his hand and was pushing the chips towards Bernie. “You won, idiot,” said Matt, but Bernie wouldn’t take it, couldn’t believe his two-pair had won, but Malone was already shuffling the deck so he had to take the pot, Malone restacking little flecks of cardboard, pictures of royalty made two-dimensional on palmable cards meant to be shared and reshared.
The simplest terms for the scene: the four men had a secret agreement to dress in dragand play poker on Thursdays in the burgeoning subdivisions they were working on outsideOregon City. The four men met in the moonlight on the land that was being tractor-cleared andleveled in preparation for the McMansions. The initial agreements had started back in somedevelopments near Portland three years back.
They would drink beers and play in the lamplight of the skeletons of a house. It never went further than that.
A few weeks back, Malone had blown a kiss at Glenda. As a joke. Now he had a black eye. You must know this.
Malone dealt the cards in what might be considered the kitchen if more walls had been put up. Reshuffled the deck. Big blind. Small blind. Checks. The initial flop. Little terms denoting the game. The frontier terms. The wilderness is made into handheld cards. The calling card, the business card. Little slips of paper denoting larger contracts. Malone wore lipstick, green blush. Inhuman. All of the land the contracted construction men were on had been reduced to a sheet of paper that was the color of the sky. Had been deemed unsatisfactory to the game and the rules had to be changed. Bernie was all in. Matt folded. Cocky. Malone stayed in. Glenda. Ruthless. All ruthless.
The small lightbulb sitting on the left table casted shadows on the pink insulation and the occasional brick and sawdust, chiaroscuro landscapes and painted faces of men becoming even more alien to themselves. The wind making the beer bottle whistle like a catcall. Quarries waiting to be filled.
No one knew who started these rituals. No one knew the rules. Boundaries ill-defined.
So when Malone was found the next day at the construction site hogtied and gagged still in his drag, lying on the ribcage floor of this suburban home paradise, none of the workers knew who had done this to him. There was a playing card with green kiss stains tucked into his breast — the seven of hearts to be exact — and that felt like enough of a sign to the contractors that it was an insular incident and that he was to blame. You must believe this.
J.B. Kalf is currently slipping on ice. Has been published or is forthcoming within Beaver Magazine, The Shore, Poetry Lab Shanghai, Roi Faineant, Prosetrics, Hot Pot Magazine, Does It Have Pockets, #Ranger, and elsewhere. Prefers limes to lemons and can be found on Instagram @enchilada_photo and Bluesky @enchilada89
The unexpected outcome of my last work appraisal
I tell my boss I’m running away to join the circus. He laughs so I google ‘jobs for tight-rope walkers’ and, from behind my computer, tiny carnival folk parade out. The ring master rides an elephant shrew, his tiny top-hat tilting in a rakish fashion. A beautiful trapeze artist suspended between two sticks of sandalwood incense sings the aria from Madame Butterfly so beautifully that I cry huge tears nearly drowning them all. The clowns have sharp teeth and run at me. I threaten to swat them with my last performance review where I am described as ‘accommodating’ and ‘pleasant’ and ‘reliable’.
The Ring Master, Eustasius, invites me to join the Circus as their giantess. ‘The pay is poor, but we look after each other.’
I consider his proposal as I drink coffee and share my rich tea biscuit with the strong woman. She is American, with an eagle tattooed on her upper right arm.
‘It ain’t a biscuit, doll. It’s a cookie. You Brits are something else.’
Eustasius is very persuasive.
‘Come with us to the souks of Constantinople,’ he says. ‘I’ll teach you to play the lute. There is always work for a lute playing giantess in the souks of Constantinople’
There are limited prospects for advancement with my current employer for someone ‘accommodating’ and ‘pleasant’ and ‘reliable’. I shake the hand of Eustasius with the tip of my little finger and the deal is made. The entire circus, complete with teacup sized big top and stag beetle horses, pack themselves into the most spacious of my many handbags and we board the first-class carriage of the train to Istanbul.
Jenny Hart is a writer from England, recently published in ‘Urban Pigs’, ‘Frazzled Lit’ and the ‘Cast of Wonders’ podcast. She lives across the road from a cemetery, with her very odd cats, Jason and Jeff. You can follow Jenny on Instagram, Bluesky and Twitter/X using @JennyHart2001
Best Intentions
Montage plans to pull the blue switch on the left side of the municipal building. It has been in the up position forever. Rumor is, if pulled down, it releases the fabled clown army that was defeated and banished to a mid-dimension generations ago. Montage does not believe that the
ancestors of today’s citizens could defeat any army, let alone a clown army. He imagines the switch empties a cistern, or sounds a bell, or something mundane, forgotten in town lore. For him, it is a prank to impress Natalie. But now, the switch is red, and on the right.
Ken Poyner has nine collections of poetry, flash fiction and micro-fiction out there. He cheers his world-class power lifting wife at meets, and once worked wrangling computers. His individual offerings are strewn across the web. “Analog”, “Café Irreal”, “Mobius”, “Brief Wilderness”, elsewhere. www.kpoyner.com.
The One Sad Life
It was over seventy years ago, but I remember it like it was last week. Me and my brother Clell were picking cotton down in the Mississippi delta at our great aunt Sarah’s farm.
“Did you hear what aunt Sarah said to me this morning,” Clell asked. No, what did she say? I replied. Clell said that she told him that maybe we were already in hell but just didn’t know it, as we walked back from the Pentecostal church to her house.
Now, I’m sitting in my one room apartment over three hundred miles from the delta trying to figure out if there is a meaning to life. I found a book that was first published in 1928 at the used book store and the author writes, “Thinking of death as just another place to go, another road to walk, another land to know.”
I don’t know if I’m thinking about death or thinking at all. I’m just drinking cheap red wine and looking out the window at the deserted street below.
Today I went to the local Walmart in Harrison to buy a slingshot and a package of marbles to shoot from the slingshot. The punk ass salesman asked why I wanted a slingshot. Not that it was any of his business, but I told him that I just wanted to scare the armadillo’s that were tearing up the yard in front of my apartment.
There was no way the clerk could have known about me or my past, but he looked at me and asked if I wanted the slingshot to hunt animals. I told the kid that I had no interest in killing animals, but I had hunted humans before. I don’t know why I told him that, maybe it was the cheap wine talking.
He looked me in the eye and said, “I think you’re a hitman.”
“I can’t tell you that or I’ll have to kill you,” I told him as I picked up my bag and walked out of the store.
So now I’m sitting on this old worn-out chair in my apartment, trying to decide if I should have another bottle of red wine or swallow the barrel of my gun that I carried for the last fifty years of my sad life.
Odd Encounter
That day, Janis ran into her mirroring double. It wasn't in front of the mirror when she was washing her face, like every morning. This time the encounter was at the door just outside of her apartment, as she was on her way to the elevator.
Janis had a birthmark on her right cheek and had the corner of her mouth turned slightly down on the left side. Instantly, she realized that the other Janis was identical to her but totally inverted, with her birthmark on her left cheek and the corner of her mouth slightly deviated down on the right side. They even wore the same clothes and had the same leather handbag.
Their first reaction was one of mutual astonishment, though neither said a word. They studied each other, reaching out slightly without touching.
Finally, they drew closer until they made contact, matching each other's parts.
After the first moment of exhilaration, they were horrified to realise their atrocious fate.
Before they could react, they annihilated each other in a tremendous explosion of matter and antimatter.
Marcelo Medone (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee fiction writer, poet, essayist, journalist, playwright and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in multiple languages in more than 50 countries around the world, including India.
He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay.
The Scullion Finds the Royal Stationer’s Embossed Gender Reveal Party Invitations in the Trash
Stomping on straw in the castle tower, the miller’s daughter curses the king and launches the turkey baster to the midden below. Clueless, waiting the birth of his child-to-be, Rumpelstiltskin lays his bets at the Luck Be a Lady Casino. Check, mate! he crows to the blackjack dealer, oblivious to the game’s rules. At roulette, he shuts his eyes placing his chip. Any way lucky, he chortles to his fellow gamblers waiting for the ball to fall. Odd number — boy, even — girl. The croupier hard-spins the wheel. “Eleven!” Rumpelstiltskin legs it home on rattly stilts to paint the nursery blue.
Mikki Aronoff writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. Her work has been long-listed for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction. Mikki has stories appearing in Best Microfiction 2024 and forthcoming in Best Small Fictions 2024. She lives in New Mexico.
Rerun
Lisa walked into the office. Her hair was pulled back into a ball, and she’d changed her hair color to lagoon blue.
“I saw you on TV last night,” she said.
“I wasn’t on TV last night.”
“Yes, you were. I know that was you. You were talking about the 5k for breast cancer we’re doing next week.”
“Oh, yeah. I did that clip last week.”
She laughed hysterically and said, “You’re a rerun now.”
I chuckled and told her she was probably right. I admired her quick wit, and she used rerun all day with others in the office for laughs and retold the story over and over: “Yes, Mr. Rerun is in, but he’s on a call. Mr. Rerun has a luncheon appointment today and can’t meet. Mr. Rerun will get back to you with that information.” Initially, I thought it was humorous, but as the workday crept along, I found it rather annoying. Truth was, I felt like a rerun. Different day, same life, same routine, over and over.
By 4:00 p.m., Lisa had also become a rerun. Using rerun had gotten stale to her, and she used my name when she told me she was leaving for the day.
Niles Reddick is author of a novel, four short fiction collections, and two novellas. His work has appeared in over five hundred publications including The Saturday Evening Post, New Reader Magazine, Cheap Pop, Flash Fiction Magazine, Citron Review, Hong Kong Review, and Vestal Review.
Renewal
The carnival packs her friend in an orange and peels away in a tiny car. She runs after the bad seeds. A boy eating an apple joins her. He is a long stem, his head an orchard. He trips over roots he can’t see. She double knots the ties to his family. The clowns in the car tear apart the orange and toss slices of her friend out the window. He pulls himself together. He has appeal.
Sheree Shatsky is the author of the novella-in-flash Summer 1969 (Ad Hoc Fiction 2023). She is a collage contributor to MAINTENANT 18: A Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art ‘PLUTOCRAZY’ (Three Rooms Press 2024). Her work has been nominated for Best of The Net 2024 (Gone Lawn), Best Microfiction 2022 (Splonk Flash) and Best Microfiction 2020 (Fictive Dream and MoonPark Review). She writes "Shared Madness" at shereeshatsky.substack.com . Sheree calls Florida home and is a Tom Petty fan.