Smoke
She rests her chin on her hand, cigarette drooping from her lip. She is twelve. She’s on the bench
outside the hospital, alone except for one old woman who wrinkles her nose at the smell of the
smoke, and turns her milky gaze on the child. Those things will kill you, she says in a voice that
crackles like glass.
Hope so, the girl says. Silence. The girl offers the old woman the last cigarette from her pack;
who takes it, lights it, inhales. She waits for an explanation from the girl. Better not to push.
What are you in for? she finally says, having given up on the idea of waiting. Too old now for
that.
Visiting my dad.
What’s he in for?
Lungs.
Does he know you smoke?
No. She curves her body into a comma. A cringe. She kicks her feet in the dust. A petulance,
giving way to fury.
The old woman startles as if the gesture is meant for her. Brushing the spray of dirt from her leg,
she gives into the urge to babble, her go-to for whenever she thinks she’s gone too far. I once had
a friend who lost her husband in a plane crash and so she started boarding every flight she could
find. Didn’t matter where to. She thought she was increasing the odds she’d be reunited with him.
The girl’s eyes light up with the recognition of being understood.
Same, she whispers.
The old woman nods, flicking the long white ash from her cigarette onto the ground. Her mother
always told her there would be times she’d sit with anger, only to find out it was actually grief.
And all these years later, she knows there’s no point in arguing with grief.
Cheryl Snell’s books include poetry and fiction. Her most recent writing appeared in Maudlin House, Ghost Parachute, Flash Boulevard, Midway Journal, Boudin, the 2025 Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, The Dribble Drabble Review, Mad Swirl and Eclectica anthologies. She lives in Maryland.
I Lose Your Shadow
sunrises drip like raw egg yolks, bathing my body in a new golden light, dripping into my morning coffee, creating ribbons of light in my slow cooked porridge, thawing my body day by day until I
become afraid I will lose your shadow, that smoky hue of loss and love, the notes of cinnamon and anise you once served with baked apples, dollops of clotted cream
entering spring becomes an act of loss becomes an act of renewal becomes
a journey that cannot be substantiated by
any words
Erin Jamieson’s (She/Her) writing has been published in over 100 literary magazines and nominated twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of Net. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Fairytales (Bottle Cap Press) and a historical novel, Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams (Type Eighteen Books), and two forthcoming poetry collections.
John Irving
After Meg Pokrass
So a lot of people, the ones who ditch their lives and move to Dorset, sometimes they inadvertently choose the wrong Dorset, and end up in Vermont instead.
They try to make a go of it in Vermont, the Green Mountain State, enroll in the community college, take creative writing classes. In their workshops the people work on their novels, and their instructor tells them that if they work hard then each of them could be the next John Irving, the famous novelist who calls this particular Dorset his home.
But when later they run into the current John Irving, because this Dorset is a tiny place, a mere slip compared to the original Dorset, he tells them they could try, but there’s only room for one great novelist in Dorset, the one in Vermont, and that’s him.
“Send out your books,” he shrugs. “See what happens the moment any agent figures out where you actually live.”
John Irving always cuts in line at the espresso bar at the Dorset Bakery. He recognizes that look in the eyes of people who just want to live in Dorset and make a go of it with their dreams. “You might as well stick to poetry,” he tells everyone waiting for a table. “I hear they got a big prize named for this place, though nobody here has ever won it. Maybe one of you might eventually be the first. If you work hard enough.”
He says that last part like someone who’s convinced nobody in Dorset but him has ever worked hard enough.
Some of the people plot to murder John Irving. Others dream of moving to the other Dorset, the right Dorset, where novels flow freely, they tell one another. If only they could.
But rumors spread that perhaps there are still other Dorsets, in New Mexico, Alberta, Zambia, Uttar Pradesh, the South Island of New Zealand, wherever British people settled because enterprising developers figured if you could call a place Dorset then at least some people would think after blowing up their lives they had returned home. Any of them could be the right place for a person willing to work hard enough. “If you can’t finish your novel in Dorset,” some people say. “Maybe you’re just in the wrong Dorset. The University of Dorset supposedly has an outstanding MFA program.”
“Nice try,” say the other people. “We have faith in our novels, what might happen if they ever stood a chance. We know John Irving likes to swim in the local quarry.”
Hugh Behm-Steinberg’s fiction can be found in X-Ray, Roi Fainéant, ergot, Heavy Feather Review and Denver Quarterly. His short story "Taylor Swift" won the Barthelme Prize from Gulf Coast, and his story "Goodwill" was picked as one of Wigleaf’s Top Fifty Very Short Fictions. A collection of prose poems and microfiction, Animal Children, was published by Nomadic/Black Lawrence Press. He lives in Barcelona, where he’s the fiction editor of Mercurius. https://linktr.ee/hughsteinberg.
Jeremiah
Jeremiah’s routine had been the same for months: No joy in the morning and none at lunch; morose preaching on hot afternoons to a diminishing flock; a couple hours at the local bar followed by a flavorless dinner; then turning and tossing toward a fitful sleep. And finally, dreams of being at sea, filled with the thought that joy, like Noah’s raven, was gone for good.
​
No one would hang out with Jeremiah anymore. Fellow patrons at the Jordan Tavern kept themselves scarce between the hours of 4 and 6 p.m. So, he drank alone, trying to savor the taste of juniper but finding no flavor in it.
​
One day, Jeremiah preached to a few stones and a trembling date palm in the city park. The only thing around with legs was a rat who scurried away. The nearby market was deserted; even the stalls were empty. That’s it, Jeremiah thought. They’ve closed the market and I’m the reason. Sure, the price of dates is exceptionally high, and the quality of the lamb’s meat is poorer than anyone can remember. But that’s due to my miserable mouth. I’ve failed the Lord because I speak in poor prose.
​
If no one will listen to me, Jeremiah said to the sky, it isn’t because of God. I’ve gone about my message entirely wrong.
That evening, he showed up at the Jordan at 6:07 p.m. Most of the drinkers were seated along the big cedar bar. When they saw him, there came a great, involuntary groan. Then, embarrassed by their own honesty, the group took a giant, collective swig of mead.
​
‘Drinks are on me!’ Jeremiah shouted and put a stack of coppers on the counter.
​
The tavern was silent a moment before the barman said, ‘You know, I really do agree with everything you’ve been saying.’
‘We all do!’ roared the man closest by. And he turned toward to his neighbors and said, ‘The prophet’s right, isn’t he mates? There’s been no joy!’
​
Jeremiah sat at the bar and ordered himself a drink. ‘This one’s on me,’ the barman said, and put out a bowl of pine nuts.
​
As he drank and munched, Jeremiah thought: You know, that night I heard from the Lord, I was sitting right here with these fellows. Maybe the key is state dependent memory . . . .
Jeremy Nathan Marks lives in the Great Lakes Region of North America. Recent prose & poetry appears/will appear in places like Studio One, Fifty Word Stories, The Medley, Right Hand Pointing, Dissident Voice, and Commuter Lit among other spots. Jeremy works in adult education.
Dangerous Worshippers
Last time I rolled Ethan to the store in his pram, at least six ladies floated over to smooch him on his strange little head. Ethan is afraid for his life, and the last thing I want is for him to have to endure this kind of experience again. Today I wore cinnamon perfume, designed to ward off the vampires.
The ladies came fluttering towards us. They touched Ethan’s head while crooning old Scottish ballads. Utterly petrified, Ethan giggled and gurgled. One lady asked what perfume are you wearing? She grabbed my hand, took a deep sniff of my wrist. Before she could sink her fangs in, I wheeled Ethan fast away.
We arrived at the municipal cemetery, our safe place. Phew. Lifting Ethan high in the air, I waved him like a Union Jack flag. Oh Ethan, Ethan. No matter how strange you grow up to be, Mama will always love you.
Frances Gapper lives in the UK’s Black Country region. Her stories have been published in four Best Microfiction anthologies and lit mags including Pangyrus, Flash the Court, Your Impossible Voice, Atlas and Alice, trampset, Splonk, Wigleaf, New Flash Fiction Review, Fictive Dream, Forge, Literary Namjooning, Gooseberry Pie and Trash Cat Lit. Social Media: Bluesky and X.
​
Meg Pokrass is the author of First Law of Holes: New and Selected Stories (Dzanc Books, 2024) and eight previous collections. Her work has appeared in RATTLE, New England Review, Five Points, Lit Hub, Electric Literature and elsewhere. Her work was included in The Best Small Fictions 2025. She is an American author living and teaching in the Scottish Highlands.
Fazza and His Felines
The Crown Prince of Dubai was well-known for his proclivity for being easily bored. He walked out of the original Star Wars and turned off the O.J. chase before it even started.
Ergo, he devised an event that would bore no one — not even him.
Every polydactyl in the city — there were reported to be 36 of them — would race to the top of Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest structure.
The winner of the cat competition would be rewarded with a year’s supply of caviar-enhanced treats, while the human owner would receive a 126-day supply of the real stuff — really good stuff. No roe here.
The start time was set for just after the breaking of a Ramadan fast. A pittance of an admission fee to witness the race was requested, but not required.
After the famished felines’ owners devoured a fast-breaking feast and had fully fed their polydactyls, the Crown Prince of Dubai, popularly known as “Fazza,” the name under which he published his poetry, beckoned the cats to the starting line.
Thirty-six had become 35 because one of the polydactyls unexpectedly had a litter of three that morning.
The official ceremonial metal gong was struck and up they went. Fazza was flitting about in a white velvet robe.
“Go Thrasher. Go Goldy,” he screamed at the two felines who lived who lived with him in the palace.
After seven minutes, 20 of the cats had fallen down like they were partaking in a barrel full of monkeys game. Others were clawing their way up, panting.
A strong gust of wind rattled in, and soon, there were just two polydactyls left — Goldy and Thrasher. Cries of a rigged race rang out; a riot ensued. Fire-starting devices were deployed.
Goldy, with his diamond-studded collar, was solidly in the lead, but Thrasher, not far behind, was nipping at his stubby tail. But Goldy, having been injected with a special serum by Fazza that morning was too fast.
Fazza was juggling his turban, chugging mini-mimosas, licking caviar off of his fingers, and enjoying a foot massage from his favorite massage femme fatale, when the felines were almost to the top.
Goldy leaped forward, strategically shining his collar at Thrasher, blinding him so that he tumbled down to his demise, landing on a rowdy rioter.
Fazza sent a skilled skydiver up to retrieve Goldy, who was immediately rewarded with a handful of caviar-enhanced treats.
Out of a plume of smoke, Thrasher rose, spewing flaming caviar treats onto the crowd. Everyone climbed up the limestone peaks to escape, leaving the area devoid of life.
Soon, the only things left in Dubai were Fazza and his felines.
Kristen Henderson is a former journalist who now writes flash and short fiction. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres (x2), 34th Parallel, Free Flash Fiction, along with others.
Kristen is the founder and EIC or Bright Flash Literary Review, an online journal for flash and memoir.
You Ask Too Many Questions
That sound, the squelch of hoe crushing soil. Damn Weeds! She moves fast, those greasy hands, muddy fingernails, reaching up, slithering against ankle bones. Stabbing viciously, imagining silent squealing. Pausing, alerted by the doorbell's ding-dong ding-dong.
Gerda crunches, sandals on gravel path, trailing grit through kitchen. The man's form, bulky, irregular behind the frosted glass. Then he bangs, with one eye pressed, distorted, staring. Gerda mumbles, pulling the door, only a crack, she isn't stupid.
“Mrs Tooley? Can I come in?” he stomps with purpose, official.
Another bully. That thought again. My house! Angry, sweat trickling down her shedding skin, shuffling in his shadow. His voice trumpets.
“Just a few questions. Looking for a Mr Gionetti. He used to help out in your garden, I believe?” Veering sharply into the front room, an opportunity to search with his beady eyes. Cunning.
“Take a seat,” she ignores the question.
Frowning, spying mountains of newspapers, various stages of yellow beneath black print. Dull polyester colors, formless, flowing from plastic baskets. He falls, unwittingly, onto the green sofa, the shredded cover a reminder of cats that once prowled. Gerda senses his discomfort, his nostrils like antenna, alerted by unclean aromas. He wants to wash his podgy hands, Gerda knows. Nasty man.
“Mr. Gionetti?” Pretending, winding the clock on the mantlepiece, shifting the Spanish souvenirs from long forgotten friends. She knows what's coming. She can't help now. Then that squelching noise. The man's cries What? oh help argh, as the sofa heaves, breathes and groans, crushing his body with its threadbare arms, sucking him beneath the worn cat pee stinking cushions. Gerda peeks around the apron she has thrown over her face, to see his shiny shoes kicking the air still fighting, until finally, a deep slurping sound, as his legs disappear between the rusty springs like strings of spaghetti.
Julie lives in Taichung, Taiwan. Most recently published with Farthest Star Publishing (A Distant Ocean) and Dark Holme Publishers (The 13th Floor)