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We can name a day, even a holiday, but can’t know what it holds for those other than ourselves. In “Christmas” by Betty Stanton, “the calendar doesn’t mean much anymore,” but a new name, “something…

Discover captivating travel flash stories in our online magazine. Explore unique destinations and cultures through nonfiction poetry.

Cassandra, in the Bruise of Light by Betty Stanton

We built our temples out of what was left of the body. Skin turned to plaster, ribs into arches, the hollow of the mouth a place to echo prayer. Blood dries faster when it believes in something and...

The Inflectionist Review is a small press publishing stark and distinctive contemporary poetry that fosters dialog between the reader and writer, between words and their meanings, between ambiguity an...

I'm sorry, he says. Sits beside me in the waiting room. A friend of my fiancée, in our wedding, and I have never met him before today except once at a party where

The curb remembers. Smoke curls upward like sound spilling from the mouth of someone who once resembled a boy sharpened by rage. He offers a cigarette, his fingers burned black, his teeth clenched as ...

"Apostrophe" is a short story by Betty Stanton in “Capture This - A Slice-of-Life Anthology." In this interview, we learn more about that piece and Stanton's reading and writing life.

BETTY STANTON

Happy Equinox! Volume 10 is Live! Launch Events Zoom: March 22nd, 3pm Central Time In Person: March 27, 7:30 pm, Wolfsmiths, Houston, TX

micro fiction

Spanish Pearl Seventeen, this morning I am walking as rain spatters the spine of Les Rambles; mouth open, no name yet, I am made of air. A bus sings past…

Happy Equinox! Volume 10 is Live! Launch Events Zoom: March 22nd, 3pm Central Time In Person: March 27, 7:30 pm, Wolfsmiths, Houston, TX

Here you'll find each online edition of our magazine. Stay tuned for announcements on print publications!

Before you the world ended, stretched on tables of tears – like every other single woman I knew at thirty – that confused everyone who didn't know and scared my mother. Made her worry that I might be suicidal, might give myself over to fear that I wasn't actually living after thirty years of almost being exactly what I wanted. You…

The paths we take to come home again are longer than those same roads are away. They arc, electricity lighting the sullen midnight dark, stretching out in the dim spaces between stars. Maybe tires move faster, you say, when they're taking us away. When they aren't weighed down with our failures. These paths drag years between us, every road leading back…

We lie belly to belly, memory slipping between ribs, thought made heat and grief and nothing held except the hum of cunning and the echo of use worn smooth by yesterday’s yesterday. Too little now that was too much. My sister said love is like a bicycle ride. I understand it, language a body we unlearned by loving it, by riding it…

Jilted, I planted it like a curse, waited until he was gone, scattered the seeds wide enough to test its patience, how it waits for nothing. Small, I knew they would become. The vines learned his house, his heart. Those doors and windows vanished into green. We could not escape. Some growth is choice, knowing the risk. How easy it always is to let…

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Posts about Betty Stanton written by perfectsublimemasters

Micro fiction Sixth street by author Betty Stanton. Published in Temple in a City literary journal.

We inherit fever, not names, and move like creatures invented from the same wounds, our bodies struck bright and feral beneath blind stars. Dark and bare, we build altars from our own heat, tongues unraveling...

We inherit fever, not names, and move like creatures invented from the same wounds, our bodies struck bright and feral beneath blind stars. Dark and bare, we build altars from our own heat, tongues un...