‘Dad,’ I say staring into the barrel, ‘I’m here, I’m with grandma, everything’s fine.’

YouTube video by Ani King

Emily RinkemaRusty was in no condition to be taxidermied, but it was too late.

Flash has always held a special place in my heart. My very first editing role was at a little flash fiction mag on campus when I was an undergrad. I've been fortunate to edit and publish some terrific...

After she quit her job, Martha slithered out of her skin, wriggled out of the too-tight pants of herself and stepped out of her tired feet. With some effort, she hauled up this other, scuffed Martha and carefully folded her like a shirt, spreading her heavy arms, then bending them back. She stared at this vacant, limbless mess, then at the blushing skin of her own fingertips, coursing with life.  Scissors in hand, she snipped off the other Martha’s head and sealed the body with orderly stitches. Lovely, she thought, and smiled. Ready for the next girl to wear. --- Kleopatra Olympiou is a writer from Cyprus. Her stories have been published in swamp pink, Tiny Molecules, and Flash Flood, among other journals. Her work has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize for Flash Fiction. Find her at kleopatraolympiou.com.  

The world as we know it is ending, and I am in a bathroom in Terminal 1 at Chicago O’Hare, huddled in a corner by the hand dryers, hugging my sobbing,

You bring me plastic flowers, say "They'll never die" with a wry smile that suggests the joke is on everyone else. But it’s a fitting statement on this dying planet. We think we’re standing but we’re ...

James MontgomeryFor years, doctors shone torches, scientists ordered scans, the child sitting patiently throughout, occasionally lifting his palm from his forehead with a tiny suction-cup pop.

Ten stories picked by Mizuki Yamamoto

Low Altitude by Fiona Lynch You think you’re doing ok, definitely not over it, but you’re starting to venture out, working, shopping, dropping the kids off to squads for some semblance of normal, w…

“There you are,” I say to her sweetly, the wriggling boy in my arms. She keeps her head lowered, lifts her foggy eyes, rolls to show me the belly that I have no hands to pet. In our case, the…