February 12

By Erinn Pascal
It is Halloween. I am a princess and my son Danny is a ghost. I carry his orange pumpkin bucket around and wear a tiara on my head.

Old Men

By Jeff Friedman
In the middle of the afternoon, old men lose their gravity, floating off sidewalks. Some bump their heads against tree trunks.

Distant Retrograde Orbit

By Judith Lloyd
She loves the way January smells. A crease in clean linen, the metal cap from a flask of vanilla extract.

Coffee Bean

By Oren Peleg
Pretty Asian girl asks if she can sit across from me. Yes. Her bangs almost cover her eyes. She steals glances.

Tara Masih: Flash as One Deep Truth

Tara Masih was attracted to writing flash as a high school student because it allowed her to get to the "heart of a scene."

Ella: Then

By Tara Masih
Ella likes things tiny. Tiny toy dishes, tiny dolls. She even wants her dad to be tiny. Like the Incredible Shrinking Man she saw on the Telly.

Photo Story: Defector

By Clara Ray Rusinek Klein
The postcards came creased, tobacco-stained, stamped Minsk, Irkutsk, and Krasnoyarsk. Ink bloomed in clouding steam as I stirred bubbling beets, hand on my belly, squinting at Yuri’s scrawl.

The Understanding

By Caroline Bock
He didn’t have to say anything to wake me. I had already taken to not sleeping. He paced the length of the bed.

derelict

By LJ Moore
glancing into that abandoned place you wouldn’t see it. you’d see last year’s dead tomato vines staked like giant, vanquished spiders...

Bras Left Behind with Bros

By Etkin Camoglu
Lightly padded, half cup, blue polkas. Manhattan. Madison Avenue brownstone. First floor, Hermes. Second floor, Hamlet.

They are the Only Thing

By Vallie Lynn Watson
They’d bullshit people at bars. Tell outlandish stories that uncomfortably tickled people in places where they kept their notion of decency.

The Painter’s Wife

By Brian Castleberry
The poet had been sleeping with the painter’s wife for three months when, in a wave of guilt, he confessed everything. The three never spoke again.