She says a bury of conies is a group of rabbits. Once, ‘cony’ meant the mammal, ‘rabbit’ the young. Like babies to us. But mouths lulled, forgot. I ask why they use the word bury and she pretends she doesn’t hear me. How sweet the slight of her cheek. Later I whisper that rabbits are born blind. Not true, she says. I hum like she reminded me of something I forgot to grieve. The Bible says conies make homes in rock—feeble creatures, safe in hard places. She dreams of burying me, she says. I lie awake in cobalt, breath shallow, her body soft as cement. Olivia Wieland is a writer based in Brooklyn, NY. Her work has been published in Verdant Journal and 805Lit. She has a chapbook available with Bottlecap Press.

I remained perfectly still as the ladybug crawled up my arm, weaving around tiny hairs as if they were pylons. I’d been stuck on the wooden deck chair for an hour now, too ill to get up and go back inside Mom and Dad’s house, where I’d been staying since the E.R. visit a month ago. “What’s your name, kiddo?” I whispered, mostly to myself, but still somehow hoping it could answer. “Whatever it is, how ’bout if I call you ‘Chester’?” It flitted to my neck, near the scar but not on it. I took that as a “yes”. Litsa Dremousis is the author of Altitude Sickness (Future Tense Books). Seattle Metropolitan Magazine named it one of the all-time “20 Books Every Seattleite Must Read”. Her essay “After the Fire” was selected as one of the “Most Notable Essays 2011” by Best American Essays, and The Seattle Weekly named her one of “50 Women Who Rock Seattle”. She recently left the Washington Post, where she’d been an essayist who wrote extensively about Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. …

“How much is your happiness worth?” they didn’t say. “We’ll pay more for your time than your wife or kids would,” was the subtext. “Our dream is more important,” explained the fine print. “The job does look great,” I agreed. Robert Bruce writes from Northern Rivers, in Australia. He claims to have many reasons for writing, but the simplest truth is that he cannot stop. His stories have appeared in Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine and Defenestration magazine.

The moon opens and all the creatures from your wildest subconscious descend to Earth. Your daydreams and nightmares. Dragons, griffins, the monster under your bed…your deceased first-grade teacher. You turn slowly, looking at me with horror marring your face. “You said you’d unlock my dreams.” “You never specified which ones.” Katie Hemmerlin lives on a farm in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. Lately, she and her husband have been making new trails through an old forest and exploring the creative side of writing.

Tabitha has landed, albeit late to a special family gathering and by gosh doesn’t she know it. Outside the door heated arguments prick the air angrily. Uncle Jerry’s shouting, “I’m taking this!” While Aunt May exclaimed, “No, it was promised to me!” Tabitha’s knock unanswered, yet every face in the room turned towards her when she let herself in. The room grew silent—not even a whisper is heard. Clutched in her hand an official document, a last will and testament. Undeniable proof, that from beyond the grave a dear deceased Aunt Sally, decides who gets what! Diane Bright attended The Ramsey School. She enjoyed physics, history, art and English, where she was particularly adept at writing poems. Her early life centered around her family, where she inherited her mother’s love for animals and her father’s interest in period furniture and antiques. Eventually, she moved to a rural setting and settling there. After a period of ill-health, she was inspired to devote her time to her passion—writing.

We cast our lines. Brad asks if Terri and I have to marry now. “Her Dad’s got an itchy trigger finger,” he says. Our red bobbers drift, Brad’s disappears. The graphite rod arches, he pulls, reels until it slacks. I imagine what it’s like, breathing down there in the dark. Guy Cramer is a writer from east Texas whose work has appeared in Dipity Literary Magazine, Paragraph Planet and Vestal Review (forthcoming). He has two self published chapbooks of poetry and is currently working on a collection of flash fiction. He can be found on Instagram @guy.cramer

I would love to drop anchor somewhere in Uruguay. Rocha province? The town of Punta del Diablo. Don’t be frightened. Less than a thousand people, including women. A resort place with an ocean at your doorstep. No one will ever find you there, and they won’t even look for you. Valery Rubin was born in 1941. Worked as a journalist in print and online publications in Russia, Israel, Canada. Author of books of poetry and prose with KDP, Smashwords, and Lulu. Nominee for the National Writer of the Year Award, Russia, Short Story Anthology, Microcontos-22, Brazil, Russian Prose Anthology-2022/23. Member of the International Union of Jerusalem Writers. Lives in Toronto, Canada.

A neighbor drilled a hole in my bedroom wall. I think to sneak peaks at me. What an idiot; there’s something called windows. He could have just looked in one of those. But he actually drilled a hole. He could have gotten electrocuted. Maybe that was the goal. Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, Riekki’s listening to El-P’s “Deep Space 9mm.”

I been the low man on so many totem poles I got dirt in my hair. Being ignorant and stupid didn’t matter much in high school. I was a big, fast football star, and all the girls loved me. Now, most are unwed single mothers, and I’m making license plates. Tony Tinsley is an author and editor whose micro fiction has appeared in 50 Give Or Take, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction, and Bright Flash Literary Review. When he is not at sea, he divides his time between the Pacific Northwest and the heartland of the United States.

The guttural arrogggh that accompanies efforts to lift heavy weights became the back-of-the-throat snuffle of a 350-pound boar. Frantic, I clawed upward. Gradually, the midnight black faded to murky grey-green as the misty dreamland dissipated. I awoke, gasping for oxygen, as my lungs and collapsed trachea fought a life-or-death battle. Tony Tinsley is an author and editor whose micro fiction has appeared in 50 Give Or Take, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction, and Bright Flash Literary Review. When he is not at sea, he divides his time between the Pacific Northwest and the heartland of the United States.

A dog, tail between her legs and ears folded back, wades on a beach shrouded in mist. No place for a stray dog, everyone thinks. Her black fur shrugs as she picks up a crab’s corpse and disappears into the forest behind her. No prints are left in the sand. Ellie Stewart is an emerging author from Utah. She writes short stories and poetry and is currently working on her first novel.

Now I remember how projectile vomiting feels. Elodie is a new author of poetry and fiction.