When I Wear My Stilettos – By T.M. Nienaber
Micro Fiction / October 25, 2010

There’s something about stilettos that makes a woman really feel like a woman.  Makes her feel like she could have the whole world at her feet and be the dream woman of every man out in the world, that her man is lucky to have her, or that she wants a man worth looking good for.  It’s not really just the shoes though, it’s knowing how to wear them, every woman does at one point in time, but some forget.  There is a point in every woman’s life where, if enough people have beat her down or life has dealt her enough blows, she can never put on her heels again and if she tries they just look awkward and thrown on.  This is how you know a woman’s been broken, when she never has a day where she even things about wearing her heels with blue jeans. I bought new shoes the day after you died.  They do wonderful things for my legs.  You’d probably just have teased me about having too many shoes to begin with when you saw them though.  But when I wear my stilettos I wear them for you, because you’d want me to be…

Swingle Limes – By J. Keegan
Micro Fiction / November 1, 2009

Go out for poms. Drivers license. An only family graduation party. Crappy grassland university. Communications major. Want ads. No job and having to live at home. Having to waitress forever. Marrying a dud. 1200 square foot house. 2.2 children. Sorority sisters on Facebook. Husband’s affair at the office with a younger, thinner woman. Trying to pluck out gray hairs. Root canal. So Virginia Slims, this is postmodernism? Spaceship lands, offers other worlds. Psychological exams, 700 Million applicants. One of only 13,000. Saying goodbye to the children. “I’m going to miss key lime pie, but not you little bastards.” About the Author J. Keegan J. Keegan has had work published in Me Three, Dark Sky Magazine, and again in Dark Sky Magazine, Poetic Voices, Aphelion, Flashshot, Alien Skin, Reflection’s Edge, and as well as Antipodean SF.

When the Phone Rings – By Sydney Rende
Micro Fiction / October 18, 2009

She knows it’s him when the phone rings. It’s the redundant, sing-song tone she’s been dreading since the last time he called. She doesn’t want to answer; but she knows if she doesn’t, it won’t stop. The painful tune will clog her ears and permeate the veins in her brain until finally, she gives in, because he never does. So she picks it up, but she doesn’t say hello. That, she leaves to him. “Mommy,” she hears him whisper. She sighs. She’s had this conversation three times tonight, already. “What, Charlie?” “Um, Mommy, are you comin’ home soon? Because Doggy’s scared and there’s something movin’ in the ‘frigerator.” His voice quivers, like the uneven tones of a harmonica. And she knows the tears that fog his eyes are even heavier than the last time. She wants her ex-husband to hear this, but she hasn’t heard from him since that day in the hospital, almost six years ago. “Charlie, I told you – I’ll get home when I get home. Now get in your bed with Doggy and I’ll see you in a little.” Charlie chokes out a coughing sob on the other end, and says, “Okay, Mommy.” She knows he’s…

Weeds – By Sue Reid Sexton
Micro Fiction / October 11, 2009

In the old railway tunnel beneath the park I had one of those moments, the ones that feel like I’ve newly stepped out of a dream. I remember the first time. We were in a Tipperary lane and you’d jumped a fence for a pee and I wondered suddenly how I’d got there and why it felt so odd and yet so ordinary to be defenceless and alone. You were so unusual to me that it seemed likely you were an invention of my imagination, a dreamed-up perfect human. And there I was being undone. But in the tunnel I knew that you were real. I had your arm curled round mine, your warm voice against the rats, and the certainty that you knew the caprice of my nerves. You were ballast at last, and I, without knowing, was your ballast too. The sky opened up above us in a long rectangle and we heard the scrape of briefcases on the platform, the turning of a newspaper, the chatter of commuters from all those places further up the track. We disturbed the hidden starlings imitating trains, the ding-dong of announcements for trains long passed. Few weeds had taken hold but…

Habits – By Paul Beckman
Micro Fiction / October 4, 2009

I took up smoking to lose the weight that I’d gained when I quit smoking earlier on. Then I began chewing gum, big wads of it, every time I wanted a cigarette and I was able to quit again but I always had a full cheek of Double Bubble. Pinch yourself between the thumb and forefinger each time you have a craving the hypnotist told me. It’s good for food, gum & smokes he said. Soon I was off the gum and the skin on my left hand where I pinched had turned an ugly black which spread. I saw my doctor at a party. That looks real bad he whispered after looking at my hand, come see me first thing in the morning. I don’t like the looks of that one bit he said later on in the evening in hushed tones that scared me. I left the party and had my wife wait in the car while I ran into the 7-11. That’s not good for you she said as I lit up a smoke and put the Twinkies and gum on the dash. You ought to see someone about these weaknesses she ragged. I pinched my hand…

FireFly – By S. Scott
Micro Fiction / September 20, 2009

His side of the bed had been empty for weeks but that night I slept deeply. Wrapped safely in the heat of his body, I dreamt the dreams of home, of family and balance restored. Awoken softly by his breath on my cheek, or a chance moment of mutual cognizance I heard him murmur “look up, Sweetheart”. A lingering dot of floating light appeared in the darkness above us, gracefully dancing, vanishing, reappearing. “I brought you a firefly”. About the Author S. Scott S. Scott is from Balm Beach, Ontario, and is currently studying Environmental Governance at the University of Guelph. Recently, she has had several pieces of creative non-fiction published, including ‘Nuts to You. Or Not’ in the Globe and Mail.

A Breezy Day – by A. L. Cerda
Micro Fiction / September 6, 2009

Her black tights of winter have been traded in for a breezy dress of spring, her furry boots replaced by open-toe sandals. I’m in the midst of a long inhale of my cigarette when I see Bethann walk off her front porch, and I patiently exhale as she walks over. The girlish smile makes her seem younger than her years, which only makes me feel worse for being so much older to begin with. “Hi Clark,” she says shyly, “It’s a nice day today.” “Certainly is,” is my carefully measured reply. “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to, I don’t know, maybe go to the park or something.” She’s nervously fidgeting with the wedding ring on her finger. Bethann’s long divorced, but there the ring sits, a reminder of better days. I’d think it strange if I didn’t do the same thing. Mine is a widower’s albatross, the ghost of my wife haunting me. I doubt Bethann holds out any more hope than I do of a reconciliation. Are we trying to hold on to former lives? Perhaps we’re trying to ward off future lives. “Sure,” I say, drawling the word ‘round my tongue as if it’s an uncertainty….

Together We Cry – By Jan Campana
Micro Fiction / August 25, 2009

In the back of the room, covered in artificial light, my eyes squeeze tight like a fist. This isn’t the first instance I have waited too late. My mind races through the long list as if my whole life depends on this moment. After forced repentance, I pledge to be compassionate, humble, even giving, if only my prayer would be answered. Apprehensively, a staunch nurse brings me the tiny pink bundle. Through strained blurry eyes, she glows magically, the essence of my dearly departed wife. The understanding staff gives us an hour alone. I hesitant, for this is the first and last time the baby will ever see her mother; the knowledge is straining my already crushed soul. Sadly, the family moment cannot comfort the wails of my hungry daughter or ease my crippled heart. Together we cry.   About the Author Jan Campana Jan Campana lives in Raleigh, NC with her husband and two sons. She recently discovered flash fiction and is passionately reading and writing all she can. Her previous works can be found at The Californian, The News and Observer, and at postcardshorts.

January 11th – By Serina Ruggeri
Micro Fiction / August 9, 2009

It’s coming up. The anniversary of her absence. The day my earth stood still. How much I can remember the moment it all took place. I watched those wretched words as they slipped out my mother’s mouth. As much as she wanted to tell me in loving and sympathetic words, they all sounded the same to me; like a thousand little knives aiming for my heart, all at the same time. Bulls eye. My God, what a relief, I thought as I peered out my bedroom window, a lonely smile spread across my face. I had not imagined anything more heart wrenching, more uncontrollable; an itch that cannot be scratched. Everything around me was strangely serene. The rain, echoing her laughter, trickled gently on the roof. The movement of the clouds had formed a pattern of her face. My tears slid, one by one down my red cheeks. If I could bottle them, I would show her how much she was deeply loved and missed. The day she left, I felt my innocence had been stripped away. Like Eve, taking a bite of the apple. Like, Delilah cutting Samson’s hair, my strength withered. My best friend. My distant sister. Gone….

String of Pearls – By Jennifer Walmsley
Micro Fiction / July 26, 2009

On her twenty first birthday, the same day as their first wedding anniversary, James presented Emma with a pearl necklace. They were picnicking in Fosters Wood and all around them dappled sunlight played through spring leaves down onto a bright carpet of yellow Celandines. ‘Formed by angels for an angel,’ he said, fastening the pearl necklace’s silver clasp. Then he kissed the nape of her neck and let her long, brown hair fall around her shoulders. Now more than six decades later, Emma touches those same pearls, remembering. ‘If I don’t return from the war, promise me you will find someone else to love.’ Horror filled her at that unthinkable thought. ‘Promise me, please, Emma,’ he’d insisted. She’d nodded, unable to utter aloud such a promise. James departed the following day. After he left, Emma wore those pearls as a reminder of his love. Like a rosary, she touched each pearl when, every evening, she prayed for her young husband’s safe return. Then one day the necklace broke. Pearls fell and scattered like small frightened creatures. While far away, on a beach in Normandy, James lay mortally wounded. Unaware of his life ebbing away, scrabbling about on hands and knees…