Racing to see her dying grandmother, Rebecca confronts her fear of flying only to discover that some passengers carry more than just luggage from the past.

There is an aperture in my hand, a thumb-print whirl where tissue once flowed uninterrupted—like a channel grown curious and turning back on itself. Last week it was a mosquito bite: a temporary river...

A brilliant flier and mechanic never takes no for an answer in her fight for an academy spot--and glory--in this tale of the skies.

Writer’s Workout: Tammy’s breath hung in the chill of the visitor’s area. A fifteen-year veteran of bitter coffee and plastic chairs, she’d arrived early, positioning herself at a covet…

ConFluence is a 2-day convention in Northeast Minneapolis, Minnesota celebrating art, sci-fi, fantasy, futurisms, and fandom centered on content by and for Black people, Indigenous people, and people ...

The wisteria invaded her living room a week later.

I zippered myself to Christina for years: playdates, sleepovers, whispered secrets about boys we thought we loved. I haven’t seen her since graduation.   She breezes into Starbucks with a vibrant scarf and dangly earrings, her gaze on my grey sweater and sun-damaged face. We catch up on thirty years: her jewelry business, valedictorian son. My first stint in rehab, bedazzled lighter collection, cozy home. I leave out that it’s an Econoline van. Christina means well, I think, as she places a manicured hand on me. You’ve lost touch with the person you used to be.  Which version? The nine-year-old with an imaginary dragon, buck-toothed tween dancing naked to Duran Duran, bleached-blonde dreaming of Broadway? Once, in 9th grade, we double-dated German exchange students—hers handsome, mine homely. They slipped their magic hands into unexplored places. Suddenly, I had a new feeling to chase; I sprinted toward boys, and later booze, shedding my childhood skin that had grown too tight, numbing myself for decades.  We finish our coffees, pretending we’ll do this again. She slips off her scarf—it’s from Barcelona and has good juju—and loops it around my neck. It’s tight, suffocating, like a noose, and she’s standing too close. But she’s right: the blue brings out my eyes.  She hugs me, my first touch since that truck stop rendezvous.  This could be the start of something new.  The only thing I want is to twirl, naked and irreverent, with my imaginary dragon, but I don’t remember how anymore.   --- Jenn Keohane has been writing microfiction since 2022. Though tragically unpublished at the time of this submission, she’s been an NYC Midnight finalist several times. She lives in sunny California with her husband. Their young adult children, now off the payroll, have thankfully flown the nest.  

“Jim, why are The Wombats next to The Kooks?” Martin shook the LP at his employee. The flannel-clad twenty-something, perched on Turntable Tavern’s front counter, didn’t look up. “You talking to me?” “Jim—we’re the only ones here.” “It’s Jimothy, and the Bats and Kooks have the same post-aughts suburban-punk aesthetic, fam.”  “We’re not family! Stick to filing by artist.”  “Alphabet’s a social construct. Music’s just vibes.”  Martin, on the brink of tossing out Jimothy and his lavender-latte, froze as a fedora-clad customer entered.   “Do you have a hypnagogic pop section?” Jimothy smirked at his boss. “I got you, fam!” --- Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Elegant Literature, Sci-Fi Shorts, Fairfield Scribes, and others. www.christyhartmanwriter.wordpress.com

The night before Grandaddy Burl died, Colly dreamed of a flathead catfish swallowing him whole.  Summer storms had been rolling in since June; the mountain air sitting heavy like flannel on fevered sk...

My husband told me he fucked you on a bench in a locker room senior year of high school, so I looked you up on Instagram. I hate you, obviously, because I have to, on principle, but also you have Rae…

by Christy Hartman The saleswoman convinced me that women my age could wear a two-piece. Retro-style, black with white polka dots. “You’ve earned those curves, wear them with pride.” Body-positivit…