by Christopher Gonzalez

I made the mistake of sitting next to Lucas at dinner. He spent the meal swiping through photos on his phone. After every fourth photo he’d stop and nudge me with his elbow, and when I would give in and look down, I’d find a video clip of a woman fingering herself. “Damn, this shit is weak,” he commented on one. “Is she kidding me with this?”

I looked around the Applebee’s, locked eyes with a pig-tailed little girl sitting a table over from us. The crust of an onion ring dangled from her bottom front teeth; she draped its…


by Aimee Parkison

THE first time Gemma tells me my mother is a criminal, I only stare. Standing eyelevel to Gemma’s chest, I keep thanking my lucky stars. Gemma doesn’t like to wear clothes, since we have no air conditioning and aren’t allowed to open windows, even in summer. Most of us hiding in the painted lady would do anything to squeeze her perfectly shaped areolas the size of salad plates. They’re so big and pink, strikingly, earth goddess in their magnetism, drawing us toward her like planets in gravitational pull. Whenever she wants to control me and the boys and Mother’s renters…


by Traci Skuce

THE mountains were gone. And the water beneath the bridge was also gone. Only the bridge seemed to exist, lines penciled against a sepia sky. An abstract entitled: From Nowhere to Nowhere. As far as Nate could tell, the cars, including his, were creeping across the Lion’s Gate into an abyss, on-coming traffic emerging from it. If Misty were here, which, of course, she wasn’t, she’d attempt to forge this all into a poem or song or even a painting, something about the end of the world. …


by Hana Mason

THE only trips Robbie ever seems to do are back and forth from Calgary to Victoria. Puddle-jumps, we call them. Sometimes we do two in one day. On those days, we have to sneak off for a quickie, which is never as satisfying as the Cosmopolitan magazines sold in the airport convenience store suggest. After, he buys me coffee, and I straighten my neckerchief. He leaves his tie askew.

When he only flies one way, the whole crew stays overnight. I take a shower and run the water cold, imagine I’m standing under a waterfall. It’s pure and sweet and…


by Kent Kosack

UNDER five layers of stratified atmosphere, clinging to an especially dry section of the earth’s outer crust known as Sun City West, Arizona, in the last mom-and-pop hardware store within a two-hundred mile radius, bearing up under said atmosphere, nearly fifteen pounds of pressure per square inch, standing before his purchase of the latest red LED Christmas lights stacked on the counter before him, Oscar. He was bent over his shopping cart, bowing before the boxes like an acolyte before an altar, firing questions at a beleaguered cashier. “Do you know how much energy over-illumination eats through in this country…


by Jennifer Kircher Carr

“SHUSH!” my husband David snips over his shoulder as we crouch on the damp grass of late night. “Wait until the next cloud covers the moon.”

It takes a long time for the next cloud to crest the waning moon.

“I don’t think we should do this,” I say for the hundredth time.

“Hand me the wire clippers,” he says as he crouches by the compost.

He’s stressed, but tonight I’m more irritated than mad. He’s planning we’ll steal from the Sunshine Community Garden to see what it feels like to have to steal food to feed our family. He’s…


by J.E. Reich

IT’S the summer of the London Tube bombings and the summer I go to Cambridge to study Shakespeare. The original plan was to fly to Israel to travel, but my father the professor forbade it, rasping suicide bomber statistics and the faintest of terrorist alerts. Despite precautions, these worries manifested and found me after all. So I sit in the common room in my dormitory with disaffected inquiry and watch fellow students rush past the proscenium of the open door, enthralled with their own panic. They line up to dial home in the academics office or send emails from the…


by Jen Knox

MOM insisted I join her to “run errands” this morning, but I’m beginning to worry. After I lose a few more games of 2048 on my phone, my thumb aches and the stop-and-go traffic turns into the uneasy forward momentum of a road trip.

“Are we going to Grandma’s?” I ask, checking my phone for back routes to Toledo. Mom smiles, then shuffles her playlist, a mix of classical and metal, and turns up the volume.

We pass the grocery and strip malls. We pass a hardware store, which rules out repairs. I focus on a ramshackle garage advertising cheap…


by Christopher D. DiCicco

TERRANCE and Simon saw her first, her wet tail and arms heavy against the sand. Her skin, drained of color, could have been any shade skin wanted — but it was death and white and nearly translucent. She was a thin blanket on a morning bed of sand, and I was thankful I didn’t find her first.

Terrance said, “Mermaids can carry terminal disease” and for a moment we all agreed to bury her, but when Terrance returned with the remains of a child’s broken shovel, Simon reached his hand out and said, “Wait, maybe we’re being hasty.”

And we…


by Olivia Wolfgang-Smith

THE woman comes up in the seine net during a Thursday marine debris collection and it’s like any time something goes wrong during a lesson — like when my co-captain smashed a finger rigging a mainsail, or when we tacked in front of a city barge and the pilot radioed, “do you idiots want to die?” With each disaster, my brain misfires and adrenaline rots immediately into embarrassment.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I dither, spreading my arms wide to try to block the kids’ view of the woman. They’re craning around me, though, ducking to look at her through the…

Little Fiction

Short story singles and anthologies. We also publish nonfiction @BigTruths. #fuckyeahshortstories

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