Sydney

Thirty minutes after takeoff, I realized the old man sitting next to me had died. We hit some turbulence, and his hand fell from the armrest onto my right leg. I waited, expecting the old man to pick his arm back up, but his eyes remained closed, his head stayed cocked back, and the backside of his hand continued to rest on my lap.


Fiction by Cara Albert

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Still

Sam’s hand is palm down in front of my face, the way it always is when we do it in a certain way. I look around, trying to find a place to rest my gaze that isn’t the barren wall ahead or the tangle of clothes on the floor. And so I stare down at his right hand. It is mostly flat and white against the blue sheet, except for the red peaks of his knuckles, which form a crooked line.


Flash Fiction by Joy Bullen

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Not Knowing

For the first couple of weeks, it was mostly about the sex. When you’ve got fifteen years to make up for, and you only get to see other a few times a week, usually just for an hour or two, there’s not much leisure for doing sudoku together.


Fiction by Tom Gartner

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Beetle

Elizabeth could no longer ignore the man across the aisle on the train. His legs sprawled across two seats and his belly nestled like a basketball between his thighs. A white lip of flesh bulged between his pants and his shirt. He had been watching Elizabeth since she got on at Chambers and Elizabeth had been studiously not watching him.


Fiction by Nikki Ervice

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Release

After the regime has fallen, and the reek of burning documents been aired from the grim offices of Internal Security, still no one ventures down to the basement. On its shelves, thousands of jars, thousands upon thousands. Their tops have grown gritty with dust, and their labels—pasted on so carefully—curl up like dying leaves.

Flash Fiction by Gerri Brightwell

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The First Spring

In the beginning they eroded green stars / split and turned them red, hiccuped / the line between what was ancient and / what is palpable. Knocked the wind out of diplomats /

Poetry by Sofia Skavdahl

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