Jan Brady by Jan Stinchcomb
When Jan Brady slams the door, it stays closed. No class trips, no family reunions, no happy hours.
When Jan Brady slams the door, it stays closed. No class trips, no family reunions, no happy hours.
In August, Sarah said she’d begin by preserving water. A test run. She’d placed an order online: Ball Pint Jar, Regular Mouth, Set of 12; The Canning Essentials Boxed Set; I Eat Local Because I Can Apron.
Steven John, Fiction & Features Editor, interviews Fiona J. Mackintosh about her two Flash Fictions in Best Microfiction 2019, edited by Meg Pokrass and Gary Fincke. Final selections by Dan Chaon. Published by Pelekinesis
We halt our walk for you to look at The Dead Dog Tree. Hanging by sodden, redundant leads, rain- filled wallets of clear plastic with smudged photos of deceased canines.
In the mirror, your face stares back at you, under-slept and hungry. Far as you know, the boss died happily paragliding between your fine, fine breasts, and when the paramedics got there, he was absolutely dead. By then your clothes were on.