Special Issue: 2021 New Flash Fiction Prize
The Shrinking Husband by Dara Elerath

My husband is shrinking. He seems to get smaller each day and we both pretend not to notice, for to notice would be to draw attention to the fact that he may grow too small to make love to me, then I will be forced to carry him like a child.

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Creation Myth by Em J Parsley

Grace O’Leary of Appalachian air knits a blanket for her wife. The wife, upon its completion, runs her fingers over it, calluses catching on rough wool. “Your grandmother made this,” she says.

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Box by Natalie Warther

We emptied an old bankers box and put our parents inside. First his, then mine. They shook their fists, but they were no bigger than salt and pepper shakers, so, really, what could they do?

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The Subtle Light by Hetty Mosforth

Word of mouth gets him the job and gets him past the gatehouse. He tramps towards the house like a stray dog, turrets and crenelations coming into focus.

On the Morning Dance Floor by Alex Juffer

Jakey, face pressed to the window and eyes cupped into makeshift binoculars, could see Mrs. Claddagh sitting perched on her couch, speaking to herself.

Prudence by Christy Stillwell

They put the shock collar on the boy and that was it for the nanny. First they put the collar on one another. They were professors in English and Philosophy, all of them smart people.

Grief Sandwiches by Lucas Flatt and Travis Flatt

I’m in the elevator with the angel.
“I’m hungry,” I say.
“You can eat peanut butter again.”
My mother hated the smell of peanut butter. As kids, my brother and I got it all over everything. Mom said it smelled to her like dogshit.

Carry On by Lucinda Kempe

Once there was a man who loved his donkey, but his donkey didn’t love him back. The donkey loved an eggshell, but the eggshell didn’t love it back.