Sunday, 14 June 2026

2026 FlashFlood: The Complete List

In case you missed any of the pieces we appeared during the 2026 FlashFlood, here's an index to everything.  Sadly, the 'Blog Archive' sidebar list maxes out at 100 titles per day, so use this as your guide to the complete 2026 Flood....

Happy Reading!

 

2026 FlashFlood

 

 

 

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Saturday, 13 June 2026

'New Shores' by Alex Grehy

I wake up on this beach the day after my retirement party.  I reach for my last memories - the fizz of cheap prosecco and the hubbub of my colleagues’ good wishes. 

I look around, curious. This is like a child’s painting -- yellow sand and a blue sea mirroring a cloudless sky. There is a smooth rock, dished and inviting. I sit down.

The fine sand sparkles like diamond dust. I feel compelled to touch it. I look at the grains caught on my fingertips and see a different version of myself in each one. There, I am on stage, singing Schubert, the audience applauds my luscious soprano voice. In the next I am sitting at the head of a mahogany table, the board members listening raptly as I confidently outline my plans for further success. So many unfulfilled possibilities, each grain of sand a life I could have lived. A multiverse of potentialities, piled into vast dunes by the choices I made, or failed to make. I brush the sand away, feeling the sharp cuts it leaves behind.

The surf whispers, carrying the fresh scents of salt and ozone. There is a mutuality of imagination, nothing in my life has been one thing or another. I am neither happy nor sad.

The sun kisses my face. Snowy gulls land on the shore. They pick at shells but leave me alone, for I have nothing they want. In the peace of our unshared motives, I admire the balletic strength of their commonplace beauty.

I am not dreaming. I am on this beach, like a once-jagged plank from an ancient shipwreck, smoothed by the waves. 

Habit has guided my life to this place, but now the sea lies before me, and the tide is asking for my permission to turn.


Alex Grehy (she/her) is inspired by a reflective life full of nature, rescue greyhounds, singing and chocolate. Widely published, Alex hopes that her words will engage the reader's emotions and help them make sense of the world. Her poetry collections, published by Alien Buddha Press, are available from Amazon.

 

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'Gestalt (noun): a theory that a whole is different from and more than its disparate parts' by Rachel Abbey McCafferty

Four.

You are at your uncle’s house and your parents said you could get a pet for your birthday. His dog had pups a few weeks ago and now you are surrounded in tan and white fur, cold noses and small paws pressing against you.

Fifteen.

You are at your first concert and the bass from the opener is vibrating in your sternum. The air smells of sweat and smoke and tomorrow you will, too, ears ringing and head buzzing.

Nine.

You are in class when a new kid walks in the door and introduces themselves with a stutter. Their speech is formal, stilted, stiff, and you join in the laughter breaking and cracking off the walls.

Seven. There are birthday candles. Twenty-two. There is an accident. Seventeen. There is a tentative kiss. Five. There is a swing set. Fifty-five. There is a new house. Nineteen. There is a voicemail. Twelve. There is a ferris wheel. Thirty-six. There is a bubble gum ice cream cone. Forty-two. There is a sapphire ring. Twenty-three. There is a wake. Eight. There is a school building. Twenty-nine. There is a hospital. Two, seventy-nine, forty-one, sixteen. There is, there is, there is, there is,

There is a sunset and ocean spray on your cheeks and waves like a heartbeat. You are six, you are thirteen, you are thirty-seven, you are eighty-two. The sky is red and pink and gold. The air is salty on your lips. The sand is soft beneath your feet.

 

Rachel Abbey McCafferty has been writing since she first learned that was a thing people could do. Her work has appeared in journals like HAD, Maudlin House and Identity Theory. She can be found on Bluesky and Instagram at @ramccafferty.

'Gestalt (noun): a theory that a whole is different from and more than its disparate parts' was first published in (mac)ro(mic) on May 21, 2021. 

 

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'Barometric' by Renuka Raghavan

Maya's father collected weather in Mason jars he kept along all the windowsills of their farmhouse, and she believed him, the way children believe in the weight of things they cannot see, a jar of October fog, a jar of the morning after her mother left, a jar he called the last good summer that he would hold to the light sometimes, just to watch it, but she stopped believing at fourteen when a boy at school told her that jars held nothing, that weather moved through and was gone, the way most things were gone, and she told her father this, and he unscrewed a lid and held the jar beneath her nose and she smelled something, cut grass, her own childhood, a tender quality of grief she had no word for yet, then she left for the city and grew into someone efficient and unsentimental, someone who paid bills on time and did not keep things, but years later, when her father died, she drove back to the farmhouse and found the windowsills bare, everything thrown out or given away, all glass gone, and she stood in the empty kitchen and opened her mouth and breathed, in and out, and understood then what he had really been doing all those years, not collecting weather, but teaching her that the ordinary air inside a life, if you paid attention, if you sealed it against the passing of time, was the only thing worth keeping.


Renuka Raghavan is the author of three short-form prose and poetry collections. A Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee, her most recent collection is Nothing Resplendent Lives Here (Červená Barva Press, 2022).

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Debut Flash: 'Don't write about the ceiling fan' by Anya Rosensteel

It's cliché. It's the only thing you see as you lie in  bed—that and the window. You can write about the window, and the squirrel that chastises you every morning because you have the audacity to live on a second floor. But don't write about the ceiling fan and the shadows it creates in the afternoon. The squirrel breaks your pots. It also sees you naked. Do you remember Apocalypse Now? Blades churning hot stagnant air. Of course you do. It's the ceiling fan. You've tried posting flyers — "Stop feeding the squirrel!" — complete with an FAQ about how squirrels are trash beasts that ruin the ecosystem and your life. "Q: Did you know squirrels eat baby birds? A: Yes, they are monsters in fur suits." But you still find half-buried peanut shells. Peanuts that DO NOT GROW HERE. When people read about your ceiling fan they will only think of better ceiling fans, more poetic ceiling fans. Stick with the squirrel. That fucking squirrel.

 

Anya Rosensteel is an artist living in Santa Monica, CA.

 

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'Dragonbeasts' by Alexandra Otto

Jonah vaults his toy monster truck across the cracked leather backseat. “Watch Dragonbeast’s wheelie, Mama!” 

WHEN he twirls the truck, the dragon wings extending from its cab almost fly. JONAH’S always talking and talking about ignitions, suspensions, and tires. It’s his addiction. I claw at a bottomless itch on my cheek as I search for parking. 

I pull into an abandoned strip mall lot and turn off the car. We’ll fall ASLEEP here. Quarter tank of gas. Enough to drive to the Willow Residential Center tomorrow. Already the cravings are slipping away, I tell myself. I NEED to bundle Jonah’s clothes into A makeshift pillow, but he’s not ready for sleep. Jonah’s racing his truck as I hold him. He can’t stop. He’s powerful. He’s HIT his stride, he’s a tornado, he’s a god. The Dragonbeast tamer. 

“VROOM! Across your racetrack!” He pushes his truck up the trail of collapsed veins on my right arm. Some things don’t slip away. The needle scars, the indentation on my finger from my pawned-off wedding ring, the power TO reach up and grab stars, the way I could FEEL music bleed from my stereo, as if it were as ALIVE like me, the bare hospital lightbulb blinding me like an eclipse when Jonah opened my eyelids after my overdose.

We rock back and forth as ONE, resisting the LAST cravings that try to slip into our heart-shadows this TIME, hiding in plain sight. 

I too can tame beasts. 


Alexandra Otto writes stories and short screenplays. She's working on a feature screenplay and a novel. When Alex isn't writing or teaching, she is outsmarting the largest bears in the world in Southcentral Alaska. Follow her at @alexottowrites on Twitter or Bluesky.

 

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'Thank You for Calling the Thoughts and Prayers Hotline' by Shantell Powell

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Shantell Powell is an elder goth/swamp hag who grew up in an apocalyptic cult but got better. She makes up weird stuff about nature, fairytales, and religion. Her work appears in Nightmare, Augur, The Deadlands, and more, and she is writing too many books at a time.

 

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'The Surprise Party' by Karen Crawford

Surprise! everyone screams when you walk through the door. And you are surprised! You haven’t seen these folks in years. Folks sharing stories of remember when, and such a shame.
And you nod and smile politely because your wife knows you hate surprises, and you slip away to look for her, to give her what for, and Surprise! You find her crying. Crying in the arms of your twin brother. Why is she crying in the arms of your twin brother? You haven’t celebrated a birthday with him in years. And why are they staring at a photo of you and her? Or is it him and her? And why are they sharing stories of remember when, and such a shame? And now you’re not smiling, and you don’t feel polite. And you try, again, and again, and again to reach for her arm. Surprised, when you can’t.


Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. Her work has been included in Best Microfiction Anthology 2025, Gooseberry Pie, Fictive Dream, The Citron Review and elsewhere. She is a multi-Pushcart, and Best of the Net nominee.

 

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'Gone, and All Forgotten' by Jon Fain

The kid in our class who looked like the famous actor was dubbed “Mistaken for Bacon,” which became “MFB” and then “Notorious MFB.” Years later, at a reunion, nobody knew what happened to him. At one point, I said MFB froze to death. Six degrees, get it, but nobody did.


Jon Fain’s publications include short stories in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, JONAH and Feign, flash fictions in Shooter Literary Magazine, Hawkeye and Bottle Rocket, micro fictions in Blink-Ink, Molecule and Sudden Flash, and a chapbook of flash fiction, Pass the Panpharmacon! from Greying Ghost Press.

'Gone, and All Forgotten' was previously published in The Daily Drunk, August 2020.

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'The Note My Uncle Left' by Heain Joung

This is a story about my uncle and a note he left. An uncle I had never met or even heard of, so I can’t tell you much. I just don’t have any memories to draw from. The story started for me   on a Saturday or maybe Sunday evening when I answered the phone, it was a call from the law, for my father. I handed him the phone. After a few minutes, he hung up and started to pack a small bag without telling anyone what was going on. Later I learnt that he was going to collect the body of my dead uncle who had been living on an island where he had died alone. No one had told me about him including my father whose brother he was. This is a story about him, but there just isn’t much to say. This is all I have, to tell you. There was a man I did not know. He went to an island where he knew nobody’s name, and nobody knew his. All he had when they found him on the side of the road was an old, crumpled up note in his pocket with my father’s name and address. I wonder why he went there. Maybe the wind and the sea had called him. I looked at a map of the island and tried to imagine his life but all I could find was a story full of emptiness. 

My uncle went to an island.
He lived and died by the sea.
He left a note for his brother.
And this story for me.


Originally from South Korea, Heain Joung holds an MA in Creative and Critical Writing from Sussex University. Her short fiction can be found in Full House Literary, Flashback Fiction, FlashFlood Journal, Tiny Molecules, Gastropoda, among others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Twitter (X) @heainhaven

 

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'My Absent Heart' by L. Michelle Nichols

Robert Valentine knew when he cornered me on the playground when we were eight. He was a creep even then—pale, fish belly skin. Yellow eyes. His nose was running, and there was a snot bubble in his right nostril. He said we were going to play cops and robbers, and since he was the cop, he leaned me against the fence so he could frisk me. His little fingers were beneath my clothes instantly, but he didn’t feel the parts my mother hand warned me to protect. He pressed his hand to my sternum instead. He searched for the steady lub-dub, the persistent thump of my heart, but he found nothing because there was nothing there to find. 

He stopped. Took a deep breath, tried again. He searched my entire torso, even my belly button. Then he turned me around and pressed his ear to my chest. He listened, straining against the other playground sounds, and I giggled, trying to diffuse the situation. I said, “You’re weird, Robert Valentine.” 

He looked up at me, his chaffed lips parted. He said, “You’re dead, Corina Stanley.”

“Maybe,” I said, giggling again. I didn’t want to make too much of it because I didn’t want him to tell anyone else. So, I kissed him even though his nose ran. I kissed his eye lids, his nose, his chin. I kissed each cheek. I kissed him like my mother kissed my dad. I kissed him so he would keep my secret, but he ran from me. He ran screaming to the edge of the playground, and then he stood there alone, facing the parking lot. I don’t know what scared him more—my absent heart or my kisses—but he never told.

 

L. Michelle Nichols’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fractured Lit, Juked, PANK, Permafrost, Southwest Review, storySouth, and swamp pink. She lives in rural West Texas.

 

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'Beating Odds and Keeping Time on Magnolia Street' by Jen Wyrauch Edson

Grandpa’s grafted yet dormant avocado trees negotiated smoke-flared air, stuck between incinerator, brick wall, and the room Grandma and I shared. He warm-waxed their graft sites, checked his gold pocket watch. I never heard him yell until that Santa Ana-winded night. He boomed, as winged, scorched trash lifted, collapsed to ash. Burn you next, you don’t grow right, butt of his Chesterfield cross-examined night. Quiet, old man! He snarled, unaware we heard. Vodka burns things clear, right? He toasted the wall. He’s gone, his monologue chugged on, circular as indented zeros tracking his arms. Marks I’d question one day. Zeros are nothing, he’d say, turning away, watering those trees.

We called his stories math survival. Learn enough odds to bet smart. Buy insurance, he said. Left NC at 16. Dad stopped hitting me, preferred Mom, and my sisters. Little money, this watch, he lifted it, one-way Union Pacific ticket. I was free. Took his scotch—Terrible stuff, he coughed, cancer forever chasing his lungs. Got a locksmith job. One lock’s good, two’s better. Got Mom and the girls here, fast as I could.

Cooking breakfast one morning, we asked if he looked like his dad. He said he didn’t, That was the problem. Nothing more. We turned the hi-fi up, played kitchen pan band, danced to Miles Davis’s So What until he left to see to the trees. 

 

I hope he sees he timed things right. Guacamole overflows Grandma’s fiesta bowl. Maybe he sees us, weeding, seeding, rolling dice, laughing when we burn the toast, talking it over with his trees. I hope he rests assured; Magnolia Street’s secured. Every lock’s checked twice; the bar’s fully stocked. We don’t play kitchen pan band; the stereo’s broken. Odds are we’ll fix it. His pocket watch says it’s about time. 


Jen Wyrauch Edson from Palm Desert, CA, studies with SmokeLong Fitness, has words in National Flash Fiction Day's FlashFlood 2023, Best MicroFiction, 2024. Short-listed: SmokeLong Summer 2024. Long-listed: SmokeLong MMM, 2025. Fiction MFA from Antioch University, LA. Once, she taught poetry. Serves as judge for Antioch’s Dorland Mountain Arts writing competition.

 

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'What Is Left Behind' by Monique Cuillerier

"It is time to leave, Specialist Stipes," the maintenance robot at Laurel's door said. "Your assigned ship departs this evening."

Laurel suppressed a sigh. Politically, she had not been opposed to either the robots' ascendancy or the subsequent decision that the humans would need to depart. But she still could not bring herself to finish packing.

"Our patience has limits, Specialist Stipes," the robot continued.

Laurel nodded as the door closed and sat down heavily on her bed. It was the robots' planet now and she knew it was time.

*


But she struggled with what she was leaving behind.

Like Sylvia.

Sylvia had loved Mars as much as she had loved Laurel. After her death, Laurel had felt that, if she couldn't have Sylvia anymore, at least Mars could. And she had mixed the dust of Sylvia with the dust of Mars.

But now that it was time to leave, the thought of this final separation was more than Laurel could bear.

Although she could still call to mind Sylvia's touch, her softness, those memories were increasingly fleeting and their intensity fading.

If only there was some way of taking Sylvia with her.

She abruptly sat up straight. Maybe she could. If not Sylvia, at least the possibility of her.

Energized, Laurel packed quickly. She did not have much time, but she could check her bags at the spaceport on the way.

*


The line moved slowly as the robot at the gate scanned each human's forearm and checked the result against the display, before allowing them to board the ship.

A shadow of sadness still hung over Laurel, but she held a vial of red dust in her pocket. It wasn't much, but it was Mars.

It was Sylvia.


Monique Cuillerier is a queer science fiction and horror writer living in Ottawa (Canada) with her cat Janeway. The parent of two grown children, she spends her non-writing time running, reading, and finding new things to take classes about. Her writing can be found at notwhereilive.ca

 

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'Cassandra said you shouldn’t make the coffee run to Bozeman today, ’cuz zombies' by Tom Walsh

So like every Wednesday, you drive the 40 miles to Joe’s Diner and linger over re-percolated coffee and make small talk with what’s left of your Old Yellowstone Gang. You raise your glasses to salute the missing, and debate again where the zombies hide all day. You leave at dusk, later than you meant to, and halfway home get a flat and curse yourself for having no spare and you think about the coming night alone in the cab of the pickup with only a .357 on your lap and a half box of shells on the passenger seat. At midnight you feel thuds against the side of the truck. A bloody hand slaps the driver’s side window. Faces dripping flesh appear in the rearview mirror. You unscrew the thermos, tip a fresh pour into your Coffee is Life mug, inhale the bitter aroma, and think, Let ‘em come.


Tom Walsh writes these days from Cambridge, MA. His stories can be found in Emerge, Hobart Pulp, Lost Balloon, Bending Genres, HAD, Flash Frog, The Citron Review and elsewhere. He’s working on a flash-novel play about wildfire and fate. Say hi @tom1walsh.bsky.social.

 

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Debut Flash: 'No One Will Know Unless It Takes' by Jenna Martin-Trinka

Right before you turn forty-one, you will get your IUD removed, the second one you’ve had, and you will not tell your husband. Your hands will clutch the white paper lining of the exam table, you’ll scooch down to the edge, dangle your legs until you lock them into place in the sock-covered stirrups, your nurse practitioner, always so patient, will say, “feel my touch” and, “hear this click,” and with just the slightest pull, the copper T-shape will slide out and you will think of a crack forming in a dammed river, letting a trickle of water run through it. You will say, “Goodbye, old friend,” just like you did for the first one.

You will blame your four-year-old who talks to his imaginary sister, which should not have swayed you as your best friend will tell you who is an active member of the online group One and Done and On the Fence.

You will blame the framed photographs of you at thirty-six weeks pregnant, cradling your blossoming belly, your smile so full of purpose, images meant to ground you in your new home but that now unroot you.

But you will be the one to blame—addicted to the idea of fruitfulness, to the promise of This Is What You Are Doing Now. You will hop down from the table to measure your naked body for ripeness before getting dressed, then ride the elevator down to the ground floor like you are descending into a tide of possibility.

 

Jenna Martin-Trinka writes creative nonfiction and flash fiction. She lives in the Appalachian region of Virginia with her husband, young son, and truck camper parked in the yard named Emmy Lou. Her day job is teaching Spanish as a public school teacher.

 

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'Girl as a Found Shell on the Beach' by Shareen K. Murayama

After L. Mari Harris

This girl collects scratch and sniff stickers of strawberry milk and vanilla. Casts smiles in family photos. Agrees to sunscreen, swirls capital M for Mrs. Someday in the sand. Dismisses desserts and family summer vacations. Warms beer bottles in hands, smiles at  boys in Camaros. Writes Jordache and Swatch for birthday lists. Smiles for Christmas, for New Year’s. Kicks her hopes and herkies high on the cheer team. Throws up her skirt behind the bleachers for her boyfriend’s best friends. This girl is almost intangible on the night’s shoreline. Dusted, rinsed, and shuffled farther down the years for someone to discover her again.


Shareen K. Murayama is the author of three poetry books Housebreak (Bad Betty Press, 2022) and Girl, Are You in the Experimental Group (Harbor Editions, 2022), & The Mother Who Couldn’t Describe a Thing if She Could (Harbor Editions, 2024).

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'Influencer' by R.K. West

Her skin is so delicate, she bleeds when the wind changes. She thinks “The Princess and the Pea” was a documentary. Dad blames Mom for bathing her exclusively in rose water as an infant, but now she sells it to her 20 million followers on Insta, so it’s all good.

 

R.K. West is a Canadian-American former travel blogger who sold everything, spent two years on the road, and now lives in the Pacific Northwest, next to the mighty Columbia River. West's recent work has appeared at Bright Flash Literary Review, Right Hand Pointing, Johnny America, and many others.

 

 

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'Freytag's Triangle' by Mary Guterson

She drank coffee every morning from the same mug. When the hurricane came, the sky 
split open, dropping blackness on the lawn.

 

Mary Guterson's published work includes novels, short stories, flash fiction, poems, book reviews and radio commentaries. She lives in Los Angeles.

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'Night Shift' by Michael J. Ciaraldi

I’ve been working at this bakery for years, putting up with the owner’s disgusting personality, stinginess, and micro-management. I haven’t told him yet, but I start a much better job with one of his competitors in two weeks.

Tonight, I told him, “It’s Christmas Eve and we’re closed tomorrow. You go home to your family, and I’ll close up.” He actually thanked me; I think that’s a first.

I waited until I was sure he was gone. Then I opened the back door and let in Ed, Stinky, and Little Joe. They’re good people, even if they’ve been living on the streets. They washed up, they put on aprons and hats, and we all went to work.

Ed measured out flour, chocolate chips, and raisins. Stinky cracked eggs. And I put Little Joe to work slicing up dried fruit. Meanwhile, I got out the rest of the ingredients, started softening the butter, and pre-heated the oven. All for my late mother’s famous “Jubilee Jumboes” cookie recipe, her deluxe version of Toll House cookies.

While the Jumboes were baking, we started on the cutout cookies. We finished with the gingerbread men, some of them frosted to look like Santa.

We finished around 6:00 am, then we packed up everything to take to the homeless shelter. As I went out the door, I left my resignation letter for the boss. I know it’s technically stealing to use his ingredients, but what’s he going to do, fire me?


Michael J. Ciaraldi is a retired computer scientist, roboticist, and playwright. He has been published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and in several recent and upcoming anthologies. Mike lives in Shrewsbury, MA USA with his wife and Daisy, a chihuahua. Find out more at www.ciaraldi.com .

 

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'Nothing to speak of' by Jude Higgins

 On her way back from the shops, she tripped over nothing, and fell flat on the pavement.  A young man wearing shorts, despite the autumn chill, stopped to help. He squatted down and asked if she was okay.

’Think so,’ she said, attempting to get up. He hoisted her to her feet. 

‘My gran used to have lots of falls,’ he said, kindly.” Still went out though.’

‘I didn’t “have a fall’, I fell,' she said . He looked baffled. ‘I was an English teacher,’ she explained.

‘Cool,’ he said. He collected up the vegetables that had spilled on to the pavement and put them in her bag. She leaned against a  garden wall to catch her breath.

His arm was  tattooed  with the message ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.’ He saw her looking. She used to know the rest of that prayer once.  Something to do with courage and wisdom. 

‘Life’s hard  isn’t it?’ she said.

 He nodded. ’Any damage done?’

She patted her knee where a dark stain had spread though the denim. 

‘Just a graze,’ she said, although her hand smarted and her legs felt wobbly. ‘Nothing to speak of.’ 

‘You take care, lady.’  He strode off, texting, not looking where he was going. 

He’s not afraid of “having a fall”’, she thought.

A  glossy heritage tomato she’d bought as a treat still lay in the gutter.. She couldn’t risk bending down to pick it up.  But the sight of it lying there, next to an empty crisp packet, made her want to cry.


Jude Higgins' is a widely published flash fiction writer, whose collection Clearly Defined Clouds was published in 2024. She founded Bath Flash Fiction Award and is Director of Flash Fiction Festivals UK and the short short fiction press, Ad Hoc Fiction. judehiggins.com
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'Coriolis Effect' by Mikki Aronoff

After 'East Wind', Charles Burchfield, 1918

You signal for the bill, push your plate aside, clear space for the reading. I reach for your baklava and you fake-fork stab my hand. Leaning back, I sip the last of the Turkish coffee, worry my mouth to dislodge the sludge plastering my teeth. I upend the cup onto its saucer, leak a gossip you’ve been itching to hear. 

You shake your head —a slow metronome, fall into the privacy of silence. You crick your neck, your brows tilt a probe. Was the telling too skeletal? Mother, who favored discipline over detail and the crisp lines of shadows, long ago weaned us away from excess. A drain of color.

These days, facts shift with dizzying speed, spin out of control. How to steady the course when moving objects always veer right? We wobble, hitch and detach, wobble, hitch, detach. 

My fingers wriggle an abracadabra. Nothing’s left to us these days but moon and mugwort. I nestle cup and saucer in my left palm, rotate them counter-clockwise — faraway/close, faraway/close, faraway/close. 

Your eyelids flicker and drop, ready for your reading.

I right the cup again. A swirl of dregs. A story, a door. I ask what I always ask when questions clog: Clarification, please.

the sky a stain of coffee
home a hungry ghost 
a howl of black wind
a slant of needles


Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2025 and Best Small Fictions 2024 and 2025. She is a co-author of the book, Neverafters. More at https://www.facebook.com/mikki.aronoff/.

'Coriolis Effect' was first published by Flash Boulevard in December 2021. 

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'Organ Donor' by Peter Beynon

So after Clerk #1 takes my paperwork and fifty-six dollars, he calls me back to his window ("Yo, Pops, I said you forgot your wallet," as if my lapse of memory were a personal affront), and I grab my billfold, say thanks, my cheeks burning, and return to the second window.

There, Clerk #2, all dimpled condescension, says nice and loud (for everyone else's benefit, including the surveyors and the tax assessors next door), "Please read the second-to-last line on the eye chart," then another, which I do perfectly (not every septuagenarian is blind) before she smiles briskly and sends me to Clerk #3.

Clerk #3, only a voice behind his camera's gaping eye, takes my photo, then on I go to Clerk #4, who, pale and gaunt and discreetly tattooed, says do I want to be an organ donor.

He is the spitting image of my grandson (the boy who, ages ago, my daughter spirited away and turned against me; the boy who, two years later, she found silenced, blue, a spent needle cradled in the crook of his arm). 

"Do I want to be...?"

"An organ donor," the boy says, and smiles a kind smile, a real one, and I picture my lungs, smoky and dark as Virginia hams; and my eyes, cheerless as the sky before a summer storm; and my heart, hardened and packed with ice and tears, and I say, "Sure," and I check the box and sign below and head out into the toothless light of day, imagining some clerk scrutinizing my corpse on a gurney parked in the ER, and this clerk, Clerk #5, let's say, smiles and initials the paperwork so the surgeons can grab their knives and pick me clean.


Peter Beynon lives in Albany, New York. Recently, his work has appeared in The Los Angeles Review and New World Writing Quarterly.

 

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'Sweet, Ugly' by Nan Wigington

Once upon a time, we lived in a land of feasts, and I went from one to the other, eating from this table, that, happy in my gluttony. My mother worried.  What about men, she said, marriage?   Rapunzel, Rapunzel, all day long you taste, taste marshmallow and mascarpone, caramel and kuchen, sugar and sweetness. What about a man's skin, his lips?

Mother locked me in a tower, made me fast, exercise.

But my flesh did not melt. It kept jiggling, jostling for space. Under my breasts, at my ankles, around my knees. My body dented, dimpled, cleft. So much me, so many slices and servings.

Mother paced like a crow. 

“Who's supplying you?" she cawed,  "A frog, a witch, a dwarf?” 

She flapped away in disgust.

Then he came, the man I adored. He brought pallets of pies, barrels of butter cream, kilderkins of custard and jam.

He stood beneath my window, sang, Oh, My Sweetness, My Completeness. Let down your lovely flesh. My hand descended, and he climbed on. 

How could I know Mother was hiding in the bushes? She picked up a rock, two, threw, struck. My beloved fell fast, faster. I blinked, and he was dead, his body broken, his pies shattered. Oh, his custards and jams!

I punched through the tower's brick walls, ripped apart the wooden ceiling, the linoleum floor. 

Mother fled. 

I grew tall and thin. My sharp teeth tore down towns, gulped oceans, crumbled mountains. 

At night, I roam from country to city, city to country. I brush my fingers along the tree tops, roofs. I bend down, whisper through the leaves, in the windows, Oh, Mother, Mother. I am hungry. I will eat your skin, your lips, your heart.


Nan Wigington lives in a large retirement community and volunteers as a tour guide at the neighboring cemetery. Her work has appeared in Nunum, Molotov Cocktail, and Tiny Molecules.

 

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'I miss my family in late afternoon' by Sarah Barbo Nielsen

When the day’s distractions start to slow - that’s when she saunters in and sits at the kitchen counter. She knows that while we moved here for work, and the mountains, we are far from our loved ones.

Distance. When the day’s distractions start to slow - that’s when she saunters in and sits at the kitchen counter. She knows that while we moved here for work, and the mountains, we are far from our loved ones.

Distance.

A presence of an absence.

Looks like I’m back again, she drawls.

“I could really do without your visits.” She ignores this. I consider how to get rid of her. Distraction? Connection? Maybe I’ll call my sister on the East Coast, see how her day went…

She’s two hours ahead, Distance smirks, reading my mind. She’s already getting the kids to sleep. And by the time you wrap up dinner and your kid’s bedtimes…

“She’ll be asleep,” I finish for her.

She nods, her eyes closing in satisfaction.

“Bitch,” I mutter.

It’s not me, she insists, It’s the human capacity to find fault no matter what. You are happy here, right?

I am. “Except…”

Except. Point made, she smiles, stretches her legs like our cat.

“Family is a pretty important factor, though.”

She smiles. I said it, not her. In her mind, she’s won. I turn to put on music, not defeated yet. My mind reaches home and picks 90’s country songs, the ones I can picture playing from a kitchen clock radio. She snarls and fidgets, knowing this could work and get her to leave.

But she doesn’t fully leave tonight. After the first song, she just moves to the corner of the dining room and sits there, drinking an old fashioned next to my great-grandma’s cabinet.

At least I come visit, she says with scorn, Not like that whore Time who can’t be bothered to stop.

“I want more Time and less Distance,” I whine.

Again, with the never satisfied, she scoffs, rolling her eyes.

 

Sarah Barbo Nielsen is a writer and Army veteran who grew up in Ohio and now lives in Colorado with her family. Her work has been published in Hippocampus, In a Flash, and Ekphrastic Review, and nominated for Best Small Fictions.

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Debut Flash: 'Fortune Telling is a Union Job' by Gwendolyn Hanson

In April I leave my womb unguarded and ghost my gynecologist. I walk to the ATM, letting the worn plastic of an almost-expired debit card try to pull something out of a metal void. I catch myself trying to imbue feeling into a machine and remember I wasn’t always like this. 

When the sun begins to set I realize sentimentality has always failed me. I wander towards the psychic on the corner, passing by a bird’s nest resting in the clutch of a powerline. The palm reader tells me I need to moisturize. 

I tell her that for ten dollars I expect to learn something new, so she diagnoses me with primordial impatience. She promises me I have a holocene body buried in this new skin. I imagine what a meteor feels like to the dirt. She guarantees my memory is disingenuous. 

She keeps interrupting the heartwork to spray more rosewater onto the skin of her tanned chest. There is a fading tattoo of a mermaid in the clutch of her collarbone that reminds me of how it felt to swallow sand. 

She asks if I fake my orgasms, I confess every single one. She tells me to keep bleaching my hair, and says I’m getting close to what I want, that she can smell it through the echoing cologne of a jacket that isn’t mine.

 I request a better answer next time. I drop a crumpled bill into her silvery paw, her palm is the texture of a fried fish. I yawn and her crystal ball rolls onto the smoked out carpet. She turns into a mouse, chases after it beneath a gold-coin curtain.

I head home with an ache between my legs and a car crash burning out of my throat. 

 

Gwendolyn Hanson is a fiction writer and poet currently getting her MFA in the former at the University of Maryland. She works at a grocery store and writes about the end of the world.

 

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'What Is Remembered' by Patricia Bender

A car races smoothly across a furrowed yellow and green field. The car is bronze; the top is down. A woman is driving. She brings the car to an abrupt stop and in one brisk movement leaves the car, climbs halfway up an embankment and burrows down on her back. Somehow, it’s clear to me she is exactly where she wants to be as the sun begins to set.

It’s also clear to me that I have had a fever, but I’m better now. A man I can’t name bathed me in cool water and washed my hair. He told me not to slip under the water no matter how tempting. I did not slip and now wear a yellow dress, soft to the touch and smelling of mint.

The woman on the embankment seems content, and without concern about anything such as the approaching cold of night. This may well be because she is wearing a terrific jacket the color of dried tobacco and we all know the power of a well-fitting jacket in a good color. I haven’t been wearing dresses of late but this yellow dress, which is clearly a gift, is convincing me this might be the way to go.

I covet the woman’s contentment so much more than the jacket, more even than the memory of someone washing my hair. Should I find it, I’ll tell myself to lean in as I would toward a right-sized tree laden with moss.


Patricia Bender’s work has been published by Beir Bua Press, Gallery of Readers Press, Good Foot, LIPS, the Paterson Literary Review, Peregrine, Southword, Switch, and in THE GREAT FALLS ANTHOLOGY. A 2026 Pushcart and Best Microfiction nominee, she is also grateful for recognition received in competitions offered by Cutthroat, Over the Edge, and The Allingham Festival. A National Writing Project Fellow, she serves on the Editorial Board of the New Jersey English Journal.

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'Big League Chew' by Jesse Binger

Johnny ‘s strung out. Vacant eyes. Toes tapping out a D-beat on the pavement. Like one of those ghouls that panhandles on the Cross Bronx.

“My brotha,” he says.

“From another mothha.”

That gets a laugh. Johnny leans in, gives me one of those dude hugs. Not too close and with a few slaps on the back.

Two years but nothing’s changed. Same Johnny who first got me plastered. Fourteen and  sneaking bottles from his Pop’s liquor cabinet. Bacardi and Dewars. Gilbeys and names I couldn’t even pronounce.

“This guy’s good, right?” he asks.

And I just nod.

We walk because it isn’t far. Just a few blocks and whatever breeze there is disappears between skyscrapers.

But the dead streets in the dark feel like we’re headed to a grave. Even the rats must be huddled away under sewer plates, leaving us alone to fight for scraps.

“How’s your Pops,” Johnny asks.

“Hanging on.”

He lights a loosie that looks like it has been lingering in an old coat pocket for years.

“Best coach ever.”

Little league. Orioles. White Sox. The Tomahawks (don’t ask). The clank of those aluminum bats. Big league chew passed around like we’d later pass powder.

“Good times,” I say but my hand won’t stop shaking.

Last leg of our trip, down an alley. No door on the ground floor. So we’re up on the fire escape. Three stories. Johnny looks down, tosses his smoke.

“This place,” he says, spitting something ugly, “Never wanted to spend my life here.”

The sleeve of his hoodie bubbles up and I see fresh marks. More than ever. 

“Not like this y’know.” A hard cough.

I knock on the door.

“This guy’s okay, right?” Johnny says again.

I just nod.

And let him go.

 

Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His work tends to explore broken people, bad decisions, and the small redemptions hiding underneath. His short stories are published or forthcoming in Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Bristol Noir, Hawkeye, Dodo Eraser, Close to the Bone, and Revolution John.

 

 

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'My Sister Begs for a Canary She Won’t Even Love' by Debra A Daniel

She wants two canaries so they can have a bird wedding and babies.

“Pet store. Pet store.” She chants over and over. My mother ignores her. At first.

*


“She talks you into anything she wants,” I say on our way to the store. Even though it’s not allowed, my sister sits in the front seat.

“There are worse things that canaries,” my mother says, driving with one hand. The other hand fluffs her hair. She stares at herself in the rearview mirror. “I look like a scraggly old bird myself,” she says.

“If my lady canary looks like you, it’ll be beautiful,” my sister says. My mother pats her on the head.

*


My sister squeals and hop-steps, panicking all the birds.

She chooses a cage, food, and two sunshiny yellow canaries. My mother picks out a mirror so they can see themselves.

*


My sister stops feeding the birds and cleaning their cage. 

“You’ll have to take care of them,” my mother says.

“I hate bird poop.”

“If you don’t take care of them, they’ll die.” Guilting is her superpower.

*


The lady canary lays eggs. The chicks hatch, bald and demanding.

When they get a little older we see that one has a crooked leg. 

“It won’t live,” my mother says like it’s not a big deal. Still I bind its leg with a toothpick and some thread.

The other canaries gang up and kill it.

“That’s what animals do sometimes,” my mother says.

“They were family,” I say. “Didn’t they love each other?”

The canaries flit around all yellow and carefree like nothing happened.

Even though she abandoned those canaries, my sister is sobbing. “I’ll never peck you to death,” I tell her and pat her head. Together the two of us bury the little bird in the backyard. 


Debra A Daniel is the author of three novellas-in-flash, two poetry chapbooks, and one novel. She has been longlisted and shortlisted in many competitions and has been nominated for Best Short Fiction and Pushcart prizes. Her work has been published internationally in print journals and online.

 

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'Unerasable' by Tracie Adams

We were toddlers in waist-high snow. She was inches taller—babbling, pointing, teaching me to trace the first letter of my name in white powder, collecting the extra in cups. We added cream and spoonfuls of white sugar, stirred in vanilla, then gobbled our names with spoons. Yum, she rubbed my tummy—aren’t our names delicious.

We were baby bears, climbing trees in our backyard, sneaking Dad’s pocketknife to carve our names in the bark. We were dreamers under starry skies, their names—Arturus, Polaris, Vega—tumbled around our mouths with braces and sour candy and big plans to change the world. 

We grew apart after Mom died, moved to opposite coasts. I wrote our names in the sand, tagged her in my post. Too busy changing the world, she didn’t even comment. By morning, the tide had carried it away. That night, I wrote in my journal how the days so easily forget about the years. 

We were unprepared when the call came. Dad named her executor, put me in charge of burial. Lying on the thrifted oriental rug Dad had claimed was worth thousands, we scrolled through his phone, laughing at his ALL-CAPS messages to us and crying at our lack of replies. I don’t remember whose idea it was first.

We were adventurers again, the dynamic duo armed with fat black sharpies from the kitchen junk drawer. We stopped at every gas station, any bathroom with a door we could lock behind us. Call Dad, we scribbled under his number. 

For years, we traded that phone back and forth, taking turns answering when his name lit up. Teenagers, night-shift nurses, drunks, divorcés. We answered every call, every text. Sometimes it was just me calling her to say goodnight or her texting me good morning in ALL CAPS. 


Tracie Adams, author of two memoirs, Our Lives in Pieces and Not Finished Yet, has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best of Net, and Best Microfiction. Her work is published in Pithead Chapel, Stanchion, Fictive Dream, Cleaver Magazine, and more. Find her at tracieadamswrites.com and on X @1funnyfarmAdams.

 

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'Wrestling with Genetics' by Robert Vaughan

The sports gene I get from my dead father. He returns to me now as a scent. Water-logged leaves. He’s the tetherball attached to my pole, the flying trapeze of my soul. He runs a bar tab higher than a cloud then turns to me and says let’s hit the road, son. And when I argue with him about the keys, he says that’s a bunch of horseshit. But then I bluff: I can see his ailing pickled heart sitting in a laboratory glass jar on a top shelf too high to reach. I wrestle him to the ground, grab the keys, load Dad into the back seat. And for once, just this time, he won’t barrel down a back road at one hundred miles an hour, straight into the side of a quarrelsome train.


Robert Vaughan is the author of 6 books, newest is ASKEW. He is also the EIC of Bending Genres.

 

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'Ọwu Mịni Rẹma' by Meredith Chiwenkpe Asuru

My grandpa is telling my daddy, my mummy's sickness is not ordinary, he should stop wasting money on hospital, but my daddy is not listening, instead, he frown, and tell him one doctor say he can help, but my grandpa laugh and remind him that since my mummy fell sick, whenever he close his eyes, he dream where my grandma is tying a female goat to a tree, but my daddy say it’s malaria dream, and beg him to stay with us, that he is going to collect debt to complete treatment money, even if he know grandpa will start telling my mummy to mourn grandma well, to do the Ọwu mịni rẹma ritual, and he say it and continue until my mummy turn her head slow-slow, look us with water eyes, and point her purse, only for grandpa to collect it and rush out, but he no take long before he return with a big goat and many women from my mummy family, even my mummy cousin, who always quarrel my daddy because he no let my mummy do the ritual, come, but she no sit outside like the others, she enter kitchen to cook the goat, and serve them to eat and talk good-good things about grandma, until night when my daddy return, and chase them away, shouting for grandpa, and entering the house to carry my mummy to the hospital, but grandpa say nothing, just enter room to sleep, only for him to wake after small time and start singing, say he no dream the dream again, my mother is well now, and that he will seat outside and wait for my daddy to return with good news, and true-true, when my daddy return, he come with news, news say my mummy has gone to visit grandma.

 

Meredith Chiwenkpe Asuru is a writer and epidemiologist of Ikwerre descent. He is the lead moderator of microtalks—an offline group of readers invested in exploring flash fiction from across the globe. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in 101 words, Five Minutes, Spillwords Press, Brittle Paper, and elsewhere

 

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'My Neighbor is My Future' by Stephen D. Gibson

Bent in half, he hobbles, looks like he’s a hundred, and is a widower now. Visitors are rare. He used to yell, “I’m home!” into his empty apartment, every time he crossed the threshold. A baritone, maybe? He stops the delivery people and tries to talk to them. I could go over, but the weather is all we have in common. 

When I am as indifferent as his sons, I don’t want to hear his voice. But late at night, solitary for all the wrong reasons, I’m happy to hear him singing, loudly and alone. 

The weather might be enough.


Stephen D. Gibson’s short fiction has appeared in The Citron Review, Vestal Review, 100WordStory, Wigleaf, Fractured Lit, and The Ekphrastic Review. His work has been nominated twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction. More brief prose can be found at stephendgibson.com.

 

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'Thaw' by Tracy Royce

On her first anniversary, Amanda defrosted her ambition. The bridal guides—she had to remind herself the word wasn’t spelled “bridle”—had advised wrapping it in something precious to minimize freezer burn. She’d used the pages of her thesis, on deep freeze since the wedding. Now she pushed aside the frozen protein shakes her husband had forgotten to pack when he’d moved out. There you are. She ran her hand across the frost. The ice crystals were delicate, like feathers. And then they melted, a rivulet of water spilling between her fingers.


Tracy Royce is a writer and poet with work appearing in 100 Word Story, The Mackinaw, ONE ART, and forthcoming in Best Microfiction (2026). Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking. Find her on Bluesky.

 

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Debut Flash: 'Centaurus A' by Olivia Woodcox

His eyes haven’t moved once from the star. He’s laid up like a corpse, dropping empty beer cans carelessly in the pool. They float but don’t make ripples. LED lights warm the bottoms of our feet. The colors change smoothly like cutting through jello.  “They’re beaming me up.” 

 I’m in one of those plastic donuts that crush your knees to your chest so I have to push off the wall to reach the cooler. I grab myself an IPA. “You know where you’re going?” He doesn’t answer, so I assume not. I grab his raft to keep it from drifting off. When I put my head next to his we’re sharing the same sky. “...looks like Centaurus A.” 

“Is that a good one?” 

“Nah, man. Their sun’s a black hole.” I crack the can open and offer him a sip he doesn’t take. His clothes have mostly dried but there’s a puddle in the center of the raft trying to seep into the back of his t-shirt. “Shit’s gonna destroy itself. You seen any aliens yet?” He doesn’t respond so I splash him to make him move. “Well? C’mon man, what do they want with you?”

For a while he stays silent. His eyes get wide and wet and he makes a sort of choking sound. I take my hand off the raft and squeeze his shoulder. “They wanted to show me...” Snot trickles down his face. I see the constellations reflected back through him. Words are finite, useless things in space. The breadth of his silence tells me everything I needed to know. I climb off my donut and float on my back for a while, the chlorine in my ears muddying his sobs as my brother mourns a world lightyears away.

 

Olivia Woodcox was born and raised in Indiana with a perpetual fear of alligators (who are not native to Indiana, which Olivia considers to be a win). When she's not writing, she works in a children's library scrambling to keep plastic objects out of kids' mouths.

 

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'Schrödinger’s Marriage' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Duct tape the corner where the cardboard is frayed. Tie a ribbon around the flap that threatens to bend back. Apply super glue to the seams and blow it dry carefully with pursed lips, the way you used to blow a kiss across the room to someone you were sure loved you and always would.

Don’t shake the box. Don’t listen too closely. Don’t peak inside. Never open it.


Melissa Flores Anderson has published work in swamp pink, Chapter House, HAD and Best Small Fictions 2025. Her debut short story collection All and Then None of You is out now from Cowboy Jamboree Press.

 

 

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'Initial Reactions' by Jane Claire Jackson

Wake to hedge-trimming. Thrumming echoes inside my skull’s desiccated cavern. Tongue glued to mouth’s roof. Stomach churning. Flickering flashbacks flit behind shuttered eyes.
 
Rake tangles from hair. Crawl into shower, scald myself, droplets slowly soaking into skin, recovering some strength. Slip on jumper, joggings. Collapse onto couch, trying to recollect. 
 
Jake! He dumped me! At the party, in front of everybody, he ended our engagement, turned around, walked away. Left me stranded, a fool. 
 
Take a walk to clear head. Paracetamol kicking in, easing physical pain. Emotional heartache remains. No quick remedy there.
 
Lake glistening in morning light. Toffee trots faithfully alongside. Water rippling, reflecting, refracting. I drown in memories of a wasted four-year relationship. 
 
Fake smile as I pass the postwoman. Hurry inside, triple lock the door. Stumble through hallway, everything blurred. Feed Toffee mechanically.
 
Bake potato for lunch. Not hungry but know I must eat. Watch butter melting, don’t bother with tuna or beans. Promise myself I'll do better for tea. I mustn't give up. I'm worth more than this.
 
Make phone call to my best-friend who's full of support. Call names, vent feelings, bitch, curse and rant. Finish up laughing, tissues drying on the ground, planning girly nights out, retail therapy days.
 
Hake and chips from the chippie. Still not healthy - who cares? Red wine and Netflix, the choice all mine. I'm better without him. I'm going to be fine. 
 
Cake for breakfast, no-one will know. Not the best night's sleep, cracks are still there, held together with sugar-paste, they'll harden with time. My new life starts here, I refuse to look back. If he phones, I'll hang up. If he texts, I'll delete. I deserve much better. Meanwhile, there’s Toffee, friends, family and work. 
 
Just forget him, move on, for goodness’ sake!


Jane Claire Jackson is a Welsh writer who now lives in Normandy. Her Substack posts are entitled ‘Joyful Jottings at the Haven’. Her writing has appeared online with Voidspace Zine, NFFD, AWC’s Furious Fiction, CafeLit, Paragraph Planet, 101Words and printed in The Zest of the Lemon (Vols 1-4).

 

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2026 FlashFlood: The Complete List

In case you missed any of the pieces we appeared during the 2026 FlashFlood, here's an index to everything.  Sadly, the 'Blog Archiv...