Flash

Reply by Sam Lamplugh

June 8, 2026

I haven’t talked to my father for thirty years, and this news doesn’t change anything (it’s impossible to talk through three decades of life; the silence is too full – (though I should preface this by noting he has tried to talk to me during this time (very recently, in fact, for obvious reasons (via the usual channels on social media et cetera (which channels, incidentally, were a big part of why I broke off contact in the first place (in that they facilitated his transgression (though there was more to it than that, of course (the ‘more than that’

Cheese Drawer by Kate Catinella

June 4, 2026

There’s about seven inches of grated parmesan piled onto a side plate. The waiter said Say when, and the guy never said when. Just watched the waiter shave more and more of the block until finally they say, “Sorry sir, that’s the rind.” And the guy says, “That’s good then, yeah.” “So I guess you like parm,” I say. He says, “It’s okay.” I want to push, but he starts telling me how he took his niece to her first baseball game. About getting ice cream in a plastic hat. Tomorrow he will do some weedwacking. Will weedwack his neighbor’s

Air for Baby’s Breath by Chris L. Terry

June 1, 2026

The news site blurred the photo. A two-year-old refugee, drowned and washed ashore. At his desk, the new dad clicked to see the picture. He was feeling bigger things than ever and wanted to press the corners of his empathy. After work that day, his wife and baby were a cozy little unit on the couch. He knew that cozy could be confining, that a little unit has walls. The couch was by the front door, making for a sitcomish “Honey, I’m home” moment when he walked in. The baby gave him a gummy grin. His first. That smile of

Adolescent Nesting Disorder by David Scott Hay

May 20, 2026

Mandy screams her son’s name as pine needles crunch underfoot. Missing for thirty-six hours, the Park Service worries. You can go days without water, she remembers, more without food. Her son is lean, but resourceful. So many mornings he’s helped his younger brother get ready for school. Still, she takes an ogre’s swig from her flask and screams into the forest and listens for a response, a rebuttal, an echo. Anything. Nothing. A pine cone lands at her feet, and then a stick. Her heart now the thrum of a hummingbird. She cranes her neck and sees a large shadow.

Narcotics Anonymous by Jennifer Ostopovich

May 18, 2026

I’m not quite old enough to stay home by myself while my mom works, so I tag along to my dad’s NA meeting with him. I snag a ball from a large plastic bin on wheels and bounce it off the wall in the opposite corner of the school gymnasium where the meeting is held. No one seems to mind. The men are focused on their meeting and barely acknowledge I’m there. I pretend not to listen while each one details his struggles with addiction. Darren “No-Nose” Gibson is the first to speak. He rubs at the bridge of his

Slug Life by Matthew Dexter

May 14, 2026

I blow blunt smoke of Unicorn Poop in the shape of brontosauruses through my tracheotomy hole. My son Connor is a gangsta rapper. Connor rocks relentlessly on our rickety porch swing, guzzling cans of Coors Light, spitting rhymes to the beat of the squeaky double-loop chain. His Mormon friends listen intently, bopping their skulls with the wizardry of worldly tweakers. Connor can catch a sunburn from the refrigerator lightbulb. His flow is smoother than a baby-oiled boob and colder than a clew of earthworms. Connor’s rap name is Cocaine Cul-De-$ac. His YouTube channel bankrolls cases of Coors Light, gaudy gold

A Day In the Life by Kaylee Howard

May 13, 2026

I am watching men kill pedophiles in Walmart online while my mother cooks dinner. I guess they don’t kill them directly — a self-inflicted shotgun spray to the skull will do them in after two thousand comments about his texts with minors and allegedly small penis appear in the comments. It doesn’t make the local news because they aren’t allowed to put suicides on the news. My mom got the recipe for the pasta she is making from a blog that insisted on inserting ten paragraphs of the creator’s life story before mentioning a single ingredient. I’m not sure if

One Late Summer Morning by Louis Scantlebury

April 22, 2026

1 One late summer morning, we found two ladybugs humping doggy-style in Max’s garden. We held each other and watched them. “Look,” Max said, “the top one is pinning down the legs of the bottom one.” “The thrusting is so smooth,” I said. “Their bodies are so shiny,” Max said. “They remind me of us,” I said, and bent down to pick them up. “Amy, what the fuck!” Max said. “But I want them to come inside and be with us when we have sex,” I said. “That’s so sweet,” Max said. “OK, pick them up.” I placed my finger

CHEST by Oliver Land

March 19, 2026

At the work Christmas party I sat with the junior staff, who were all shy and awkward. I made small talk about indie music with the shyest one, then talked to another about video games. One of the senior waitresses, there with her ex-boyfriend, was flirty with me. She wanted me to stay all night, then go home with her. She laughed too hard at my jokes. Every now and then, as she spoke to me, her live-in ex glanced at us. She pretended not to notice. Back at her table, she messaged me, suggesting we leave the party and

THE HUMANE ZOO AND HOLIDAY HOME by Pia Koh

March 13, 2026

When the guests are sitting around the table Lucien’s mom asks Lucien “Do you ever think about your dad?” If the guests weren’t there Lucien would glare bitterly at his mom then turn back to peeling the egg. But when guests are over and Lucien’s mom asks him something like this, he’s obliged to make a thoughtful expression. He says “Sometimes,” as if he’s never considered how much he thinks about his dead dad and this consideration is in itself somehow valuable. Lucien’s mother when they’re in the presence of guests and eating boiled eggs as an appetizer, chopped celery