By Sarp Sozdinler

I am standing with my father in the median of 17th Street holding a lawn chair that folds up into a carrying pouch but never fits back in. It’s the annual Founders’ Day Parade, which, in my town, means a line of flatbeds trailing children dressed as farm animals, a man with a megaphone announcing “Let’s hear it for the Dairy Princess,” and the marching band sweating through borrowed uniforms.

My father loves parades, which is something I didn’t know until I turned 27 and moved home to save money, or maybe just because things fell apart in the usual ways. Divorce, lost job, a plant that died so quickly it seemed intentional.

“Look at that tuba player, she’s committed,” he says, pointing at a girl half-swallowed by her instrument, red-faced and looking like she might faint. He never marched in a parade. He was, according to him, “indoor people.” Still, he’s got a bag of Jolly Ranchers for the kids who come by and a folding fan with the logo of our local bank. The woman next to us wears a shirt that reads MY DOG IS SMARTER THAN YOUR HONOR STUDENT. Her actual dog is in a stroller and has an ice pack under its belly.

There’s a float from the Lutheran church, crepe-paper flowers drooping in the June heat. Last year, their papier-mâché Jesus melted halfway through and fell face-first into the crowd. My father still talks about it. “Best moment of my life,” he says, eyes crinkling, though I know he’s lying. His best moment is probably still the day I was born, or the time he bowled a 236 in a league championship, which comes up every Thanksgiving.

I scroll through my phone, looking for messages, but all I have is an unread email from my ex, subject line: “Forward: Your Mail,” and a notification that my Amazon order (vitamin D, face mask, a book about not feeling great) has shipped. My father sees me frown. “You need more parade in your life,” he says, which is not true, but also not entirely false.

The mayor rides by in a golf cart. She’s wearing a sash and tossing mini-Snickers into the crowd. A little boy runs out, nearly gets trampled by the high school flag corps, comes back victorious, holding a single squashed candy bar. His mother looks relieved, but also a little annoyed, like maybe she was hoping he’d be braver or that he’d lose and learn something about disappointment.

It’s so hot the blacktop smells like burnt marshmallows, and everyone is sweating through their shirts except my father, who seems immune. “Used to be hotter,” he says. “Used to be snow in April, corn knee-high by the Fourth.” He says these things every year, as if maybe by saying them he can will the world back into whatever shape it had when he was young.

A squad of old men in military caps marches past. They move slowly, stiff-legged, as if holding a secret inside their jackets. Everyone stands and claps. My father salutes, though he never served. “Habit,” he says. “Or maybe just respect.” I think about the habits I’ve picked up since moving home—eating cereal for dinner, watching reruns with my father until midnight, pretending my life is on pause instead of just…happening.

At the end of the parade is a truck advertising a local carpet cleaner. Someone in a dog costume waves half-heartedly. The crowd thins, folding chairs snapping shut, children whining about lemonade, people peeling away toward cars parked haphazardly on side streets. My father waits until the street is empty, then helps an elderly woman in a sunhat cross to the other curb. “You stay for the sweepers, you get the real show,” he tells me, and we watch as the city workers follow with brooms and a garbage truck. There’s confetti everywhere, mashed candy, a lost shoe. The woman in the MY DOG IS SMARTER shirt is picking melted chocolate off her dog’s paw.

We start the walk home. My father carries the lawn chair, swinging it like a briefcase. “You know,” he says, “I used to hate parades.” I wait for the rest, but he just grins at me. “But now I kind of like having something to look forward to, even if it’s just people in funny hats.”

I nod, not because I understand, but because it’s enough. The sky is white with heat, and my shirt sticks to my back, and I know tomorrow I’ll find confetti in my shoe, and maybe for a second, I’ll smile.

                                                                *    *    *

Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, Flash Frog, Vestal Review, Fractured Lit, JMWW, and Trampset, among other journals. Their stories have been selected or nominated for several anthologies, including the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Wigleaf Top 50. They are currently at work on their first novel in Philadelphia and Amsterdam.

By Beth Sherman

The chameleons were mating again, pressed together at the bottom of their cage, their placid lizard faces divulging no sign of pleasure. Elise peeked over, then thought better of it and pulled a black mesh stocking over one leg, while Rob sat at his desk typing, ignoring all three of them. 

They’re still at it, Elise said.

Rob kept working. He was half-way through his prescribed daily writing task and didn’t like to be disturbed. 

They’d bought the chameleons at Selmer’s, the day the pet store went out of business, for $24 and a three-month supply of live crickets. 

If you don’t take them, the owner had said, I’ll set ‘em loose.

Selmer’s was located on a busy road. Elise didn’t think the chameleons would stand a chance.  

Jinx and Tootsie were their names. Rob named them, back when they’d thought both chameleons were female. Sluggish creatures. Placid. Unknowable. They rarely changed colors. 

Elise laced up her corset, put on black, elbow-length gloves, slipped into her stiletto heels. She usually kept the shoes in a Whole Foods bag until she went on stage because they were so uncomfortable, but today she wanted Rob to notice her. 

Hey, Robbie, how do I look? 

He glanced over, resumed typing. Fine.  

Rob had come to the club the night before, sitting at a table in the back, nursing a beer. She didn’t see him until she was halfway through her set, having shed everything but lace panties, her legs clamped halfway up the shiny gold pole. 

He left before the next girl went on and when Elise got home, he was already asleep. The chameleons were watching her though. She could tell. Their eyes moving independently, allowing them to see in two directions at once. 

It’s not like she’d kept her job a secret from him. She needed the money for grad school. And to pay half the expenses while Rob juggled freelance writing with his yet-to-be-published stories. But knowing something and seeing it for yourself were two different things. She knew she loved Rob yet couldn’t see herself as a wife or mother. Couldn’t imagine not performing – the thrill of it, the rush, like trying to touch lightning.

Rob had stopped typing and was staring at the screen.  

Two and a half years they’d been together and he’d never shown her even one sentence. 

I don’t want you working there anymore. 

Why? 

It feels dirty. One guy sat there the whole time with his hand down his pants. 

She went over and settled on his lap, pressed her lips into his neck. 

Do you do sit on strangers’ laps, too? You can’t fix this with sex.

She pulled away, torn between storming out and attempting to address this stone that was always wedged between them. Blame mingled with shame. Across the room, the chameleons were still mating. Elise strained to hear the slightest rustle, something that would show they were alive. She’d read that if a baby chameleon was born, she’d have to remove it from the cage in case one of its parents got hungry. 

You want me to say I’m sorry and I’ll stop. But the truth is, I like dancing, even if it involves stripping. It makes me feel freer, kind of powerful.

She could sense him measuring what to say next. Weighing his options. Was this the end of them? Was she selfish? 

The cursor on his laptop blinked. Over his shoulder, she read the words he’d put there. The sky was the color of unwashed flannel. Snow struck his face, icy and sweet.  

That’s good, she said. Could I read the rest of it sometime? 

Mmmmmm, I don’t like anyone to read my stuff. 

I’m not just anyone and you saw me dance.

I did. You were good. I just wish you could get a legit dancing job. You really like my writing?

Uh huh. 

In their cage, the chameleons were moving again. Almost imperceptibly they had separated, heading to opposite sides. Soon it would be time to get the crickets. 

                                                               *   *   *

Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in more than 200 literary magazines, including Flash Frog, Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, 100 Word Story, Fictive Dream, and Bending Genres. She’s a submissions editor at Smokelong Quarterly and the winner of Smokelong’s 2024 Workshop prize. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and the upcoming Best Small Fictions 2025. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she can be reached on X, Bluesky or Instagram @bsherm36.

By Rachel M. Hollis

Junior year, I came back from summer break in a wheelchair. I didn’t owe anyone an explanation. No one cared three months ago, so why start now? They lived for secrets, picked them apart like vultures. Not my problem. I had bigger ones.

My doctor’s note said “no weight-bearing,” so I skipped the stairs. I could take a buddy on the elevator and had no shortage of volunteers eager to tag along. People who’d never spoken to me offered to hold doors. I let them.

Then came the lunchroom. My first day back, I rolled to the head of the table where I’d never belonged. Dared anyone to tell me I couldn’t stay. They went quiet, stared down at the wheels. Then nodded and kept talking. 

I ate my ham and cheese sandwich like I’d earned it. I listened to their gossip. Who got drunk at the lake house. Which teacher was a perv. What I used to dream of from ten feet away, chewing alone.

By Friday, everyone knew my name. No one had saved me a spot since fifth grade. Now they were making sure I was okay. Someone brought me a Gatorade. They noticed. Whether they cared or not, it felt close enough.

After school, I wheeled around the corner where my mom picked me up. I stood, folded the chair, shoved it hard behind the dumpster. Guilt stung. I stuffed that away, too. And I’ll do it all again tomorrow. 

*    *    *

Rachel M. Hollis lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, child, and a deeply unmotivated dog. Her work appears or is forthcoming in River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, Gone Lawn, Funicular, Sky Island Journal, Blink-Ink and elsewhere.

By Karen Crawford

It’s a short one, I promise. You see, yesterday I went to the bank because my account was running low. And this little girl standing in line behind me tugged on my coat sleeve and announced it was her birthday. “I’m ten,” she said and held up both hands. “Wow,” I said, “Ten? That’s a good age.” And, I don’t know why I said that, because it’s a shitty age, really. Do you remember being ten? It’s the loneliest number. And this little girl oozed lonely. Why else would she tug on my sleeve? Because her mother was distracted by her late-model phone, her long red nails, that tall swarthy bank teller? 

And you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this story, and honestly, I don’t know – because it’s not true. It was the mother whose bank account was running low. It was a stranger who tugged on the little girl’s sleeve. It was the stranger who asked how old she was before she held up both hands. Did you know that sometimes loneliness can smell like peppermint candy? That it can look like the ocean in Grandpa’s eyes or a Preacher’s smooth hands? I can still feel that skip in the little girl’s step when she followed the stranger outside. The click, click, click of her Mary Jane shoes, the whoosh of the door closing behind her. And her mother–distracted by her compact, her lipstick, the tall swarthy bank teller. 

And I’m sure you’re thinking this isn’t true either. And maybe you’re right, I haven’t set foot in a bank in years! Even though I pitch my tent in front of one. But today is my birthday. And if you spare me some change, I’ll spare you my age and tell you something real. 

*   *   *

Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. Recent work has been included in Best Microfiction Anthology 2025, The Citron Review, Tiny Molecules, Flash Boulevard and elsewhere. Find her on Bluesky @karenc.bsky.social and X @KarenCrawford_

A Memoir by Jillian Schedneck

On a January night that hummed with cold, I waited alone at the empty platform, my fingers buried in my gloves, clutching at the last threads of warmth. I regretted leaving my friend’s rare party—the warm masala corn dip, her long-time boyfriend’s easy jokes, the trickle of old college dorm friends arriving with wine and gossip. More food was emerging from the tiny oven in her cramped apartment, already packed with people I’d once known. Both she and her boyfriend had urged me to stay. But I’d double-booked, and a guy I was seeing was waiting at a bar in Cambridge. It would still take me ages to get there.

I paced to get the feeling back in my toes. A tall stooped, middle-aged white man with a scruffy beard shuffled toward me in a slow, determined beeline.

“Heading into the city?” he said in a South Boston accent. “Got a date?”

“I have a shift at the office,” I lied. Improbable for a Saturday night, but not impossible.

He looked at me warily. “Ah,” he said. Then: “You seen Gone Baby Gone?”

The turn in conversation caught me off guard. The movie had come out recently, set in Boston.

“I’ve heard of it. Ben Affleck?”

He pointed finger guns at me. “Bingo!” He took his time to smile and look me over. “Ben directed. They filmed around Dorchester. I had a small part.”

“Really?”

“Don’t act so surprised!” He laced his fingers over his chest as if I’d wounded him. Then he told me about meeting Ben and acting on set. After they wrapped, Ben had promised to stay in touch but never returned his calls.

I empathized. It seemed we were both used to being forgotten. Ghosting had become a regular rhythm in my life. The friends I’d just left, we’d disappeared on each other after college, only now reuniting for one casual night, likely never again.

I used to think connections faded because people changed. Now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe this was just how adult life moved: quietly, without explanation. And the date I was heading to — the one I told myself had potential — he’d ghost me soon, I figured. Or maybe I’d ghost him.

The commuter rail finally pulled in, twenty minutes late. The man put out his hand. Before I could shift my fingers back through my glove, I extended my hand, offering my balled fist instead. He shook the fingerless cloth of my wool blend.

“Sorry,” I said. “I promise I’ve got fingers in here somewhere.”
The man gave me a slow smile. “A woman like you definitely has fingers.”

I laughed.

“Enjoy your date,” he said, chuckling. We parted on the train.

At the bar, I told the guy I was seeing about the actor from Dorchester. He didn’t believe the man’s story, seemed annoyed I’d even brought it up.

Weeks later, after we’d stopped seeing each other, I rented Gone Baby Gone, sure I’d see the commuter rail man. His story had been too specific to be fake. And there he was, one of the lowlifes the main character meets while tracking down the missing girl.

Fifteen years later, I found myself in another cold place, walking my daughter to school in the early mornings. When I drop her off, we shake hands with our fingers buried in our gloves.

“But I do have fingers!”

“A woman like you? Certainly!”

We laugh at our private joke, one we’ve repeated all winter, gloved hand swinging at her side.

I watch her go, remembering that platform long ago, and the way a passing moment can feel more solid than the people who were supposed to stick around.

*   *   *

Jillian Schedneck has published a memoir with PanMacmillan. Her stories and essays have been published in a variety of journals, including Tahoma Literary Review, Brevity, Redivider and elsewhere. Her work has been chosen as a notable essay in the Best American Essays series and won a Solas Award for Best Travel Writing. She lives in Canberra, Australia, with her partner and two children. Her website is jillianschedneck.com.

By Tinamarie Cox

Terror always attacks the heart first. The rhythm changes, gallops like a stallion with hooves pounding against the eardrums. The fast pace supercharges the electricity running through the body, and the high voltage causes the hands to shake. Makes muscles tight. Winds tendons up like springs. The growing pressure in the chest cavity spreads, reaching up and squeezing the delicate throat. Paralyzes the lungs as claws clamp down on the organs. And then, there is nothing left to do in the full-body agony except scream. Scream like a hot kettle until one runs out of steam. Or is silenced by the source of the fear.

  *   *   *

Tinamarie Cox lives in Arizona with her husband, two children, and rescue felines. Her written and visual work has appeared in a number of publications under various genres. She has two chapbooks with Bottlecap Press, Self-Destruction in Small Doses (2023), and, A Collection of Morning Hours (2024). Her debut full-length poetry collection, Through A Sea Laced With Midnight Hues, arrived with Nymeria Press in 2025. You can follow her on Instagram @tinamariethinkstoomuch, and find more of her work at: tinamariethinkstoomuch.weebly.com

By David Lowis

On their first date, they went to the cinema to see an art-house film. They opted for coffees over popcorn and took their seats. He placed his arm on the armrest between their chairs, feeling the air charged with the prospect of romance. Did she feel it too? He wanted to reach for her hand but, fearing she’d find it too presumptuous this early in the date, kept his arm anchored to the rest.

Each chair had a small table attached to its armrest. Once he’d finished his coffee, he left his empty cup on his table. Later, when she’d drunk hers, she placed the cup on his table rather than her own. His attention drifted from the film to the touching coffee cups. Could it have been an unconscious gesture of desired intimacy?

                                                                       *

On their second date, they went to an Italian restaurant. They agreed the tiramisu was the finest they’d ever tasted. After the meal, they sat on a sea-front bench, his arm draped over her shoulders, her head nestled against his chest. She sensed that if she tilted her head upward, they would surely kiss. Aware of the significance of the moment, she held back, weighing up the risk. The kiss would seal a partnership with someone she still knew very little about. She could continue to resist and give herself more time or she could commit, right now. She deliberated for the shortest of moments before raising her head.

Afterwards, they sat in silence, staring out to sea, dreamily watching golden speckles from the street lamps flickering on the water.

“Fancy a coffee?” he asked.

She nodded and gave a tender smile of agreement.

They headed away from the waterfront and, without hesitation, he reached for her hand. He knew of a quaint coffee shop in the backstreets and led her into the late-night crowd.

*   *   *

David Lowis is a writer from Surrey, England. He writes mainly micro and flash fiction. His work has featured in various online journals and he’s recently published a microfiction collection, Imprints. More details are available via his website: https://dlowis.wordpress.com

By Lynn Kozlowski

On rare nights when nearing sleep, I still foolishly recall an old episode, again testing its power over me. Decades ago, in our early months together, when you were wanting me, you also still desired this captivating, noncommittal older man. You secretly sought his bed while we were planning our lives together. You two are fresh from sex, and I feel angry, humiliated, and pathetic over your love and lust for him. These nights the calm I need to sleep burns away.

You begged me to forgive your finished affair. I did, but, as you expected, I still cannot forget.

*   *   *

Lynn Kozlowski has published in The Citron Review, Molecule, The Zodiac Review, 50-Word Stories, Every Day Fiction, The Dribble Drabble Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, Friday Flash Fiction, The Quarterly, The Malahat Review, and failbetter.com. He has a volume of short pieces, Historical Markers (Ravenna Press). He is based in New York State, USA, but spends a great deal of time in Ontario, Canada.

By Oliver Cubillos 

Today starts just as it always does, except when it doesn’t: a woman is taking me home, so I’m told, and as she starts my engine for the very first time I chirp with glee—there are some errands we must run, she tells me when we’re on the road together at last, including but not limited to: an oil change, a fresh coat of paint, a scrub to my windshield, and a new set of tires; and when that’s all done, my new owner tells me I have a new name, that she’ll call me Shirley, and together we spend that afternoon roaming gray peaks and valleys and hills, listening to the squeak and whine of worn rubber on gravel, and it’s here where I honk and beep to my heart’s desire; when we stop for gas for the very first time, I watch the sky roll over my back; when we return to the street, I sing contently with oil slick on my lungs—I’ve come to discover there’s great excitement to be found on the open road, and for the first time I see such lovely sights (vistas and meadows and turnpikes); the woman has a set routine, she tells me, and together we’ll go from home to work to home to store to work to home; there are rules to follow and of course I abide by them (I’m obedient and resilient, factory-made)—she treats me well, for when I stumble and scrape my bumper on the curb, she coos from the driver’s seat and reminds me that I can feel no pain (I’m only made of metal and steel), and I know she loves me because it’s then she recites: we’ll sweep all that away, that rust and grime and, come tomorrow, you’ll be clean and good as new—and it’s only when I come to rest at last in that dusty garage, and the woman taps my hood one final time before she goes inside for sleep, that I blink away cobwebs and dust, and suddenly there’s a great hollow husk in the dark shell of my body, and I wonder: if only I, myself, could take control of the wheel…like a guttural punch, I remember I’m only an automobile; though I have a name and a voice, I have no heart, and when, tonight, slumber eventually finds me, no dreams will ever come. 

*   *   *

Oliver Cubillos is a writer and filmmaker from Southern California. He recently graduated from Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts with a BFA in Media Arts Production and a minor in literature. 

By Barry Yedvobnick

There were no sonograms in 1952. As the auditorium lights dim, I open my eyes and glance toward the stage. Mothers learned about complications like the smack across their newborn’s bottom. It’s framed by burgundy curtains. During your first minute, my obstetrician and nurse placed you on a table. The acoustic shell is maple, your favorite hardwood for sound projection. They examined your right hand, and I heard the words—developmental defect. Walking on stage, you pause beside the piano. Frantic, they tried to calm me. Spotlights rise and one hundred applaud. What’s wrong with her? Missing a pinky and ring finger? You touch right hand to heart and bow. Alone, as your dad waited elsewhere, I screamed his name. Dad takes my hand like he has for thirty years, interlocking our fingers, and you sit. Oh my God, can you fix her? Your eight fingers produce the exquisite refrain of Canon in D by Pachelbel. They brought Dad in, and I couldn’t speak, so I pointed. I study your hand and recall your struggles to master the modified techniques. He turned to the group surrounding you and demanded to know what was happening. You stand and bow.

*   *   *

Barry Yedvobnick’s fiction is forthcoming at Literally Stories and appeared recently in The Phare, Sky Island Journal, Neither Fish Nor Foul, 10 by 10 Flash Fiction, Wordrunner eChapbooks, and elsewhere. His nonfiction writing received a 2025 Georgia Press Association Award. A retired scientist, he narrates stories for AntipodeanSF radio shows. http://www.chillsubs.com/profile/barryyedvobnick