tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337039842024-03-14T07:19:38.182-04:00Six SentencesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger4326125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-39272232164751062692023-10-31T08:57:00.002-04:002023-10-31T08:57:18.736-04:00Crossing Over<em><strong>by Fatima Ray</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
At eighteen waiting for the light to turn green at the intersection in the big city thirty miles from home. Observing all the people waiting to cross with me, who could be anybody just like me, or I could be anybody just like them. Each of us stepping into the crosswalk simultaneously, with some sort of intention to get somewhere more important from where we’ve just been. Asking myself who the hell I am, this person dressed up heading to her first job interview. Noticing that I’m among all these strangers heading in the same direction, my heart begins pounding my breath coming in quick spurts. I remember to slow down, having accomplished crossing the street before the light turns red.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:fatima99@sonic.net">Fatima Ray</a></strong>, now in her 70s, has just begun her exploration of writing due to a friend needing a ride to his poetry writing group.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-83418450877621304452023-10-21T07:19:00.002-04:002023-10-22T07:22:46.445-04:00Doubt<em><strong>by JS O’Keefe</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Ever wonder if the current societal breakdown is due to free-market globalization, or the shocking inequality between rich and poor, or a different reason? Simply put, there’s no longer trust among people. For example, considering my own circle, Heinzy, my hunting buddy and also my butcher, is the closest person to me. Still, I don’t fully trust him. He used to be missing three fingers, now four. Something’s wrong; I just can’t put my finger on it.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:szjohnny@hotmail.com">JS O’Keefe</a></strong> is a scientist, trilingual translator, and prosimetrum writer. His short stories and prosimetra have been published in Every Day Fiction, Microfiction Monday, 6S, 50WS, Paragraph Planet, FFF, Rainbow Salad, and Medium.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-55290820776804441852023-10-20T10:12:00.001-04:002023-10-21T10:15:02.070-04:002nd Cousins<em><strong>by Brad Rose</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Our feet dangle in the chlorine-blue water, as we sit on the edge, at the deep end of pool. Clarise wears cutoffs and a polka dot bikini top. Rising from her chaise lounge, her mom, my aunt Beulah, promises to return in 5 minutes with egg salad sandwiches, and disappears behind the house’s sliding glass doors. Clarise scutters closer, leans in, and splashes a wet kiss on this 13-year old’s shocked lips. <i>Don’t worry, Clarence</i>, she sneers. <i>After all, we’re only second cousins. </i>
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:bradrose1@comcast.net">Brad Rose</a></strong>'s website is <a href="https://bradrosepoetry.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-25220159644858643852023-10-12T13:09:00.006-04:002023-10-14T13:30:49.753-04:00Coyotes, Pelicans, & Prisoners<em><strong>by Guy Biederman</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Neighbors report that a coyote with a mangled leg, hiding in the shrubbery of your complex, growled at a sizeable man who was headed for his Tacoma in the parking lot. From your third-floor unit, you look out at the hills still green in late summer and the busy four lane highway the coyote must’ve have crossed to wind up here. One neighbor walks her leashed dingo towards the shrubbery carrying a knife, another calls the Sheriff saying it should be shot, and a third phones Animal Control insisting the coyote is healing — and residents should just keep all cats and small dogs inside until it leaves. You flip the channel on TV—tune into a local manhunt for an escaped prisoner with a gun. Out the big window, a V-shaped squadron of pelicans flies east. You climb to the roof and make a V with your arms like you did as a kid when wings were sometimes called for, when the line between real and pretend was just beginning to be drawn, when you pondered but-not-for-long your next move.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:guyb@sonic.net">Guy Biederman</a></strong>'s most recent collection, Translated From the Original: One-Inch Punch Fiction is available from Black Lawrence Press. He lives, writes, and floats on a houseboat in Sausalito with his wife and tuxedo cat and <a href="https://www.guybiederman.com/" target="_blank">walks the planks daily</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-21186631090114720822023-10-11T21:57:00.000-04:002023-10-11T21:57:36.494-04:00Homecoming Queen<em><strong>by Denise Bayes</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
What if you’d never left here, never moved away from your hometown and the tight, grey streets, the blank, incurious faces? What if you’d never discovered your tribe, the cool, black polo-necked gang who sat drinking espressos in late night cafes, discussing arthouse films, who made you feel you belonged? What if you hadn’t met him, the guy with the Gauloise, blowing aromatic smoke clouds into the night sky, arching an ironic eyebrow that lassoed your heart? Before breaking it. Now you stare out at the tight, grey streets of home. Your blank, incurious expression reflects in the empty window.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:rocaberti67@gmail.com">Denise Bayes</a></strong> lives in Barcelona where she writes flash fiction. She's been published in NZ Micro Madness, Oxford Flash, 100 Word Stories, Firewords, and Ellipsis Zine. Follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/DeniseBayes" target="_blank">X</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-33289294488820434272023-10-10T20:19:00.006-04:002023-10-10T20:19:58.837-04:00Dorothy Gale Hitchhikes to Omaha<em><strong>by Kathryn Kulpa</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
You’re off to see that balloon man. Tracking him through every county fair between Atchison and Omaha. Dust dulls your hair, dyes your eyes to match your gown, everything hazed with the same grey-brown dust. Even your shoes have lost their shine, their luster fainter every day. Take me home, you said, and now here you are, heels not so snappy, peeling and pocked from this Kansas washboard. No golden bricks to light your way, only rolling tumbleweeds that almost dance in the dust, that could, if you squint your eyes, be a friendly scarecrow, missing you most of all.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:katekulpa@gmail.com">Kathryn Kulpa</a></strong> is the author of Cooking Tips for the Demon-Haunted, forthcoming from New Rivers Press. Her work has appeared in Five South, 100 Word Story, Trampset, and Wigleaf and was selected for Best Microfiction and nominated for Best Small Fictions.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-33641363992229849432023-10-09T11:38:00.000-04:002023-10-09T11:38:41.745-04:00He Asked What If<em><strong>by Allie Nava</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
He sat stooped on the ground in his muddy overalls, his butter-soft fingers and hands clenched, his little neck craned back, staring up at his mother, doe-eyed, whisps of hair in his face, and asked, “What if women and men didn’t have to get married to have children, momma?” And then he curled his finger around his chin, contemplating, “What if the mommas were just paired with a dadda during the time they wanted to have children?” And when momma didn’t respond, he said, “Then there wouldn’t ever be any divorce, right momma?” But momma kept right on spooning her cookie dough onto her baking tray, though he heard momma sniffling a bit, just a bit. And so he said, “Then children would find it normal to see their mommas and daddas split up, and no one would be hurt, right momma?” Then momma wiped her pinky across the bottom of her eyes and turned around and looked down and him and asked, “How did you get so smart sweetheart?”
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:alliestories8@gmail.com">Allie Nava</a></strong> focuses on hidden stories and non-traditional character journeys. Her work has been published in 365tomorrows. She works with Bellevue Literary Review, and is a member of the Authors Guild.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-18296071956561007972023-10-08T11:33:00.002-04:002023-10-08T11:33:59.473-04:00Bohemian Life<em><strong>by Andrea Damic</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Because the coastline erupts into a polyphonic cacophony. Because the adrenaline spills over her skin like ice cream melting on the tip of a tongue. Because her body erupts from a concoction of emotions, aware of the ephemeral moment. Because seeing it in her peripheral vision, approaching at tremendous speed, she transcends time. Because curbing the unstoppable supremacy of Mother Nature underneath her bare feet, going at it hammer and tongs, she finally seizes the infamous mythic Mavericks. Because bohemian is a way of life.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:amiletic2014@gmail.com">Andrea Damic</a></strong>, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives and works in Sydney, Australia. She’s an amateur photographer and author of prose and poetry. She writes at night when everyone is asleep; when she lacks words to express herself, she uses photography to speak for her. Her literary art appears or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Door Is A Jar, The Dribble Drabble Review, Five on the Fifth, Roi Fainéant Press, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere. She spends many an hour fiddling around with her <a href="https://damicandrea.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">website</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-55973573360373227502023-10-07T20:14:00.003-04:002023-10-07T20:14:52.494-04:00The Magician<em><strong>by Adam Conner</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
I first had the father I never met sawed in half. Then, I had him stand against a wooden board and outlined him with daggers. Then I fed him swords on fire. For the grand finale, I stuffed him inside a wooden box and hung him in the air. The box exploded, and my father disappeared yet again. Later, when people asked how I did it, all I could tell them was, <i>Magic</i>.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:adam.conner.writing@gmail.com">Adam Conner</a></strong> currently lives in New Jersey with his wife and daughter.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-73253078667706331792023-10-06T13:19:00.001-04:002023-10-07T13:21:50.077-04:00The Way Back<em><strong>by Linda Lowe</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
We woke to the clip-clop sounds of horse-drawn wagons and carriages and men in stove-pipe hats hollering, <i>where are we</i>, as they stepped out into the 21st century, milling around our cul-de-sac, impressed with our cars. We offered to show them the way back, and lead them behind our homes, circling the canyon, pointing out the hills in the distance, hazy as a mirage. Hills we called the past. We knew some of what they would find: war, disease, strife. We said <i>good luck</i>, but nothing more. There was too much history between us, too much for them to misunderstand.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:lindalouiselowe@yahoo.com">Linda Lowe</a></strong>'s chapbook of poems, "Karmic Negotiations" was published by Sarasota Theatre Press. Online, her work as appeared in Misfit Magazine, Gone Lawn, Six Sentences, The New Verse News, and others.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-31598699991637445032023-10-05T22:33:00.002-04:002023-10-06T22:38:49.936-04:00Timepeace<em><strong>by Sandra Anfang</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
All my timepieces are dying. Yesterday, it was the new clock, a cheap retro thing I ordered for its aqua frame that reminded me of childhood. The good soldiers of its arms kept marching, but never settled on the correct hour. Today, my trusty Timex landed on its face, one shard of glass ricocheting like a mad pinball under its dome. Are my devices asking me to cast them out, to ditch the charade of marking time? A rappelling spider drops a note in my lap: <i>sit by the sundial in the garden’s soft light for there’s always enough time</i>.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:wrdpntr51@gmail.com">Sandra Anfang</a></strong> is a California poet, teacher, and artist. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Rattle, The New Verse News, The MacGuffin, Spillway, and Light on the Walls of Life, the Ferlinghetti tribute anthology. She’s won many awards, most recently in the Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Contest, The Soul-Making Keats Contest, and the Poets’ Dinner Contest. Two of her haiku took second and third place in the San Francisco International Haiku Contest. Her poetry collections include Looking Glass Heart (Finishing Line Press, 2016), Road Worrier (Finishing Line Press, 2018), and Xylem Highway (Main Street Rag, 2019), and <a href="https://kelsaybooks.com/products/finishing-school?_pos=1&_sid=078f3d953&_ss=r" target="_blank">Finishing School</a> (Kelsay Books, 2023). She’s been nominated for a Best Short Fictions award, Best of the Net, and a Pushcart Prize, as well as for an AWP-sponsored 2023 George Garrett Award for outstanding community services in literature. Anfang is founder and host of the monthly series, Rivertown Poets (established 2013) and a poetry teacher with California Poets in the Schools. Besides writing, she produces a radio program devoted to poetry on <a href="https://petalumacommunityaccess.org/kpca/" target="_blank">KPCA.FM</a> and hosts a YouTube channel called Rivertown Poets. Learn more <a href="https://www.sandeanfangart.com/poetry" target="_blank">here</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-66009225235025272022023-10-04T07:08:00.009-04:002023-10-06T07:10:33.041-04:00A Belated Eulogy<em><strong>by K.G. Song</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Clearing out my dad’s house, impregnated with the scents of a single man who lived alone for two decades accompanied only by the walls of books, wore me down after eight days. A mountain of books and unpaid bills pretty much summed up his life. On the ninth day, however, I found a stack of notebooks meant for his eyes only, hidden behind magazines, and they tainted the memories of him forever and completely. My loving father who bought me mint chocolate ice creams on hot summer days at the county festival and taught me how to fish turned out to be a monster and murderer. The fireplace burned for three days consuming the notebooks, all his books, and everything that belonged to him. The most befitting way to offer a belated eulogy I could think of to my murdered mother.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:cagedsongs@gmail.com">K.G. Song</a></strong> lives in Los Angeles in Southern California with his wife and a parrot. After rediscovering the pure delight of creative writing during the pandemic lockdown, he continues to craft flash fictions, short stories, and poems each day as he learns how to retire properly.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-52681341509306778662023-10-03T20:42:00.001-04:002023-10-05T20:47:16.645-04:00I Got Sick of Making Excuses for Dog #586 at Paws Perfect No-Kill Shelter<em><strong>by Luanne Castle</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
“He’s not picky—he’ll eat anything. We have 24/7 proof he has great vocal cords. He loves to provide birds and cars with lots of exercise. He does his business with perfect aim” (<i>not on cue</i>, I thought). He’d been there 344 days so far, so when the last ones rolled their eyes and turned away, I brought him home. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect dog.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:luanne.castle@gmail.com">Luanne Castle</a></strong>'s <a href="https://www.luannecastle.com/" target="_blank">award-winning poetry collections</a> are Rooted and Winged and Doll God. Her chapbooks are Our Wolves and Kin Types, a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Luanne’s Pushcart and Best of the Net-nominated poetry and prose have appeared in Copper Nickel, Bending Genres, River Teeth, The Ekphrastic Review, and other journals.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-30705155771311490692023-10-02T06:18:00.003-04:002023-10-03T06:37:24.102-04:00The Art of War<em><strong>by Christopher Fruge</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
I had Sun Tzu’ed the shit out of us, assuring myself victory. I kept one step ahead and planned. I was there where you weren't. I kept score when you didn't even see the game being played. In the end, I was the triumphant general riding off on his war elephant with withered and elongated legs of malice. And it's taken years, but now when I look back upon the scorched earth of us that I left behind, I feel nothing but grief and just wish I had told you what I felt, instead of waging war.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:pennedbychris@gmail.com">Christopher "Chris" Fruge</a></strong> works in computer security by day and writes by night. His work appears, or is forthcoming, in 50 Word Stories, 101 Words, and 50 Give or Take. Check out Chris on <a href="https://twitter.com/Chris_Fruge" target="_blank">X (formerly Twitter)</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/pennedbychris/?hl=en" target="_blank">Instagram</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-64525512502672602172023-10-01T10:07:00.002-04:002023-10-01T10:07:44.126-04:0022A Albany Road<em><strong>by Katie Coleman</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Saturday morning at the playground was paperboy quiet. Half a bottle of merlot and my hunting boots dragged beneath the swing. I hurried through the grass, flattening spikes to form a map of the area, closing in on where she now lives. Early in the evening, her GPS signal fluttered, leading me to her new address. I waited on the doormat for her to whisper how she’d missed my breath on her neck. The time had come for her to drop the stalking charges and to welcome me back into her life.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:anjuna2000@hotmail.com">Katie Coleman</a></strong> is a writer living in Thailand. Her fiction has appeared in Ghost Parachute, The Sunlight Press, Briefly Zine, The Ilanot Review, SoFloPoJo, Bending Genres, The Odd Magazine, Pigeon Review, Lit 202, Five on the Fifth, Bright Flash, Centifictionist, Corvus Review and Potato Soup Journal. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes. She has a master’s in creative writing and works as a teacher. Katie can be found on <a href="https://twitter.com/anjuna2000" target="_blank">X (formerly Twitter)</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-53296535216944488342023-09-30T17:38:00.005-04:002023-09-30T17:43:18.251-04:00A Whole New World<em><strong>by Janice Cyntje</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Gloria hummed the Walt Disney tune “A Whole New World” as she stepped out onto the pavement of the big metropolis, periodically looking for a smile from the passing briefcase-swinging men, but unlike other times, their blank facial expressions did not discourage her, because this afternoon she believed she would find love. Breathing deeply, she made long strides as she thought about the adjustments to her time and autonomy a new routine would bring. Nevertheless, she was ready for a new chapter in her life and beamed when she saw the awning of the agency where she would state her intentions. The pull of the agency’s door was heavy, but Gloria’s mood was light, as she scanned the walls lined with colorful posters of dogs and cats photographed at their angelic best. “I’ve returned to adopt Caesar, your yappy terrier mix,” Gloria said with calmness to the front desk greeter at the pet adoption center. Noticing Gloria deep in thought, the employee leaned slightly over his desk and playfully wagged a finger at her as he said, “So today you’ve found love, or maybe... love has found you."
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:cyntje624@yahoo.com">Janice Cyntje</a></strong> writes creative nonfiction and frequents the Woodside Writers Group in Queens, NY.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-21314293526376955802023-09-29T11:07:00.001-04:002023-09-30T11:09:38.705-04:0030 Days<em><strong>by Rod Drake</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
How it happened, no one knows; it just occurred one nice autumn day. We all knew the old saying, something as rare as “a month of Sundays,” but we never expected it to actually appear. But for 30 days, we experienced one Sunday after another, much to the pleasure of all us kids in school. Our parents didn’t have to go to work, so they got to spend extended relaxing time with each other, and us as well, plus accomplishing all those little tasks around the house that never seem to get done. Church attendance really soared, as did football games, the World Series played for 22 days (plus travel time) and golf courses & amusement parks did bang-up business. When it was finally over, everyone was thoroughly rested and ready to start a new week (wondering what would happen when the next Sunday came...).
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:mrdrake@cox.net">Rod Drake</a></strong> is still in sunny Las Vegas, still writing and still wondering what it is all about (dangling preposition notwithstanding).</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-75739168715574734762023-09-28T22:00:00.007-04:002023-09-28T22:00:58.582-04:00Me, Too<em><strong>by Barry Basden</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
The game was boring me, so I changed my avatar to female. Right away, I started getting lewd comments and propositions. “Wow,” I said. “That bad, is it?” “Yes,” she said. “Worse, actually.”
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:camrocpress@gmail.com">Barry Basden</a></strong> lives in the Texas hill country with Bean, his little rescue terrier.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-41810598734234007522023-09-27T06:46:00.001-04:002023-09-28T06:50:19.552-04:00Loud Enough to Hear<em><strong>by Mikki Aronoff</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Alice adjusts her teeth, judders with her walker from her room at Shady Manor to George’s two doors down, her mind flashing back to school, how still in her blue gym suit bloomers she’d pedal fast on her Schwinn, books jumping out of the handlebar basket, legs stretching for home and ma’s pot roast, and how that weekend she and her friends would play spin the bottle and post office in someone’s basement. As her knuckles knock a slow larkish rhythm, she ponders her neighbor’s pros and cons: his chicken legs, the slow shed of his hair, the way he remembers what cards have been played in social hall games like War and Go Fish. Recognizing a coquettish cue when one’s loud enough to hear, George creaks open the door. He’s leaning rakishly on his cane, wobbling a tad, a half-chewed piece of lettuce falling out of his mouth. Alice tilts her head back, smiles open-mouthed like Gloria Swanson. <i>What’s not to love?</i> she shrugs, looking up at his face, her knobby fingers tugging and snapping the elastic on his pants.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:abqmikki@gmail.com">Mikki Aronoff</a></strong>'s work appears in New World Writing, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Tiny Molecules, HAD, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Mslexia, The Dribble Drabble Review, 100 word story, The Citron Review, Atlas and Alice, Six Sentences, trampset, jmww, The Offing, and elsewhere. She’s received Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction nominations.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-29458370994918797862023-09-26T20:47:00.002-04:002023-09-26T20:49:56.124-04:00Sexy Sexy Jesus<em><strong>by Linda Sanchez</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Susan and I show up for this business networking meeting that’s held at the Congregational Church and maybe because I’m a recovering Catholic and she’s a Baptist converted to Judaism, we both notice the painting right away. It’s on the wall across from where we’re seated, balancing coffee cups and notecards in our laps, preparing to introduce ourselves and give the elevator speech we’ve worked up about our new venture. The painting is a watercolor of Jesus standing in a nature scene, holding a lamb under one arm and a thick staff in the opposite hand. The arm holding the lamb is muscular and toned, having escaped the folds of Jesus’ tunic, which, incidentally, is also open at the throat and chest. Jesus’ hair flows thick and wavy framing intense eyes and a strong, neatly-bearded jawline. We’re up next, as newcomers, but I don't stop myself from whispering to Susan, <i>It’s sexy sexy Jesus</i>, and she spits her mouthful of coffee across the room.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:veronicas65@yahoo.com">Linda Sanchez</a></strong> is a writer, teacher, alchemist, and entrepreneur who's thrilled to share her short stories and flash fiction. She lives outside of Boston with her husband and two beloved dogs, more often than not in a state of bliss. You can read more of her work <a href="https://wehavethegift.com/talesfromwildflowerhaven" target="_blank">here</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-66023492203928484852023-09-25T20:34:00.003-04:002023-09-25T20:34:39.907-04:00The Knot<em><strong>by Sharon Dolin</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
There is a knot I am caught inside of—the knot of not-knowing before knowing how to say—even to stutter my way. Join in the joinery of words. For if I speak then the ties between letters—the thick braid between words—forms in my throat and a saying leaps out into air into an ear or onto a page and then where am I? Where has the knot gone? If there is a binding of letter to letter—though to speak is connected to sprinkling—as though letters dropped down like manna into a layer anyone could collect and form into a sentence—whose root means to feel, as in sensing toward understanding. Still I remain caught in a mother-utter way, in the knot that precedes speech—the knot that holds me together—even embraces me in this sundered world.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:sharonjdolin@gmail.com">Sharon Dolin</a></strong> is the author of seven books of poetry, most recently Imperfect Present (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2022) and a prose memoir Hitchcock Blonde (Terra Nova Press, 2020). A 2021 recipient of an NEA in Translation, her book of translations from Catalan, Late to the House of Words: Selected Poems by Gemma Gorga was awarded the Malinda A. Markham Translation Prize from Saturnalia Books and was shortlisted for the 2022 Griffin Poetry Prize. <a href="https://sharondolin.com/index.html" target="_blank">Dolin</a> is Associate Editor at Barrow Street Press and lives in New York City.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-72582593008349273562023-09-24T11:00:00.000-04:002023-09-24T11:00:23.324-04:00Harmless Secrets<em><strong>by Caetlin Witbrod</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Her secret was a small pebble in the palm of my hand, light and harmless. I smiled politely and tucked it away as she'd asked, unaware of the risks. As time passed, she made me her confidant, and the solitary secret grew and multiplied into hundreds of secrets, all festering below the surface. We were laughing and playing at the beach when she revealed another secret to me, begging me to keep it for her once more. I nodded, and the ocean immediately began pulling me deep into the abyss. My screams were held hostage as I thrust my hands upward, flailing wildly, searching for hers so she could pull me to safety, but she just watched—weightless—floating above the water as her secrets dragged me to the depths and devoured me.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:wordsbywitbrod@gmail.com">Caetlin Witbrod</a></strong> is a writer and editor from St. Louis, Missouri. Her favorite genres are literary fiction and thriller. Caetlin’s own literary fiction has been published in America’s Emerging Writers, Missouri’s Emerging Writers, Southwinds Literary and Arts Magazine, and online at Every Day Fiction. She earned her B.A. in English from Missouri University of Science and Technology, and in 2014, Caetlin started Words by Witbrod, a freelance editing business that has given her the opportunity to meet clients from all over the world and edit an extensive and diverse portfolio of print and online media. Caetlin can be reached on Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/wordsbywitbrod" target="_blank">@WordsbyWitbrod</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-80317199204246412682023-09-23T14:01:00.004-04:002023-09-23T14:02:45.363-04:00Everything Is Repetition<em><strong>by Michael Mackenzie</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
Everything is the repetition offa pattern. Everything. You can pretend you have free will. You can pretend you have a soul, or even consciousness. And then you can open the envelope I gave you and read what I said you were gonna pretend. Toldja.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:obblonge@gmail.com">Michael Mackenzie</a></strong> submitted this piece on Christmas Day, 2022. Sometimes, things take a while.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-5978407275789166432023-09-22T22:30:00.001-04:002023-09-22T22:30:17.329-04:00Hatha Yoga<em><strong>by Johannes Springenseiss</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
The yoga instructor keeps barking out the poses without demonstrating them. I imagine her a drill sergeant ordering the recruits to do eight hundred pushups. When one of them falls face in the dust, she walks over, steps on his neck and yells at him to stand up. The poor guy whines he can’t stand up because her foot is on his neck. Now she is screaming furiously that she told him to stand up and not that he give various excuses. Tick tock, tick tock, goes the clock.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:obboi@yahoo.com">Johannes Springenseiss</a></strong> is a microfiction and prosimetrum writer.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33703984.post-20483663668474818712023-09-21T22:34:00.001-04:002023-09-22T22:39:33.069-04:00Spectacles<em><strong>by Robert Scotellaro</strong></em>
<br>
<br>
There they were, his reading glasses at the bottom of the clear toilet bowl water neatly folded. There was something sad and tragic about the sight of them, something bigger drowned. She had been hounding him again the night before about having a baby as he was reading in bed and he just waved her off, turning the page and telling her it wasn’t the right time. He could hear some clock (some Big Ben) gonging in her, rattling the bed board and making the lamp shade tilt. He put his hand down into the shallow water and retrieved them, brought them to the sink to rinse. Put them on streaked and dripping, and allowed himself to see the world that way.
<br>
<br>
<strong>6S</strong>
<br>
<br>
<em><strong><a href="mailto:scottydiana@earthlink.net">Robert Scotellaro</a></strong> is the author of 7 flash fiction collections including most recently: Ways to Read the World (2022) and God in a Can (2022). He has, along with James Thomas, co-edited New Micro: Exceptionally Short Fiction, published by W.W. Norton. His work has appeared widely, nationally and internationally, and included in the W. W. Norton anthologies, Flash Fiction International and Flash Fiction America, and in 4 Best Small Fictions and 2 Best Microfiction award anthologies. He is the winner of Zone 3’s Rainmaker Prize in Poetry and the Blue Light Book Award for his fiction. Find him online <a href="https://robertscotellaro.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com