There’s a new very short story anthology coming out later this year. It’s called Best Small Fictions, and this year it’s edited by Tara L. Masih and Pulitzer-prize winning author Robert Olen Butler(!). Pretty neat.

The five nominations from last year’s Nanoism lineup (in order of publication):

As an editor, I’ve often been remiss in my efforts to promote the wonderful writing I receive in my inbox every day for anthologies, awards, etc. While one of our tiny tales making it all the way for Best of the Web etc will always be an uphill climb due to their (very) brief nature, I want to thank the thousands of authors who have submitted and the hundreds of authors I’ve published for their writing. It’s an honor and pleasure to read and present your work.

Finally, silence predominated, except for the sound of fingers on glass and the vibration of love letters euthanized by satellites.

Sometimes Sarah Vernetti has a hard time coming up with clever, pithy bios.

Said the man overseas: “Have I met your needs today, sir?“

Said the man at home: “Yes, but do you have to go? No one here asks me that.”

Christian Hayden is a necessary evil, I suppose.

It was when his holding became more like choking and leaving became more like dancing that I realized all my movements were wrong.

Rachel Tanner is a grad student who is a future English and writing professor. You can follow her hilarious Twitter at @rickit.

And then we laughed too loudly and for far too long, dreading the silence that was to come after.

Kristy Lin (@kristyxlin) wonders if Nanoism received her previous submission but knows that she has to wait 3 months to ask formally.

The seagulls were flying in a perfect circle, matching that of the mosquitos and the deer. Nearby, the abandoned radar was humming again.

John Pugh XI is a writer/musician living in post-war Manhattan.

The goodbye note, all I had left of her, was spotted with little drops, smudging the paper. They looked like tears, but smelled like scotch.

Daniel Galef writes when he isn’t reading.

We meet at a hacker space in Berlin. I score some dust online. She’s gone in the morning. I tell myself I’m done. Exhale. This is a lie.

Ben Parker Karris grew up on airplanes. He lives and works in Los Angeles.

All that remains of our sultry summer is a puckered-up clementine on the mantel, too integral to the room’s aesthetic to be composted.

Matt Crowley believes in the forbidden fruit.

A woman, at the refrigerator,
holds an unmarked jar.

She unscrews the lid, breathes in,
decides how much she trusts it.

It’s true Seth Clabough is a bballing asthmatic beach bum with chickens and a fauxhawk, but the rest are lies. Damn lies.