Nanoism

When someone finally told her that “LOL” did not stand for “lots of love,” she understood why Karen stopped talking to her.

Tara Barnes (@tarabarnes) leaves a lot to be desired.

4am: Poe blinked lazily at the raven perched on his windowsill, lifted the glass to his lips. “Well what would you have me say?” he mumbled.

Jessica Otto is a grad student at Goddard College.

When I had my heart attack, my wife leaned over me and said, “I am sorry. I’ve been having an affair.”

“I know,” I told her. “Call 911.”

Mark McGuire-Schwartz wonders about calling for help: Who would come?

Three days ago, a climbing party went missing. You move to the next headline, wonder if you’ve fed the dog.

Evan Schaeffer lives in St. Louis. Links to his stories and commentary essays can be found at www.evanschaeffer.com.

The runt of the litter was her favorite—guaranteed to die before she stopped loving it.

R. Gatwood is concise.

He grabs her under the palapa, all hands and hot breath. Maria will run tonight, after. Empty bottles; a blouse ripped for the last time.

Jackie Bateman is a British writer living in Vancouver. She will always champion the marmite sandwich.

I was born over there, your mom in 한국, and you here. Jobs for me are scarce back home. What do you think? You like it here? Is it OK for us?

Matt Stranach  (@mswriting) is from Fredericton, Canada, and currently lives overseas. He writes realism, horror, and sci-fi. He’s also a dad.

Someone is adding a new wing to my house. It is ostentatious and without taste. The builders claim it is my wife, who remains incommunicado.

B. N. Landry lives in Austin, Texas. You can find more of his very short fiction on Twitter. Just follow @ShortestFiction.

Forgiveness as pure joy, she insisted. A ribbon-breasted finch warbled in its nest. Under the waterfall, his lantern like sunlight in rain.

Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé is a city hermit. He’s thinking of making clay miniatures for a recently repotted bonsai.

G’night, tweeple: 39 in my childhood bed, stuck here selling knives. Powerball is a losing dream. Down the gullet. Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Sara Lippmann lives and writes in Brooklyn.