crumbs

Step-mother said I’d never leave. That I’d never see a foreign kingdom, the sea, or snow fall. But now I watch flakes float from the dusking sky, catch one, and taste freedom on my tongue.

I was forced to clean. The house, the hearth by candlelight. Wasting no coals for myself.

Thrill shivers through me.

The night waxes, while incandescent hues paint the clouds, mirroring below.

Did you know revenge burns cold?

Yes, call me Cinder. Tonight the flames rise, and your ashen flakes fall. I’ve cleansed you from this world and taste the embers that were once your skin.

Alethea Paul writes speculative flash fiction and dabbles, or drabbles, in literary. Find her @aletheapaul.bsky.social.

Anke scurried to the stake when the soldiers left, allowing the charred bones to be stolen for amulets. Nobody was interested in another superstitious whats-her-name; she, without looking, groped around in the cooled coals and, burning herself, found by touch a single hot ember.

Found, put it in her mouth, then filled her palms full of coal chips and hastened away from the square. Unseen in the dark alley, she squeezed her palms together and blew into them.

And then ⁠— as promised ⁠— the blackness in her hand grew alive, and a kitten, yawning, opened its eyes.

Green, like Auntie had.

A short story author, currently residing in Lithuania.

“Welcome to Pete’s Pet Palace. How may I help you?” “It’s about this bird I bought last week. It is dead!” “Really? Are you certain?” “Of course. Look! It’s as dead as a doornail.” “It does look rather dead, doesn’t it? Did you follow the care instructions that came with it?” “Yes, I fed and watered it, made sure it got enough exercise…” “Did you read the last page?” “No?” “The brochure’s formatting is a bit weird, but it says right here: In case of death, please light the bird on fire to restore your phoenix to its former state.”

Florian writes stories, likes cheese, and is a friend to dogs and pandas everywhere. @ndbag.bsky.social

At first you hoped the charred cards were a bid for forgiveness. But your long-dead father’s ashy handwriting, unmistakably rigid, won’t apologize for hitting Mr. Wiggles with the sedan, or forgetting the invitations for your tenth birthday party. Dad’s not looking to close old wounds. Instead: implacable criticisms, with no return address.

Fix kitchen baseboard! 14 degrees crooked.

The inside of your mouth is grungy and green.

You were difficult enough without your mother. WHERE IS SHE!?

Somewhere better, you hope. Today’s postcard depicts a lake of fire; a waving hand of crumbling ashes; the caption Wish You Were Here!

Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. More: linktr.ee/clemenstation

• ornate golden picture frame haunted by a ghost named Gertrude.
• man rescuing the princess (= his feminine side) from the tower (= penis).
• monkshood bulbs. WARNING: wear gloves.
• two wolves inside me. they want to kiss.
• black lipstick.
• three boxes of love letters⁠—unsent.

↑

things to keep

⁠—

things to lose

↓

• homes with white walls and green lawns.
• panopticons.
• my harry potter book and merch collection.
• 1700 phone number.
• iron giants.
• fathers who are duped into selling their daughters to the devil.

unsorted →→ facebook profiles of the deceased, honesty no one wants to hear, a promise ring for a promise that was never fulfilled.

bailey loveless haunts a far forest ledge and collects ghosts along the Washington coastline. IG:@bailey.loveless

It is time to announce the winners of our third CRUMBS drabble writing contest!

As a reminder, the theme for June was...

And here are the winners:

Les Brisures

• the sorting by bailey loveless
• Postcards From Your Dead Dad by Chris Clemens
• Advanced Pet Care by E. Florian Gludovacz

Bouchée du Benêt

• How to Save a Witch by Tatiana Shokhan

Miette d'Or

• Cinders by Alethea Paul

We will be publishing their stories over the first five days of August!

CRUMBS is off for August, but we will be announcing our new print anthology soon!

“Just throw it in the pot.”

“Throw what in the pot?” I ask Frank.

“Everything.” He answers. “Your hopes, dreams, hell, even throw in a dash of your fears.”

I stare at him expectantly. Where is he going with this?

“That’s how my grandmother did it, and hers turned out great.”

I look from Frank to the fridge. “Are we still talking about chili?”

“Chili?”

“For dinner.”

“Oh, I dunno, whatever you want.”

I consider my options carefully before taking his advice.

I throw everything into the pot–including Frank.

He was right, it just needed a little spice of life.

K.A. Vargas often talks to the voices in her head. Sometimes they talk back, and she turns them into stories.

“There.” Sheriff Young pointed his deputies to the park entrance.

Tire tracks. Last sighting. Where the dogs lost track in the mud.

“Someone impersonating a deputy stopped Arielle last week. Now this.”

A man drove his pickup past the sheriff’s huddle, parked, and joined the volunteer searcher line creeping across a wet field.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“Nope.”

At twilight, searchers drudged to the parking lot.

The man pulled a silver shield from his breast pocket and smeared dried mud specks into nothing with his thumb. He smoothed the tarp, tug-tested the bungee cords.

Nope. Nothing to find out there.

Joan Sosin lives, learns, and writes in sunny (hot and humid) Florida.