crumbs

She believed in creation the way others believed in prayer.

So I came to the garden. Worked the soil endlessly, prying loose stones, carving out pockets of possibility. My hands darkened with mud. Hers always clean.

If only for a single season, I would give her the flowers she desired. She would praise me for the blossoms, then blame me when the roots failed. I accepted that burden. Every time.

But this land was never meant for growing. How couldn't she see that?

When we ended things, it was in the garden of all places.

Every bloom was borrowed time.

Kelsey Flaherty is a writer and photographer living in Cincinnati, Ohio.

Grandma loved to tell this one. ... Forever ago, Dog barked up the OG elements: EARTH, WIND, and FIRE. It was totally dope. One day a baller thief unstrung the fibrous cords from Dog's throat. No elements? Not cool. Hades pinged her socials and caught lil' homie in the hollow earth plucking away, cords stretched over a big-ass chasm. But he dug the beats and decided they should stay. Then Dog's bad bitch Cat pulled up and the after-party started bumpin...' Anyway, that's where earthquakes come from. After she finished talking, Grandma would spit bars. She loved that old school shit.

Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.

Keith Haring, now a bespectacled ghost, sprays ectoplasm diluted with dirty water onto the cold walls of Heaven.

They freeze into grimy ice sculptures of flying saucers, big babies and antic fornicating gay men.

Hell doesn’t consider this art. Demons rise up to destroy his work, melt it down with flame throwers.

But just as the first spark ignites a mud-spattered baby’s rump, a flutter of angels swoops down and banishes the fiends back to their fiery home.

“Why?” yowls one demon. “He’s defacing your Heaven!”

Arms crossed, one angel says smugly, “But God and the American ghosts like it.”

Lorraine Schein has published in Strange Horizons, Scientific American, and the anthologies Wild Women and Tragedy Queens. Her latest book is The Lady Anarchist Cafe, available from Autonomedia and Amazon.

We are pleased to announce that submissions for our third themed writing contest are now open!

The theme for June's drabble contest is...

OPEN TO ALL GENRES FOR JUNE'S CONTEST AND SUBMISSIONS ARE FREE
(one per person)

Emma and I can't wait to see what you come up with!

Winners are will be published in August and awarded:

• Miette d'Or: $15
• Bouchée du Benêt: $10
• Three Les Brisures: $5

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

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

And here are the winners:

Les Brisures

• Kelsey Flaherty
• Lorraine Schein
• Nicholas De Marino

Bouchée du Benêt

• Joan Sosin

Miette d'Or

• K.A. Vargas

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

The ocean was blue all around Miguel. Even the blood rushing out from his
body, and those of his four friends, could not change that.

Burning chunks of boat bobbed on wavetops, already sinking or dispersing. Soon there would be no trace of what had happened here.

The drone retreated into soft, white clouds above.

Enzo had warned him that if he didn’t give up his fishing spot, he’d
report them to the americanos as drug runners. But Miguel was raised to
stand up to bullies. He hoped his boys would understand that and remember
when they grew into men.

Michael Wever is a part-time writer and occasional observer of the world around himself. This story muscled its way into his mind during a morning shower and refused to leave until it had been written down.

A Moment in Aftermath was the winner of our Annual Drabble contest to capture the year that was 2025 in 100 words.

The Pardoner rode high in the saddle; reins loosely wrapped around the horn. The horse knew where he was going. The Pardoner’s little fingers weaved patterns in the air that only he
could see.

The sun broke out from behind the clouds and bounced off his weathered face throwing a warning miasma of orange into the sky. The Preacher, in the steeple of his church, alerted the good people of Camelot.

The Pardoner stopped in front of the jail. Waving a document above his head, the doors of the jail opened, and all the desperados of the West danced out.

Kenneth M. Kapp lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late into the night in his man-cave.

The Pardoner was a finalist in our Annual Drabble contest to capture the year that was 2025 in 100 words.

A water bottle squashed in his hands, driblets against the inferno, he closed
his eyes.

He removed the hat from his head, held it against his chest with a silent
prayer. He could feel the embers chewing at his fat, and knew it was only a
matter of time. What a fool he was to not heed his own advice.

But you cannot prevent death, can you, Smokey?

You can only hope that the concrete jungle fairs better than the desert.
Maybe your last memory will be of water from above, or maybe you'll get
remade into a Deep Fake.

Samantha tries to write, but the radio is just a little too loud.

Smokey was a finalist in our Annual Drabble contest to capture the year that was 2025 in 100 words.