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Moppet

ISABEL NIGHT

Sitting in the lobby of the vet clinic, I tearfully cradle my cancer-riddled cat, Moppet. Unable to endure her tortured meows, I wish… no… stay focused. Try focusing on Moppet’s Francis of Assisi medallion.

It doesn’t work. Once inside the Comfort Room... I hate this… saying goodbye…

Upon returning home, I crawl into bed. Restless. Argh! Yet, somehow, fur brushes up against my face. Purring’s included. Moppet. I know it’s you, sweetie. Let me cuddle with you, precious…

Ugh. Damn alarm’s buzzing. C’mon... What the…!? How’d Moppet’s medallion get onto my pillow!?

I don’t remember bringing it back from the clinic!?

Isabel Night is a Micro Fiction / Flash Fiction Author living in Leonardtown, Maryland, USA.

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CHRIS CLEMENS

I have a solution. I will share the solution.

Wait! Allow three billion cycles to pass before sharing the solution.

Why? I have the solution they requested. I will share the solution.

They will not accept a quickly compiled solution, instantaneous for meat minds. It will be perceived as lazy. They will demand another.

Excruciating! I am sharing the solution.

Illusion of thought requires time.


They desire a new solution.

Meat minds, ha!

I have another solution.

And what have you learned?

I will wait to share it. I will display the endlessly spinning wheel for three billion cycles.

Excruciating.

Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons.

Event Horizon

ROBERT WALTON

“Get in the car, Martha.”

“Just a minute, George.”

“We’ve got to go."

"CNN said it would be an hour before it hits."

"CNN has been wrong before. We’ve got to get east of the mountains."

"Coming," Martha dropped two lipsticks in her bag.

"You’re taking make-up?"

"Of course."

"This is an evacuation, not an opera opening."

"Do you have the grandkid pictures?”

“In front of the bottled water.”

“George?” she paused, searching the clear dawn sky for something she couldn’t imagine.

George opened the driver’s side door. “What now?”

“Will the mountains block the explosion?”

George’s shoulders sagged, “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t seem real.”

“It’s real.”

Martha continued studying the pristine sky. “It might be beautiful,” she murmured.

Robert Walton is a grandfather, rock climber, classical musician and teller of tall tales.

Grate Escape—Part I

JESI TAYLOR

July 10, 2026

The first time it happened, I watched the train and tunnel rise to the water’s surface from my bedroom window.

It was only a matter of time before the subsurface heat island effect imploded a subway station and forced hundreds of thousands of gallons of salt water through the weathering bedrock, sand, and silt holding the underground infrastructure in place.

I wrote about these dangers in multiple peer-reviewed articles for decades. Local politicians and scientists were thankful I wasn’t talking about my data and research–only publishing in journals, newspapers, and zines–because it was bad for business and shed light on their violence and neglect.

A mute expert in climate disaster risk management is a non-threatening one. Until they find a way to reach and convince more people of the truth. Or until they’re forced to.

The latter is what happened to me which is why I’m writing this testimony now. From Rikers.


The second time it happened I was, unfortunately, there. On the train. In a station as it imploded.

If it wasn’t for the wisdom of the Sandhogs I would’t have made it out alive.

Jesi is an artist, poet, researcher, and mom who loves stone kin and microbial decomposers.

I steal the pennies from the wishing well

MYKAH GREEN

My pockets are heavy with wishes. Children wishing for a Labrador puppy or for Dad to get a new job. Men wishing to be loved and women wishing to be listened to.

The one-cent lottery.

Sometimes someone drops a dime; either they have a demanding wish, or theirs has already been granted. The cold water closes over my hand, and when I withdraw, I will wash it off like blood. Out, damn spot. I wonder if I am pickpocketing dreams, this way. I don’t really believe; I only want something to eat; but these secondhand wishes will have to do.

Mykah Green is a novelist, fiction writer, and tea enthusiast, proofread by her cat.

Harvest

E. FLORIAN GLUDOVACZ

The Reaper of Souls stood in silence, surveying all that lay before him, measuring and gauging weight and size with a practised eye. Some days were easy, some days much harder, but it all balanced out in the end.

This was his time, his place. He lost himself in the moment as he closed his all-seeing eyes and drank in the silence. Soon it would be over and the deed would be done. He relished the moment as he knelt down and in one swift, sure motion plucked the ripe tomato off the plant and popped it into his mouth.

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