For Witches by Adam McOmber

For Witches Ohio, 1994 Here is a language for witches.  No. Here is a language for high school.  No. Here is magic in all its occult guises.  No. Here is high school in all its occult guises.  No. Here is a hallway in a high school. The floor is gray linoleum.  Lockers line the walls….

Micro Prose: Dollar Store, Yes by Suzanne Richardson

Dollar Store, Yes The checkout girl is fecund with child, and her neck is so finely dappled with the unmistakable constellations of hickies that when she asks you if you want more (more chips because you have one bag, and it’s two for one), you automatically say “yes,” because clearly this girl is teaching you…

Micro Prose: To My Ancestors by Anishka Duggal

To My Ancestors To My Ancestors, Down the street around the cul-de-sac are the purple flowers that are shaped like snap-dragons except somehow prettier. I do not think they grew when you were here.  // In the summer I am a browning leaf. I hear my bones crack and crumble underneath the smooth white soles…

Micro Prose: Thanksgiving, 1996 by William Hawkins

Thanksgiving, 1996   It’s a generous memory. My uncle holding crystal, delivering on the joy of family; his wife, my aunt, looking through the turkey one day after discovering her marriage vows had been violated. My father drunk again, my mother worried, her hand nervous at his side, trying to take a hold of his…

Micro Prose: Animals Of Failed Memory—Ghosts by Henneh Kyereh Kwaku

Animals Of Failed Memory—Ghosts   Certain—situations, occurrences, certain people—I’ve tried very many times to forget. & I’ve failed each time. & there are certain things a man cannot forget whether they want to or not. It isn’t a man’s decision to make, maybe God’s. I was promised by one of my *fathers, He said he’d…

Micro Prose: Mothing by Amy A. Whitcomb

MOTHING Not long ago, I wanted nothing more than for him to pay as much attention to me as he does to moth genitalia. Hiking into remote ridges, rigging the white sheet and black light, sitting outside through the night, face up close to the swaying sheet. Empty vials quickly become flutter-filled, shaking, then still….

Micro Prose: Henry, Henry by Robert James Russell

Henry, Henry Rosalie came down from up north to see the pond for herself. She’d left a note for her grandmother, asleep on the couch, that she was taking her Monte Carlo, and drove six hours, stopping only to eat gas station burritos and pre-bagged whole dill pickles and wash under her arms in cramped bathroom…

Micro Prose: Corner Store by Dina L. Relles

Corner Store Driving through the center of a town that’s not mine, I saw a store on the corner of a street I’d never cross and in the window a sign said SALE said CLOSING and it made me miss you for being gone, miss a stranger for never having met. I fear next time you…

Micro Prose: A Man Who Prays with His Gun by Said Farah

A Man Who Prays with His Gun I wanted to write a Galkaiyo story about goats in a mosque, about a man walking into that same mosque with his AK-47, setting it down before him to pray, and how I’d look back a few years later, thinking: “Did you come to pray for the sake…

Micro Prose: The Loneliest Numbers are One and Infinity by Laura Martin

The Loneliest Numbers are One and Infinity In New York your image is captured thousands of times a day. The red eyes of cameras hide under awnings and in subway tunnels, above storefronts and at busy intersections. Even if you escape their scrutiny you can’t avoid the eyes of fellow subway passengers, the glass walls…