Micro Prose: Art in Asylum by Eben S. Schwartz

Art in Asylum The halls are taupe and evergreen, as if someone gutted a pine tree and stretched it on tenterhooks. Every eighteen feet a poster of a landscape hangs, smothered in Plexiglas and set in a frame screwed tight to the wall.  When we move to town, my wife says our house looks like…

Micro Prose: Reptilian by Tyler Gillespie

Reptilian Reptilians either evolved on Earth & left when they mastered intergalactic space travel or they’re from a planet in the Draco constellation & flew here to imprison all humans.  I learned this on YouTube: fell into a video hole of people dissecting movie stills in which Reptilians give glimpses of their true form like…

Micro Prose: The Founding of Rome by S. Craig Renfroe Jr.

The Founding of Rome I’m trying to feed baby girl, and she shakes her head, slaps the spoon from my hand, raspberries away any puree I manage to force into her mouth. I give myself a time out, but it doesn’t help. “You have to eat!” I come at her again. This time she shields…

Micro Prose: Saturday Morning by T. J. Butler

Later, the girls stand in front of the open refrigerator, slightly feral: slices of cheese torn from plastic, pickles from the jar, a swig of Hershey’s syrup, jelly scooped out with a finger.

Micro Prose: 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…