Crow Dance

December 8th, 2023

by e rathke

[this is the third in the three part series–
read Crow from the beginning, here]



Crow dances bathed in fungal light. Elliptical, she spins cycles around us, her arms draped in extinction weave through the air, showing us a new life, a path through death and destruction and desolation.

            I was eight when I first saw Crow dance. Already old but when she moved—lithe and fluid, powerful. My mother called her crazy. They all did. Back before the world collapsed.

            Before the oceans rose and swept nations away, before the fires burnt what remained. And when the industrialists escaped the burning, drowning earth, we were left with nothing. Not even hope.

            But Crow never abandoned us, nor did she forget us.

            Her voice booms as she flows through and around us.

            “We dreamt of better worlds, of new ones bursting through the husk of this decaying earth. Let the oceans rise, let the sun burn; shatter the concrete and let the towers collapse in waves of dust and debris.

            “Bloom and bust—the algae wilds these decrepit cities. The fungi swallows the pools of spilled oil, consuming the asphalt and plastics of the world we poisoned. All to make a new world. A new life.”

            We close our eyes and feel the promised world pummeling against us in perpetual waves. Her voice reverberates in our skull, rattling through our bones, galvanic against our skins.

            I remember the old world. The one with animals and ice, with plastics and instant communications. I do not miss it.

            A dead and desolate world. We exchanged it for blooming life.

            Crow. Always Crow. She saw and she knew and she led us to this brave new world bursting with fungal life and light.

            “Grow and grow and grow. Light up the night with bioluminescence, with flowering mushrooms awash with moonlight. Digest the world we inherited to grow and bloom, to brighten and spore the night skies.”

            Crow’s voice fades but our eyes remain shut, dreaming this new world, as she dances all around, calling the future to us.

            And for a moment we forget our pasts. Forget the brokenness, the derangement, the dying earth and the dead gods, and we luxuriate in this vision of a new earth born from the disasters we unleashed upon her. We dream of new gods. Not of spirit and faith, but of mud and blood and earth and light.

            Crow dances and Crow sings and we believe.



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Mudpunks

December 7th, 2023

by e rathke

[this is the second in the three part series–
read Crow from the beginning, here]

My hands in the mud and I don’t itch no more. Look over at Lorax and she’s waste deep, laughing. Baijiu says she ain’t coming cause Coyote says it’s god and we shouldn’t be wading into god but Lorax keeps laughing about that and I says to Baijiu that Coyote said it’s god’s blood and god had to die and bleed all over the earth or resurrection wouldn’t ever happen.

            Baijiu still won’t come in so me and Lorax start making mudballs and chucking them at her but she squeals off before we hit her to tell Coyote but when Coyote comes and we’re just laughing and splashing in the mud, she stretches her mouth wide and laughs along with us, tells Baijiu that it’s all right, honey, just a game and life’s for games and fun and all kinds of fine things.

            That night in the mushroom housing all the brothers and sisters, Coyote tells us again about those that abandoned earth for stars after poisoning her body and how Coyote and Wolfe and Crow found the mushrooms that eat the poison and clean the waters and clear the skies and we all just gobble those same sacred mushrooms down as she tells us about this new world rising from the dead old one.             That night we name those who went to the stars angels but Coyote laughs, tell us they was devils and that’s got to be the truth of it.



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Crow

December 6th, 2023

by e rathke

Grow Me a World
(publishing December 6th)
Mudpunks
(publishing December 7th)
Crowdance
(publishing December 8th)


Grow me a World

I was born in a dying world. A ravaged world caught in slow collapse. I will always remember watching nature documentaries while my mothers wept, holding me close in their arms, making quiet promises to themselves. I will always remember listening to their whispered shouting of their late-night arguments full of despair.

“This dead and dying world—she’ll never see the glaciers or a wolf out of captivity. We’re giving her a dead world!”

And I will always remember seeing Crow dance for the first time when I was eight years old. The high autumn grass, ready to be threshed, blown like undulating waves as we walked through them. Higher than I was tall at the time, my mother held me on her shoulders. Now alone, because my other mother couldn’t face each new day knowing it would be worse than the one before. “More extinction, more death,” she used to mutter until one day her muttering stopped and she was gone.

When we came to the clearing, there stood Crow. Alone with her bioluminescent mushrooms bathing her in light. She stretched her arms draped in feathers from the last generation of birds. Already old, her white hair fell down her back like a curtain as she spoke to us. “We dreamt of better worlds, of new ones bursting through the husk of this decaying earth. Let the oceans rise, let the sun burn; shatter the concrete and let the towers collapse in waves of dust and debris.” Her voice coarse and hoarse, as if scraped raw by decades of poisoned air, poisoned rivers, by the bitter earth rejecting us.

Her words vibrated through me. My skin goosepimpled, all hair standing at attention. Expectant. Even as a child, I was waiting for my life to change. For beauty to bloom within me.

That’s what I remember most about that twilit autumnal hour off in the abandoned Iron Range mines being rewilded by Crow and her people. For when she danced bathed in fungal light, spinning elliptically around us, weaving through us, her glowing mushrooms responding and reacting to her as she showed us new life, a path through death and desolation.

I gasped and then held my breath until the dance was over and my mother dragged me away.

And I will always remember how my mother called it a waste of time, a page ceremony to impossible hope. The disappointment near shattered her, for she sought hope. She needed a future. Something to believe in.

I remember how, in many ways, that was the night she died, though the funeral would not be for another twenty years.

The world collapsed as the year turned over and over. The oceans rose and swept nations away and the fires burnt what remained. The industrialists escaped the burning, drowning earth, leaving us with nothing. Not even hope. But I remember how the warlords and their armies fought even over that.

A decade later and wheelchair bound, I watched Crow dance again in those same abandoned mines, now green and rainbowed by thousands of wildflowers. The goats bellowed all around us as my girlfriend carried me through the fields of beans and squash and corn.

I remember how Crow did not abandon us. As the world burned, as war accelerated our species suicide, Crow gave us a dream. Her words giving shape to our hope, to our belief. Her voice boomed as she danced before us, spinning and dancing between us.

“Bloom and bust—the algae wilds these decrepit cities. The fungi swallows the pools of spilled oil, consuming the asphalt and plastics of the world we poisoned. All to make a new world. A new life.”

I closed my eyes and felt the promised world pummeling against me in perpetual waves. Her voice reverberating in my skull, rattling through my bones, galvanic on my skin, even radiating through my insensate legs.

I remember the old world from those long ago documentaries with my mothers. A world of animals and birds, of ice and clear water, of plastics and instant communications.

I did not miss it. I cannot. But I will not forget.

Nor will Crow. She remembered us. She stretched out her hands to embrace all that we were. All that we hoped we could one day be.

A world once teeming with life that generations of humanity massacred leaving only a dead and desolate world.

We exchanged it for blooming life.

A decade gone and I have never left the new world Crow birthed. With my hands and all that I am, I have shepherded the mushrooms sucking carbon from the air, oil from the earth and lakes and rivers. The mushrooms healing the earth. The mushrooms Crow gave to us that we fashioned into our homes, into our tools. The mushrooms that sustain us, that give us life, that shape our world.

Crow. Always Crow. She saw and she knew and she led us to this brave new world bursting with fungal life and light.

“Grow and grow and grow.” Her voice boomed, “Light up the night with bioluminescence, with flowering mushrooms awash with moonlight. Digest the world we inherited to grow and bloom, to brighten and spore the night skies.”

Crow’s voice faded but our eyes remained shut, dreaming this new world blossoming all around us, as she danced, calling the future to us.

And for a moment we forget our pasts. Forget the brokenness, the derangement, the dying earth and the dead gods, and we luxuriate in this vision of a new earth born from the disasters we unleashed upon her. We dream of new gods. Not of spirit and faith, but of mud and blood and earth and light.

Crow danced and Crow sang and we believed.

And now we dance as she danced. We sing as she sang. We spread her fungal light and watch the skies and rivers clear.








Mudpunks

My hands in the mud and I don’t itch no more. Look over at Lorax and she’s waste deep, laughing. Baijiu says she ain’t coming cause Coyote says it’s god and we shouldn’t be wading into god but Lorax keeps laughing about that and I says to Baijiu that Coyote said it’s god’s blood and god had to die and bleed all over the earth or resurrection wouldn’t ever happen.

Baijiu still won’t come in so me and Lorax start making mudballs and chucking them at her but she squeals off before we hit her to tell Coyote but when Coyote comes and we’re just laughing and splashing in the mud, she stretches her mouth wide and laughs along with us, tells Baijiu that it’s all right, honey, just a game and life’s for games and fun and all kinds of fine things.

That night in the mushroom housing all the brothers and sisters, Coyote tells us again about those that abandoned earth for stars after poisoning her body and how Coyote and Wolfe and Crow found the mushrooms that eat the poison and clean the waters and clear the skies and we all just gobble those same sacred mushrooms down as she tells us about this new world rising from the dead old one.             That night we name those who went to the stars angels but Coyote laughs, tell us they was devils and that’s got to be the truth of it.








Crow Dance

Crow dances bathed in fungal light. Elliptical, she spins cycles around us, her arms draped in extinction weave through the air, showing us a new life, a path through death and destruction and desolation.

I was eight when I first saw Crow dance. Already old but when she moved—lithe and fluid, powerful. My mother called her crazy. They all did. Back before the world collapsed.

Before the oceans rose and swept nations away, before the fires burnt what remained. And when the industrialists escaped the burning, drowning earth, we were left with nothing. Not even hope.

But Crow never abandoned us, nor did she forget us.

Her voice booms as she flows through and around us.

“We dreamt of better worlds, of new ones bursting through the husk of this decaying earth. Let the oceans rise, let the sun burn; shatter the concrete and let the towers collapse in waves of dust and debris.

“Bloom and bust—the algae wilds these decrepit cities. The fungi swallows the pools of spilled oil, consuming the asphalt and plastics of the world we poisoned. All to make a new world. A new life.”

We close our eyes and feel the promised world pummeling against us in perpetual waves. Her voice reverberates in our skull, rattling through our bones, galvanic against our skins.

I remember the old world. The one with animals and ice, with plastics and instant communications. I do not miss it.

A dead and desolate world. We exchanged it for blooming life.

Crow. Always Crow. She saw and she knew and she led us to this brave new world bursting with fungal life and light.

“Grow and grow and grow. Light up the night with bioluminescence, with flowering mushrooms awash with moonlight. Digest the world we inherited to grow and bloom, to brighten and spore the night skies.”

Crow’s voice fades but our eyes remain shut, dreaming this new world, as she dances all around, calling the future to us.

And for a moment we forget our pasts. Forget the brokenness, the derangement, the dying earth and the dead gods, and we luxuriate in this vision of a new earth born from the disasters we unleashed upon her. We dream of new gods. Not of spirit and faith, but of mud and blood and earth and light.

Crow dances and Crow sings and we believe.







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For Others

December 5th, 2023

by DJ Tyrer

[this is the third in the three part series–
read Top Hat from the beginning, here]

Tales of Verethan by Donald Tulloch,” said Harry Bull, pipe flaring as he laid aside the book. “Very rare.”

Julianne steepled her fingers, tried to ignore the stuffed marmoset that was gazing down at her with glassy eyes from a high shelf.

“But, that’s not why you came here, is it?”

He produced another book.

A kitten skipped playfully about her feet.

Songs of the Singing Stone by Georgiana Fay.”

She leant forward, body tense, eyes predatory.

He almost expected her to lick her lips.

She didn’t, but she did nod.

“I located it in a used bookstore in Berlin. To be honest, I can’t quite see the appeal of it.”

Harry looked down at the kitten, which had commenced playing with the lace of one of his shoes and nudged it away with his toe.

“Please, Jezin, not now.”

It yowled up at him in displeasure and he shook his head.

“A rather dull book of rhymes for children.”

“It’s what I want,” she said.

He shrugged and removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped it out upon the head of a stuffed dodo that stood upon the floor beside his seat.

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I am.” She smiled. “I am.”

“Then, it’s yours; if you have what I want.”

“I have.”

“The real thing?”

“As real as anything in this room.”

He smiled. “Quite.”

“Trust,” she said, slowly, “is a virtue seldom afforded to those such as we, but, on this occasion, I believe we can trust one another.”

Julianne lifted a tall hat box from the floor and place it upon his desk; he slid the book across to her. Jezin the kitten continued to dance about their feet, while ash trickled slowly down onto the dodo’s beak.

Picking up the book with reverent grace, Julianne studied its cover, which showed a lonely standing stone upon an area of grassy moorland. It was just as she remembered from her childhood, or possibly dreams of a life she had yet to live.

Harry opened the hat box and took out a top hat and span it in his fingers, examining its sheen.

“Yes,” he breathed, “this is the one.”

He placed it upon his head.

“You should read the story in there of Mr Top Hat,” he said, steepling his fingers and smiling a wide and predatory smile.

But, Julianne wasn’t listening.

She was staring at the book, the standing stone seeming the stretch off into infinity like the dark surface of a road beneath a clear and perfect azure sky, a motel at its side.

It was strange how it seemed so real…

“Are you jolly?” Harry asked and reached out towards her with long and slender fingers.

“No,” she said, “but, Mr Jolly should be here, soon.”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“I like your top hat.”

He smiled back, but he wasn’t Harry any longer.

The dodo watched him go.

It knew.

Once.

Ends




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Over Maudlin Street

December 4th, 2023

by DJ Tyrer

[this is the second in the three part series–
read Top Hat from the beginning, here]



The last train of the day from Cambridge into Liverpool Street was late and Osric Child was practically jogging as he headed out of the station and sought a cab.

“Maudlin Street,” he told the driver as he sank down into the lumpy seat. “Number 42.”

“Right you are, guv.”

Osric hated London.

They passed the tiny church of St. Erkenwald and pulled up outside his sister’s house. It always struck him as odd that the church was named for some obscure Saxon saint when the street itself was clearly named after Mary Magdalene. Where was her church?

“Keep the change.”

The sky overhead was grey and cloudy as he stepped out onto the pavement.

He knocked on the door and his sister opened it.

They were twins, but in no sense identical. Where he was fair and tall, she was short and dark.

She was still in black in memory of her late husband.

Osric hadn’t liked the man, but he couldn’t fault her for her devotion.

“Come in.” She directed him into the study.

A moth was butting against the light above his head.

“How was Berlin?”

She raised an eyebrow. “How do you think? A real mess. One day, they’ll draw a map which shows just who owns what, save visitors a fortune in bribes and headache pills. Oh, sit down, sit down.”

He did. “You know why I’m here?”

“Drink?”

He shook his head. “Well?”

“So, the worm turns and commences to devour itself?”

“Just give me what’s mine.” He held out his hand.

With a soft huff, she unlocked her desk drawer and took out the Leaden Seal, held it reverently in her hands.

“This should’ve been mine…”

Osric shrugged. “Dad wanted me to have it.”

“Dad never understood what it represents, what it can do. I had it in Berlin. I saw Verethan.”

Sniffing, he shrugged and said,” I leave the truth of it for others to surmise.”

That elicited a hollow laugh.

“You sounded just like Dad, then; he was always using that line.”

He shrugged again. “Can I have it?”

“Fine.” She thrust it into his hand. “But, it will come to bite you, you know that.”

“I don’t know what I know, any more.”

She frowned just a little. “You’ll see. You will see. The Seal shows you things, reshapes your dreams. Sooner or later, you’ll wish you’d left it with me.”

Osric closed his eyes; his head hurt, and, for a moment, he thought he saw a desert road stretching out to infinity before him.

He stood and stumbled for the front door.

The moth watched him go.

It knew.




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Top Hat

December 3rd, 2023

by DJ Tyrer

Roseate Skies
(publishing Dec. 3rd)
Over Maudlin Street
(publishing Dec. 4th)
For Others
(publishing Dec. 5th)


Roseate Skies

Dawn had given the skies a rosy glow that matched the end of Robert Loxley’s cigarette. Ash fell from it and disintegrated against the steering wheel.

Jazz it up with Top Hat Records, came the jingle on the radio; another lousy advert.

Robert reached out and punched buttons, found another station. It had been better back when radios had dials – the music was better and you could find the channels that lurked in the spaces in between.

Where did they lurk now?

He pulled into the parking lot of the Apple Blossom Motel and switched off the engine.

The name was surely a joke; he doubted there was ever any apple blossom in the entire county, perhaps even the entire state, it was so damn dry. But, Julianne paid him a good wage to come in, once a month, and exterminate the rats and roaches that called it home.

There were three other vehicles in the lot besides his pickup, but nobody in sight. He didn’t blame them. This early in the morning, he’d rather be in bed, but Julianne liked the job over and done with early, before customers arrived. If any did. Some days, the place was dead.

Robert headed for the reception. No sign of her.

He dinged the bell on the desk and waited.

Dinged it again.

“Hey, Julianne, you there?”

She’d probably had a bad chilli.

He scribbled a note on the pad by the phone, grabbed the keys off the board and headed off to bug bomb the rooms that were empty, whistling tunelessly as he prepared his ordnance.

There was still no sign of Julianne when he returned the keys to their places on the board.

“Hey, Julianne, you back there?”

Robert went through her office to the door of the private washroom; it was ajar.

“Knock, knock! I’m coming in.”

Empty.

Weird.

There was something written on the mirror above the basin in lipstick.

He hoped it was lipstick…

Ylloj.

What the hell did that mean?

It kind of looked like Spanish, but not any word he’d ever heard, and he’d heard some pretty wild ones.

Where was Julianne? Something was screwy…

He looked at the word one more time, then went back out into the lobby. The whole place was too damn quiet.

Three keys missing from the board. Three cars in the lot.

Three guests, maybe more.

By now, there should’ve been movement, sounds, but the cars were still there and the place was still as a crypt. Nobody came here for a honeymoon. No honeymoon was that quiet. Something was off.

Robert headed for the first room. The door was ajar.

“Housekeeping,” he called as he slipped inside.

Nobody. An open case on the bed, a scatter of clothes, but nobody, no reply.

He went into the bathroom.

He’d half-expected it, but it still made him shiver despite the heat: Red letters on the mirror glass.

Osbertha.

What was that supposed to mean? A name? A place?

He ran to the next room, stared at the mirror.

Nahterev.

The third and final room.

Berlin.

It was the only word he knew and it still meant nothing to him.

It was like a scene out of some crazy horror flick.

He ran back to his pickup and pulled out of the lot, sped down the endless desert road.

The skies overhead were blue, now, a vibrant azure, clear and perfect.

Sand kicked up as he raced away, the radio screaming at him, his mind murky and fractured, the smell of the bug bombs lingering on his jacket.

The roaches watched him go.

They knew.





Over Maudlin Street

The last train of the day from Cambridge into Liverpool Street was late and Osric Child was practically jogging as he headed out of the station and sought a cab.

“Maudlin Street,” he told the driver as he sank down into the lumpy seat. “Number 42.”

“Right you are, guv.”

Osric hated London.

They passed the tiny church of St. Erkenwald and pulled up outside his sister’s house. It always struck him as odd that the church was named for some obscure Saxon saint when the street itself was clearly named after Mary Magdalene. Where was her church?

“Keep the change.”

The sky overhead was grey and cloudy as he stepped out onto the pavement.

He knocked on the door and his sister opened it.

They were twins, but in no sense identical. Where he was fair and tall, she was short and dark.

She was still in black in memory of her late husband.

Osric hadn’t liked the man, but he couldn’t fault her for her devotion.

“Come in.” She directed him into the study.

A moth was butting against the light above his head.

“How was Berlin?”

She raised an eyebrow. “How do you think? A real mess. One day, they’ll draw a map which shows just who owns what, save visitors a fortune in bribes and headache pills. Oh, sit down, sit down.”

He did. “You know why I’m here?”

“Drink?”

He shook his head. “Well?”

“So, the worm turns and commences to devour itself?”

“Just give me what’s mine.” He held out his hand.

With a soft huff, she unlocked her desk drawer and took out the Leaden Seal, held it reverently in her hands.

“This should’ve been mine…”

Osric shrugged. “Dad wanted me to have it.”

“Dad never understood what it represents, what it can do. I had it in Berlin. I saw Verethan.”

Sniffing, he shrugged and said,” I leave the truth of it for others to surmise.”

That elicited a hollow laugh.

“You sounded just like Dad, then; he was always using that line.”

He shrugged again. “Can I have it?”

“Fine.” She thrust it into his hand. “But, it will come to bite you, you know that.”

“I don’t know what I know, any more.”

She frowned just a little. “You’ll see. You will see. The Seal shows you things, reshapes your dreams. Sooner or later, you’ll wish you’d left it with me.”

Osric closed his eyes; his head hurt, and, for a moment, he thought he saw a desert road stretching out to infinity before him.

He stood and stumbled for the front door.

The moth watched him go.

It knew.





For Others

Tales of Verethan by Donald Tulloch,” said Harry Bull, pipe flaring as he laid aside the book. “Very rare.”

Julianne steepled her fingers, tried to ignore the stuffed marmoset that was gazing down at her with glassy eyes from a high shelf.

“But, that’s not why you came here, is it?”

He produced another book.

A kitten skipped playfully about her feet.

Songs of the Singing Stone by Georgiana Fay.”

She leant forward, body tense, eyes predatory.

He almost expected her to lick her lips.

She didn’t, but she did nod.

“I located it in a used bookstore in Berlin. To be honest, I can’t quite see the appeal of it.”

Harry looked down at the kitten, which had commenced playing with the lace of one of his shoes and nudged it away with his toe.

“Please, Jezin, not now.”

It yowled up at him in displeasure and he shook his head.

“A rather dull book of rhymes for children.”

“It’s what I want,” she said.

He shrugged and removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped it out upon the head of a stuffed dodo that stood upon the floor beside his seat.

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I am.” She smiled. “I am.”

“Then, it’s yours; if you have what I want.”

“I have.”

“The real thing?”

“As real as anything in this room.”

He smiled. “Quite.”

“Trust,” she said, slowly, “is a virtue seldom afforded to those such as we, but, on this occasion, I believe we can trust one another.”

Julianne lifted a tall hat box from the floor and place it upon his desk; he slid the book across to her. Jezin the kitten continued to dance about their feet, while ash trickled slowly down onto the dodo’s beak.

Picking up the book with reverent grace, Julianne studied its cover, which showed a lonely standing stone upon an area of grassy moorland. It was just as she remembered from her childhood, or possibly dreams of a life she had yet to live.

Harry opened the hat box and took out a top hat and span it in his fingers, examining its sheen.

“Yes,” he breathed, “this is the one.”

He placed it upon his head.

“You should read the story in there of Mr Top Hat,” he said, steepling his fingers and smiling a wide and predatory smile.

But, Julianne wasn’t listening.

She was staring at the book, the standing stone seeming the stretch off into infinity like the dark surface of a road beneath a clear and perfect azure sky, a motel at its side.

It was strange how it seemed so real…

“Are you jolly?” Harry asked and reached out towards her with long and slender fingers.

“No,” she said, “but, Mr Jolly should be here, soon.”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“I like your top hat.”

He smiled back, but he wasn’t Harry any longer.

The dodo watched him go.

It knew.

Once.

Ends






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2024 FLASH SUITE Contest is now live

December 2nd, 2023


And our first publication is tomorrow, Sunday, December 3rd.
Go straight to the contest.

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Meet the Finalists of the 2024 FLASH SUITE Contest

November 26th, 2023


Including our Defenestrationism.net tradition of an image of our authors’ favorite chair.
(more chair photos to come)

DJ Tyrer dwells in Southend-on-Sea on the north bank of the Thames and is the person behind Atlantean Publishing. DJ has had flash fiction published in such places as Alder and Ebony (Iron Fairy Publishing), and Apples, Shadows and Light (Earlyworks Press), issues of Sirens Call, and Tigershark, and on Cease CowsThe Flash Fiction PressSpace Squid, and Trembling With Fear. DJ Tyrer’s website is at https://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/

e rathke writes about books and games at radicaledward.substack.com. A finalist for the Baen Fantasy Adventure and recipient of the Diverse Worlds Grant, he is the author of Glossolalia, the lofi cyberpunk series Howl, and the space opera series The Shattered Stars. His short fiction appears in Queer Tales of Monumental Invention, Mysterion Magazine, Shoreline of Infinity, and elsewhere.

Robert Kibble lives west of London with a wife, a teenage son, and a cornucopia of half-finished writing projects.  A few have been published over the years, which – it has to be admitted – is very pleasing.  If only a less creative day job wouldn’t keep getting in the way, he’s sure it would be more.  You can find him on @r_kibble on Twitter or at www.philosophicalleopard.com where you’ll find more short stories, links to his novels, and musings on why zeppelins don’t ply the skies.

Jen Ross Laguna is a Chilean-Canadian writer-editor and former foreign correspondent, who has also spent more than 15 years working internationally for the United Nations. Seven years ago, she relocated to her husband’s country, Aruba to take some time off to write, and stayed. Her poetry appears in Better Than Starbucksthe other side of hope, descant, Last Stanza Poetry Journal and an anthology by The Poet Magazine; and her short stories in Latin American Literary ReviewMslexia MagazineLatineLitThe Pine Cone Review, Isele MagazineGlobal Youth ReviewArlington Literary Journal and Evocations Review.

Chris Cottom lives near Macclesfield, England, and once wrote insurance words. One of his stories was read aloud to passengers on the Esk Valley Railway between Middlesborough and Whitby. Others have been published by Bournemouth Writing Prize, Ellipsis Zine, Free Flash Fiction, Flash 500, FlashFlood, NFFD NZ, One Wild Ride, Oxford Flash Fiction, Retreat West, The Centifictionist, and elsewhere. In the early 1970s he lived next door to JRR Tolkien.

Jennifer Weatherly is a writer local to the DC area, and previously spent the last several years in Richmond, VA. It is the reader’s guess as to which of those cities inspired her entry. She uses her days engaging in the ancient profession of freelancing (also writing), and digs a good hike in her spare time. Occasionally she blogs about that – plus other subjects – at jenweatherly.com.

E.E. King is an award-winning painter, performer, writer, and naturalist. She’ll do anything that won’t pay the bills, especially if it involves animals. Ray Bradbury called her stories, “marvelously inventive, wildly funny, and deeply thought-provoking.”
She’s been published in over 100 magazines and anthologies, including Clarkesworld, Daily Science Fiction, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Short Edition, Daily Science Fiction, and Flametree. Her novels include Dirk Quigby’s Guide to the Afterlife: All you need to know to choose the right heaven, which was translated into Spanish, and several story collections. Her stories are on Tangent’s 2019, 2020-, and 2022-year’s best stories. She’s been nominated for a Rhysling, and several Pushcart awards.
She’s shown paintings at LACMA and painted murals. She also co-hosts The Long-Lost Friends Show and Metastellar story time. She spends summers doing bird rescue and winters planting coral in Bonaire. Check out paintings, writing, musings, and books at: www.elizabetheveking.com and amazon.com/author/eeking

Shannon Brady is a fiction writer who specializes in fantasy and
horror, but is always excited to branch out into other genres. Her
previous works can be found in such publications as Dark Peninsula
Press, Jerry Jazz Musician, Queer Sci Fi, Werewolves Versus, and Third
Flatiron Anthologies. When not writing, she can be found reading,
baking, and playing video games.



More of the 2024 FLASH SUITE Contest.

What’s New
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Announcing the Finalists for the 2024 FLASH SUITE Contest

November 19th, 2023


Publishing Daily All December Long


Top Hat
by DJ Tyrer
December 3rd-5th

Crow 
e rathke
December 6th-8th

Half Life Connections
Robert Kibble
December 9th-11th

Fragments of My Father
Jen Ross Laguna
December 12th-14th

Good and Faithful Servant
Chris Cottom
December 15th-19th

Nature Always Finds a Way Through
Jennifer Weatherly
December 20th-25th

3 tales of Rapture
E.E. King
December 26th-28th

Final Stop
Shannon Brady
December 29th-31st

FAN VOTING
January 1st-13th

Winners Announced
MLK Day (US), January 15th




contest goes live next Sunday
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Submission is Now Closed for the 2024 FLASH SUITE Contest

October 13th, 2023

Finalists will be announced on site in early November.

The entries so far are amazing, and we can’t wait to publish our 8 favorites
across November and December.
The winners will be announced MLK Day (US) which is January 15th.

Submission is Still Open for the 2024 Lengthy Poem Contest until January 1st

Submission for the 2024 !Short Story Contest! is closed, and will open in May

If a contest is not open for submission, we will discard your entry unread
— we won’t even reply with snarky comments,
which is half the fun of our publication, anyway.


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