@pleomorphic2.bsky.social takes us to the line in this visceral piece - but thus far shall we go and no further 😢
Oh the build-up and twist in this flash by @pleomorphic2.bsky.social is so good 🧡🧡🧡
"As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days."
#nffd2026
'you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff.' Tiny but perfect list story with a beautifully landed ending, by the always brilliant @pleomorphic2.bsky.social ⬇️⬇️⬇️
Such a great extended metaphor @shrutidhora.bsky.social in @natflashfictionday.bsky.social 🧡🧡🧡
“As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling.”
A list by @pleomorphic2.bsky.social in @natflashfictionday.bsky.social that’ll linger with its ending.
‘As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.’ 👏
What a fabulous list flash from @pleomorphic2.bsky.social
This definitely doesn’t apply to me but you should read it in case. @nomad-sw18.bsky.social in @natflashfictionday.bsky.social with her usual brilliance 🧡 “Signs it is time for a self-clean cycle: buildup of grease, odors and heavy emotional residue.”
This is word and sad and beautiful and has @devaneemily.bsky.social’s brilliance all over it 🧡🧡🧡 @natflashfictionday.bsky.social “I shake my head, because no, I haven’t seen the magnolia’s new shoes and just how many shoes does a tree need”
‘As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.’
Love a list flash, and what a heartbreaking example of the form from @pleomorphic2.bsky.social in @natflashfictionday.bsky.social 👭
"As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch" Always blown away by @pleomorphic2.bsky.social
flashfloodjournal.blogspot.com/2026/06/all-...
Sumitra Singam
Sumitra Singam
Sumitra Singam
Suzanne (writing as S A Greene)
Fiona McKay
Cole Beauchamp 🏳️🌈 📖
Jenny Wong
Kate Axeford
James Montgomery
Here’s my list flash in @natflashfictionday.bsky.social! Happy flash flood and happy pride everyone! 🌊🌊🌊🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🧡🧡🧡
Christine H.
Sumitra Singam
FlashFlood: 'All the Ways We Died' by Sumitra Singam #nffd2026
FlashFlood: 'All the Ways We Died' by Sumitra Singam #nffd2026
FlashFlood: 'All the Ways We Died' by Sumitra Singam #nffd2026
FlashFlood: 'All the Ways We Died' by Sumitra Singam #nffd2026
FlashFlood: 'All the Ways We Died' by Sumitra Singam #nffd2026
FlashFlood: 'All the Ways We Died' by Sumitra Singam #nffd2026
As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling.
As fresh pupils, you whispering the answer, us caned by Sister Adele.
As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.
As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch.
As third formers, you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff.
Yesterday, me finally finding your lips with mine:
you finally finding a line you wouldn’t cross.
---
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com
dlvr.it
As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling.
As fresh pupils, you whispering the answer, us caned by Sister Adele.
As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.
As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch.
As third formers, you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff.
Yesterday, me finally finding your lips with mine:
you finally finding a line you wouldn’t cross.
---
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com
As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling.
As fresh pupils, you whispering the answer, us caned by Sister Adele.
As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.
As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch.
As third formers, you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff.
Yesterday, me finally finding your lips with mine:
you finally finding a line you wouldn’t cross.
---
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com
dlvr.it
As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling.
As fresh pupils, you whispering the answer, us caned by Sister Adele.
As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.
As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch.
As third formers, you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff.
Yesterday, me finally finding your lips with mine:
you finally finding a line you wouldn’t cross.
---
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com
dlvr.it
As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling.
As fresh pupils, you whispering the answer, us caned by Sister Adele.
As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.
As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch.
As third formers, you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff.
Yesterday, me finally finding your lips with mine:
you finally finding a line you wouldn’t cross.
---
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com
As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling.
As fresh pupils, you whispering the answer, us caned by Sister Adele.
As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.
As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch.
As third formers, you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff.
Yesterday, me finally finding your lips with mine:
you finally finding a line you wouldn’t cross.
---
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com
Here’s my list flash in @natflashfictionday.bsky.social! Happy flash flood and happy pride everyone! 🌊🌊🌊🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🧡🧡🧡
Sumitra Singam
FlashFlood: 'All the Ways We Died' by Sumitra Singam #nffd2026
National Flash Fiction Day
National Flash Fiction Day
National Flash Fiction Day
National Flash Fiction Day
National Flash Fiction Day
National Flash Fiction Day
FlashFlood: 'Magnolia' by Emily Devane #nffd2026
FlashFlood: 'The frequency of your life self-cleaning cycle depends on spillage and usage patterns' by Cole Beauchamp #nffd2026
FlashFlood: 'Raka Is Fine Being A Flask' by Shrutidhora P Mohor #nffd2026
As babes, you toddling with the cleaver, your Ma yelling.
As fresh pupils, you whispering the answer, us caned by Sister Adele.
As fourth graders, you taunting Bhavani-the-Bully who gave us horsey bites that stung for days.
As first formers, you daring us to drink our chemistry experiment leading to a glorious sickie together watching Rage, our hands thigmotropic on the couch.
As third formers, you passing the joint to me, us semi-comatose on the rug, a flash of your caramel-soft midriff.
Yesterday, me finally finding your lips with mine:
you finally finding a line you wouldn’t cross.
---
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com
Raka says she is fine being a water flask. Steaming inside even when it is freezing outside. Chilled inside despite the humidity outside.
I wonder if she needs to be wrapped, tucked away, not exposed in order to preserve the temperature inside. But she is bold and insists with a flip of her finger, it’s okay, it’s fine, the outside doesn’t matter. I am what I am.
When Larry comes home shivering one night, a twisted sponge dripping from top to bottom, a muddy pool at his feet, his jacket as wet as overnight soaked raisins, Raka hops out from the larder and pours him a glass of hot water, water that distils through the pores on his skin, right into the reservoir of cold basins whirling inside his tummy. First, one glass, then a second, then a third as well, and she waits on him until his eyes brighten, his blood warms, and he shakes off the excess water and peels off his formals.
When Larry comes home musical another night, his shoe laces half-untied, the tail of his jacket crumpled, his forehead feverish but his eyes starry, Raka is cool and comforting, and ignoring the unfamiliar feminine scent on his collar, she pours down his parched throat.
Raka nods and trots to the table, Raka plops and settles at the bedside, Raka can scald, Raka can soothe. Insulated even when kicked in her soul, protected even though she has been bruised and carelessly thrown around, hit by words that she doesn’t deserve, let down, her faith betrayed, her love trampled over. A water flask is my spirit object. I am fine being a water flask, she assures me and proceeds to the stove to fill herself with a fresh round of hot water.
---
Shrutidhora P Mohor writes literary fiction and has been published by several literary magazines, and been nominated for Best Micro Fictions and the Pushcart Prize. She is from India, loves black coffee, light tea, and daydreaming. Unfortunately, her professional identity threatens her literary pursuits but fortunately pays her moderately well.
dlvr.it
National Flash Fiction Day
Signs it is time for a self-clean cycle: buildup of grease, odors and heavy emotional residue.
Some say there is no bad time for self-cleaning, but avoiding special occasions such as wedding anniversaries is recommended.
Self-cleaning requires extremely high temperatures, which will trigger an automatic shutdown. During this time, you may experience reruns of bad decisions, like having sex with your partner’s best friend in the bathroom at Lowry’s.
The unit will unlock once these errors have been processed and temperature is within limits.
Ensure good ventilation and wipe out any debris with a soft cloth and a heartfelt apology.
---
Cole Beauchamp is a queer writer based in London. Her stories have been in the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for multiple awards. She’s a 2026 Smokelong Quarterly Emerging Writer Fellow and contributing editor of New Flash Fiction Review.
dlvr.it
The magnolia comes into the room and asks me what I’ve done with her new shoes.
I shake my head, because no, I haven’t seen the magnolia’s new shoes and just how many shoes does a tree need, and do they have laces or buckles, and is there a specialist shop for that? The questions keep coming until the magnolia scratches her crown and flounces out of the room, trailing petals in her wake.
I feel bad when that happens, because the magnolia’s blossom is so lovely. Each flower is an elegant pink cup, the shape of a champagne flute, tall and proud, and when they fall, the flowers resemble tears, and the magnolia’s limbs look naked. I follow the trail of petals, picking them up as I go, and I place them in the fruit bowl. I lay them out delicately, so that they resemble a living thing once again, and the magnolia, who is sulking by the kitchen door, acknowledges my effort.
‘It was silly really, buying shoes,’ she says.
‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘Together, we’ll find them. They’re probably in the cupboard under the stairs. Everything ends up there.’
The magnolia nods. ‘I can sense the wind,’ she says. ‘My petals are almost gone.’ I discern her mouth and eyes in the twisted bark of her trunk. She smiles sadly. This flowering is short, always too short. I wish I could pause time, somehow, but I know she must leave.
When she goes, the magnolia casts a shadow that stretches across the rest of the afternoon, covering everything.
Later, I find the shoes were in the garden where the magnolia used to stand. I try them on, but they do not fit.
---
Emily Devane is a writer from West Yorkshire. She has won prizes,
including the Bath Flash Fiction Award, a Northern Writers' Award and a
Word Factory apprenticeship. Emily teaches creative writing and works at
The Grove Bookshop in Ilkley, where she runs the writing group and
helps with events.
