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“Now we’ll get to the bottom of this,” he heard someone say. “Here comes Officer Shrift.” Striding across the square was the shortest policeman Milo had ever seen. He was scarcely two feet tall and almost twice as wide.

Read our latest issue with work by @jackmmorris.bsky.social @amyavt.bsky.social @chartsuyker.bsky.social @chelseastickle.bsky.social @mczyzniejewski.bsky.social @sarpsozdinler.bsky.social Wendy Elizabeth Wallace Crockett Doob gooseberry-pie.com/issue-43/

'Our lungs may rely on different media to function but...' Every Five Seconds, Goldfish Memories Being Famously Short, I Briefly Become Your Entire World by @jackmmorris.bsky.social Longing & self-doubt & sensuality wrapped up in one beautiful #FlashFiction gooseberry-pie.com/every-five-s...

Great news for my kids, one of whom is study Civil Engineering (the politest kind) and one of whom is a Physics and Philosophy undergrad. Not to promote stereotypes but the latter (son) is still in bed whilst the former (daughter) has been in a rowing regatta since crack of dawn

Cock’s Comb by Michael Czyzniejewski Locket by Michael Czyzniejewski Romance by Michael Czyzniejewski She Wants the Table on the Side of the Road by Wendy Elizabeth Wallace Homecoming by Amy Allen U...

It wasn’t when you realized the witch meant to eat you, or when she made you cook to fatten up your brother, or when you crept in the dead of night and tried to pick open his cage with the bones of other children. It wasn’t when you discovered she’d lured you with candy, that her gingerbread house was a trick. It was the day your father took you into the woods, hard-eyed as he handed over a loaf, his duty done, you finally understanding: if breadcrumbs were your best bet, you had always been on your own. --- D.E. Hardy's work has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Fractured Lit, X-R-A-Y, Lost Balloon, among others. Her work has been anthologized in Best Small Fictions and Best Microfiction. D.E. lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Find her online at dehardywriter.com.

Bill’s kids signed the papers, now he’s trapped with the Von Trapps. High-backed chairs. VCR’d harmonies. But each Saturday night, the black Ford Fiesta with a souped-up car stereo, rattles locked windows to blast Bill’s favourite anthem the stinkety-stale cabbage and fresh ammonia. And in those precious, closed-eye moments before Bill’s wheeled away, strip-washed. Before rubber-gloved hands yank rabbit-boned limbs into somebody else's name-tagged pyjamas, Bill tastes dry ice. He throbs with the bass. He’s back in the club reeking of cigarettes and sex. Hands in the air. Leather jackets, unzipped. The rush of amyl nitrate. His mind exploding. Fireworks. --- Kate Axeford ( she/ hers) social works by day. She lives in Brighton and loves the sea. Her work has appeared in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Bending Genres, Splonk and others and she’s been short and longlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award. Find her at @kateaxeford.bsky.social