See the way she sits by the window
Smiling, eyes closed, at dust dancing in sunlight?
The way her pupils flutter, arms fling
Around for balance after a spell?
Words don’t reach her; a slight singe on the skin.

You’ve met someone who fumbles a bit at words.
They pack your luggage before you part,
Listen to your sobs, cross an ocean to make
Your favourite meal, and wait back home
To wrap you up in days cared for.
Words play a minimal part in their love.

You don’t like yourself at winning arguments,
Skirting things that really matter with rhetoric.
You squirm when people overanalyse themselves
Without touching who they really are.
You ache for those who fare so well at words
Yet so pitifully at life.

He who’s won accolades for his literary flair
Now finds the real prize – the joy of doing –
Beyond his fingertips: the warm moisture of laundry
Out of the washer, the velvety sigh of an avocado
Relenting to the fruit knife … formidable, undoable.
The more she drifts to the wordless,
The more he clings to his words,
A constant in a life of change and loss.

Taking after him, you hang on to words for dear life:
The sky turns leaden and society goes stale
If you’re kept from reading or writing for too long.
Words at their highest revive sensitivity and soul,
And at their minimum validate the existence of things.
The crippled worship words; but too used
To the crutch, they forget the miracle
That they once walked.

Words are not always useful, you say,
To which he says: easier said than done.
But he tries. He’s started fixing her coffee
Instead of telling her to change; gulped down
His urge to lecture when things go wrong.
At the park he joins her in quiet surrender
To the reign of banyans and melaleucas –
Erupting into verse only in his study
Where he can be sure of words’ dominion.

Words are not always useful, you say,
To them who’ve crossed an ocean for you
But not so much into the you behind your words.

Feel the way their energy shifts, like a ship
Anchored, when you read them your poem?
The way they open up to receive
As you go on a ramble?
Words will reach them; a soft tap on the heart.

Vanessa is a Hong Kong-based writer, currently editing and writing for a local English newspaper. She holds a Master of Arts from the University of Chicago. Her work has appeared in Imprint, The Apostrophe, Eksentrika, and Adelaide Literary Magazine.

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We were lined up in the snow-covered quadrangle outside the science building, Ingersoll Hall, when a lanky young man—tall, floppy-haired, inadequately dressed for the weather in a thin army-style jacket—stalked up to the side of the building and rummaged for a short time through the snow-laden bushes before retrieving a battered khaki backpack.

Regarding the 20-odd 12- and 13-year-olds staring at him, he winked, said, “Double-O Seven,” and stalked away, the pack slung over his hunched shoulder. Without a word, we watched him leave.

College must be full of mysteries, I thought.

Bridget Goldschmidt received her MFA in creative writing, with a concentration in fiction, from Brooklyn College in 1991. Her work has been published by Coming Up Short, Every Day Fiction, Fieldwren, Flash Fiction Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, Literally Stories, Luminaura, Oblivioni, The Plenitudes, The RavensPerch, Retrograde Review, Scribeworth (Pushcart Prize nomination) and Suisun Valley Review. One of her stories was shortlisted for the Edinburgh True Flash Awards, and another was a finalist for the London Independent Story Prize. She works as a trade magazine editor and lives by the ocean in New York.

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He had arranged date after date in the last few months. This was the twelfth. Out of them, three didn’t show, seven had been dull and one had been average. If he was being honest with himself, this one was pretty awful.

She was much younger than him and jabbered through dinner. Grace, that was her name. He knew all about her, and she knew nothing about him, apart from being a good listener. She didn’t even ask why he was still here?

“Let’s get together again,” she giggled in a breathless voice, one that was full of air and sounded like wind chimes. “I really enjoyed talking with you about, you know, stuff.”

Ugh, Langston’s heart flopped and fell all the way to the bottom of his stomach. Did she stay stuff? That really was the last straw for him.

“Listen, Grace, I don’t think I am up for that.”

Her face fell, and she stared down at the table, finally running out of things to say.

He left the restaurant alone, making a mental note to be pickier about birth dates. The age gap with Grace was too much. They were decades apart and had nothing in common. It just wasn’t possible to find that thread that wove through both of their lives, something to tie them together.

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He took the long way home because walking gave him clarity, left him floating. He looked up at the brick buildings as he travelled along the crowded sidewalk until his eyes unfocused. He was so engrossed in his dating debacle that he almost bumped into a woman holding the hand of a flaxen-haired girl, who shivered as he passed. How could he find a partner when he always chose wrong?

When he got home, he climbed the steps to his attic apartment, each board creaking as he ascended. He flopped onto his sofa, positioning himself around the spots where the fabric had worn thin, his body leaving no indentation, and dozed off.

He awakened to a loud banging. He slowly opened his eyes just as the metallic crashing from the floors below stopped. His felt hollow as he looked around the empty room. He really hated being lonely. There had to be someone out there for him.

“Langston, you can do this,” he said to the frosty space.

In that moment, he resolved that he could. His iPad felt light in his fingers when he picked it up. He logged into the Spiritual World app and watched the logo flash on the screen, Ghosts Meeting Ghosts in the in Between. His matches loaded, landing in his inbox one by one. He began swiping, hoping he could be luckier in love now than he had been in life.

Brigitta Scheib is a teacher that lives in Harrisburg, PA with her husband, daughter and 3 orange cats. Her work can be found at Temple in a City, Flash Phantoms, A Story In 100 Words, Bright Flash Literary Review and Choeofpleirn Press.

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But I can never remember to use a napkin so I wipe my hands on my jeans or on my socks and that way my clothes are always dirtier than everyone else’s

I am nice to everyone I talk to, no matter what, but I am cruel to people I talk about, which is technically still good manners because they’ll never hear it from me

Even if you are well mannered, and your parents are rich, and you’re a pretty decent dancer, you might still watch good things slipping through your fingers like a whole lot of water

I’m not a very hard worker, except on things I care about and I haven’t cared about anything in a while so. I’m not a very hard worker

I’m sort of clever, but I’m polite, remember, and if you’re only sort of clever then you have to at least be mysterious for it to get you places

I am a mystery to no one but myself

Dream life exercise: married, separate bedrooms but only for when we’re fighting, though it is possible we fight a lot. Set of twins, NO breastfeeding, just don’t wanna. It’s not weird, obviously it is not weird, but to me, sorry for me, it is. House in the woods and house on the beach and house in the city. My car from high school, not just the same make and model, but the exact same car. 38 years old. Bigger lips that just got that way overnight and no one knows how, flattest stomach ever seen on a woman, medically. All of the friends I have right now plus the ones I used to have and new ones if they’re a perfect fit. Ugly little dog and big beautiful dog and for my cat to live forever. Die holding hands with someone so I’m not scared.

Is that so much to ask as a well mannered six foot bottle brunette with poor work ethic a mean streak and a little bit of wit?

It’s not called life exercise, it’s called dream life exercise.

Hannah Wakefield is unemployed in New York City. She spends every day alone and every night at a party. She earned her degree in Philosophy and Critical Theory from Occidental College and one day she will be incredibly famous.

“Having a good relationships with your body” implies reciprocity. Partnership. The careful negotiation of needs, mutual sacrifice, the work of avoiding conflict in pursuit of some higher emotional fulfillment. We’re told to court our bodies, to romance them into cooperation, to treat them like lovers we must continually appease.

But my body is not my partner. My body works for me.

This doesn’t mean neglect. I maintain it. I fuel it. I rest it when it needs rest. But the framing matters. I take care of my body the way my best friend’s dad used to take care of his old classic cars—not because I owe it devotion, but because it’s the vehicle that carries me through my life. When it functions well, I function well. That’s not a relationship. That’s maintenance.

And yet. Scroll through any feed and count the invitations to “heal your relationship with your body.” The wellness campaigns, the ad copy, the influencer confessionals. All insisting that peace of mind requires this ongoing, tender diplomacy with your own flesh. That you must journal your way to self love. That acceptance is a journey. That the goal is some soft-lit reconciliation scene where you finally forgive your reflection.

Who profits from that framing? Not you. The more your body becomes a relationship to manage, the more products, programs, and philosophies you need to manage it.

What if we simply stopped negotiating? What if, instead of submitting to the power of this sack of flesh we carry through life (because we do carry it, not vice versa), we went a little more dominatrix? No, not pressing its face into the ground with our heels or stubbing cigarettes out on its tongue. But what if we simply decided that our bodies work for us. We can keep them running like mechanics—and that is enough. And yes, if you want to wear a leather jumpsuit, by all means.

But no romance. No conflict resolution. Just function.

Maybe then we could improve our relationships with that which deserves it. Bright-faced children, daffodils in the spring, poetry. We owe it to ourselves, not our belly fat.

For your next draft: Consider how your speakers and characters relate to their bodies. Are they negotiating? Apologizing? Performing reconciliation? What happens if they simply refuse? There’s tension in that refusal, and tension makes for good writing.

Maybe even submit it to Coming Up Short: Bodies.
1,000 words or less.
We can’t wait to read your work.

♥️ Emma

SUBMIT NOW

Uncle Sam and Old Glory come July,
Ghosts and ghouls in October,

The entire North Pole for Christmas.

I am perpetually annoyed as tubes
and pumps bring their grinning forms to life,
swaying and pulsing garish lights
late into the night.

Only in their deflated state,
a graveyard of spent cheer,
do I feel any kinship;
for I too know what it is to have
the wind knocked out, to be brought
low to the ground, only to flip
a switch the next day, to smile
and wave as if all is okay.

Kellie Brown is a violinist, conductor, and music educator. As a writer and poet, she explores themes of place, material culture, and healing journeys. Her words have appeared in Writerly, Amethyst Review, Psaltery & Lyre, Galway Review, and others.

The ground is shiny the ground is wet and shiny and glittering like from a summer rain I remember the way that smells

Well no

I remember that I love the way that it smells earthy and dirty and warm but I can’t really smell it right now not actually

I can only ever hold the memory of the thing but never the thing itself

Are other people holding the thing itself?

Doesn’t matter because it didn’t rain it snowed again

And again and again and winter is forever this year

This year is not cold and dark, not actually, it’s actually very bright and very white it’s actually beautiful but I actually I hate it

When I go outside I pretend that everything is green and the breeze is moving my hair but only a little and in my wild fantasy I am smiling no teeth but in the real world I am just looking out into the distance with no expression at all

Hannah Wakefield is unemployed in New York City. She spends every day alone and every night at a party. She earned her degree in Philosophy and Critical Theory from Occidental College and one day she will be incredibly famous.

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I’ve come to terms with the fact
hating everything I write
is a part of my process
I’m embarrassed to show
everyone the work I
pride myself on.

The work I pour every emotion
into and say more than I do
to my own therapist.

Hating everything I write is
a part of the process.

Because hating myself
is the process.

I wrote this, obviously, during a period writer’s block, into which I tend to fall during waves of depression or sleep deprivation.

I doubt my talent and question my future as a writer. I stop writing and attempt to fill my plate with a new passion and a side of doom scrolling. I seek an easier way out than to push past the mental block. But, it turns out, writing, for a writer, is inevitable. It’s unavoidable, no matter how many detours we try to take.

Save yourself some time.

No need to stay on the sunny side. You don’t need to convince yourself that it is just a moment, or even that the moment will pass. What you need to do it remind yourself that you are a writer. Use that same little voice that says You need to take a shower, when you really don’t want to take a shower. The one that knows the number on the tag of that pair of jeans doesn’t matter at all. Sizing is arbitrary, silly. You don’t have to believe it right away, but say it anyway. You are a writer.

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Then, write. Even if you have to do a little bargaining with yourself. (Just take a body shower, you can wash your hair next time; Cut the tag out and get some fro-yo in the food court). Face the page with clean skin and a fresh pair of jeans that make your ass feel nice and juicy in your chair. Write a single sentence about the worst cup of coffee you’ve ever had. Write a poem about writer’s block and how much you hate writing.

Through it all, give yourself grace.

It won’t be perfect. No one has to see it. There’s a reason we call them ugly first drafts. You don’t have to look at it ever again. In fact, writing is a lot like parenthood in that if you constantly worried you’re doing a terrible job, that probably means you’re killing it. And like parenthood, no matter how much it might overwhelm you, exhaust you, plague you with insecurity and self-doubt, the writer has no choice but to write. So write.

And remember, in the end, your story will turn out just fine.

♥️ Madison

Only after the pop and puff that carried the pellet from its chamber did I see Big Steve’s hand over his eye. His Reebok pumps untied, mouth agape. Maria and I waited for a cry that never came. Big Steve shook like he was dancing to the silence.

Skinny Steve decided to run. We ran, too, to Maria’s house.

We sat at her kitchen table eating pickles from a jar, slurping the juice off our fingers after every grab, no mention of the Steves. We heard sirens from a distance that then became louder.

Maria’s mother walked outside and stood on the porch until all the mothers were outside, exchanging the same look of concern. A shared narrative of speculation between all the mothers except Big Steve’s and Skinny Steve’s.

Later that night, long after Big Steve was loaded into an ambulance on a stretcher, the mothers convened at a driveway with handheld coolers and folding chairs, waiting for news. Maria and I ran through a curtain of clustered mosquitoes to Skinny Steve’s bedroom window, our blackened feet cleansed from a bath of sunset dew while we called his name. Maria threw a handful of pebbles at the glass.

When he appeared at the window, Skinny Steve’s face was reddened, but not from the summer sun. He looked at us for a few moments, hand pressed against the glass, then turned and walked away. We left when his bedroom went dark.

The street, it was empty. A house phone echoed like a dinner bell. Abandoned lawn chairs and lipstick-stained wine cooler bottles in the driveway. The mothers inside, holding their babies tight.

Erin Dawkins (she/her) received her MA in English with a specialty in Creative Writing from Wayne State University. Her work has has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Sky Island Journal, Blood+Honey Literary Magazine, Mouthful of Salt, WestWord Journal, and others. Read more at erindawkins.com.

A lifelong ferryman watches the river suddenly change its course, leaving his boat stranded in the mud and his trade obsolete. He begins to walk into the new, empty riverbed, searching for the artifacts and stones the water has kept hidden for centuries.

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A gardener grafts branches from his childhood orchard onto the dying trees in his new yard. When they begin to bear fruit, he realizes they taste of the memories he had to endure, not those he loved.

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Study the dust, the ink stains, and the coffee rings on a workspace. Treat the debris as a forensic site of your own productivity and procrastination.

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Maybe there was a Pete “Maverick” Mitchell lookalike contest in the basement of the Y on Harrison next to Harry’s Hair Store and that burned-down doggy daycare. Maybe there wasn’t but I was blasting “Take My Breath Away” anyway going 80 down 580 on my way when a cop lit me up.

“Who do you think you are, Tom Cruise?” he said through the window. I laughed. He didn’t.

“I just watched Top Gun,” I said over my aviators.

“I hate that movie,” he said down his nose. “How old are you, son?”

I hiccuped.

He took me back to the station and called my dad, so I slept in a cell with my hands stained black.

In the morning, I woke up and forgot my aviators. I drove home slow. I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands, but I couldn’t get them clean.

Keith Gaboury earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. American Poetry Systems published “Monetized Happiness” (2025), Falkenberg Press published “Still Human” (2025), Kelsay Books published “The Cosmos is Alive” (2023), and The Pedestrian Press published “Oakland, I’m Not Dead” (2020). Find more of Keith’s work at keithgaboury.com.

Click to Submit your microfiction, creative nonfiction or poetry (up to 500 words) to Aperture. Send up to three pieces on the same form. Submissions read on a rolling basis. Emerging writers encouraged.

Two strangers living in different climates begin to mail each other the "feeling" of their weather—a vial of humidity, a box of frost, a jar of autumn wind.

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After the grid failed, the only things that still grow are "electric flowers" sprouted from old circuitry. They bloom with the glow of 1990s television static and smell like ozone and ozone-dipped memories.

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Deep in a forest of stone trees, you find a single, soft piece of strange but familiar fruit that tastes like a recurring childhood dream.

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A couple realizes they are losing one word a day from their shared language. Write about the morning they realize they no longer have a word for "tomorrow."

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A calligrapher realizes that every beautiful word they write is physically exhaled, leaving their chest hollow but the paper alive.

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A baker sells pastries that grant the eater five minutes of a stranger’s happiest memory, but they may lose their own.

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An island is slowly sinking into the ocean. A musician refuses to leave, playing a piano that is being tuned by the rising tide, creating a melody that becomes more beautiful as it becomes unplayable.

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