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There is a shape to me. Like all shapes, it has an edge.
Like all shapes, it is defined. Like all borders, there
are sides …
And those who are unaware that they have crossed
the border will soon become aware.
This occurrence
serves no false purpose-
only the
Shape-
Of
Me

EiLeen Doster is … INSERT BIO

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Aesop chuckled at the trick and noted everything down, inscribing it on his little wax-covered tablet.

Later he contemplated the majestic Swan as it glided among the water lilies. This proud display was only comparable to that of the Peacock, who spread his iridescent fan and paraded along the edge of the pond, as if admiring his reflection. Meanwhile the busy Bees flew tirelessly from flower to flower, and the Ass, with a rather stupid look on his face, stubbornly resisted all the zookeepers’ efforts to get him moving.

Aesop, feeling highly satisfied, jabbed a firm full stop on his wax tablet.

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The next day, when Aesop returned armed with his notes, the animals behaved in a way that did not seem to match any moral. Quite the contrary: when the Fox got up to his old tricks, yowling and foaming at the mouth, the zookeeper grabbed that predictable dunderhead by the scruff of the neck and tossed him into a cage to await the veterinarian. The animals ate in peace, with the Wolf dining serenely among them.

Turning his attention to the pond, Aesop saw that the Swan was now walking awkwardly along the shore. Just as ungainly was the Peacock, who had dragged his tail through the mud, and it now drooped humbly behind him. And instead of worker Bees, drones buzzed in the apiary.

“No!” the Greek shouted. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be!” But the animals paid him no attention.

Only the Ass responded to Aesop’s cries, without a trace of obstinacy. He drew near with a wise look in his contemplative eyes. He delicately nuzzled up to Aesop as if trying to read the notes on the tablet.

Well, that was the last straw. Aesop would have to resolve these discrepancies, or else, at this rate, he would end up writing a novel instead of fables.

Fortunately, he came up with a solution: he would give them all voices. Yes, with the power of speech, they would surely keep to their appropriate categories.

Tyler Fisher of Ojibwe (Chippewa) heritage, is a professor of modern languages. His book-length translations of poetry include Martí’s Ismaelillo (Wings Press 2007), Lorca’s The Dialogue of Two Snails (Penguin 2018), and Lorca’s Cicada! (Penguin 2025).

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Beneath the surface,
roots are negotiating territory,
algae rehearses takeover,
insects write brief manifestos
with their legs.

Stillness is not peace.
It is a gathering.

The myth lied when it said
chaos came after.
Chaos was the water
before it learned the word sky.

I kneel at the edge
and feel the pull
of something unfinished.

If I fall in,
it will not be an accident.
It will be an answer.

May Garner is an author and poet residing in rural Ohio. She has been writing for nearly fifteen years and has been sharing her writing online for over a decade. She is the author of two poetry collections, Withered Rising (2023) and Melancholic Muse (2025). Her work has appeared in Querencia Press, Cozy Ink Press, Arcana Poetry Press, Livina Press, Speckled Trout Review, among others. Find her work on Instagram (@crimson.hands).

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A new pill bottle was placed beside me a few days ago, its label crisp and tight across its smooth skin. It hasn’t been touched yet. I remember when you used to reach for me and press my insides to your lips, cradle them against your tongue. My lid would pop open with a small twist.

I haven’t heard that sound in days.

This morning you pulled open the bone-white blinds and the sunrise spilled in, swollen and warm. Patches of light stipple your face and forearms like saffron scales. You turn toward the desk and I see you clearly now. Your shoulders sag. The skin around your waterline is purple, as if the night is still leaking from your eyes. Wisps of hair cling to your scalp like sap sliding down bark. Your lips purse as you sit. The computer wakes. Your eyes close.

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Somewhere above me water gathers, learning the shape of falling. Soon it begins tapping against the roof, soft, patient dripping. You chew your fingernails. Your hands look sharp now, jagged.

Icicle fingers stab and scrape against the keyboard. You leave for a while that day. When you return your face is paler, and red crescents bloom in the crevices of your nails.

You sit again. You write for a long time. Sometimes your hands freeze above the keyboard, suspended as if caught in ice. Then suddenly they move again, quick, urgent, striking the keys like rain. The light moves slowly across the desk. Then you stop. Your hands hover over me. For a moment I think you remember. Your fingers drift across my plastic skin, warm and careful, tracing the grooves where my label once clung. I almost expect the familiar twist. The pop of my lid. The quiet release of what I hold.

Instead, you lift me. You carry me across the room. The trash can waits in the corner, dark and patient. You drop me inside. The fall is short. I land against a crumpled sheet of paper. Its wrinkles press flat against my side, and through the folds I can read the ink bleeding across it.

A poem. Or the beginning of one.

I am.

I am.

I am.

I am staring into Heaven.

But Heaven is on its knees—humid and hungry—

crawling through honeybees,

their bright bodies burning and breaking beneath holy skies.

Nirvana blooms with welts,

oozing pus.

I tell God I’m sorry.

My lips must sleep.

The ether is atrophied.

God is permanence.

Because when I press my feelings into permanence,

There is something permanent about me.

Bella Melardi is a poet and author. She writes about the political and personal. She attends OCADU.

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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.

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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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.

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.

Silent screams can fill the car;
if allowed voice they might shatter
windshields, scar vocal cords.

Silent screams can echo with
ghostly reverb through family trees,
a trauma crescendo embedded in DNA.

Silent screams are surprisingly loud;
just ask Munch’s painted figure,
who never hears his own screams,
yet needs both hands to shield his ears.

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.

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