How to Make Cupcakes: A Flash Fiction Story

How To Bake Cupcakes: A Flash Fiction Story

I’d like to thank Laila Miller of Australia for her flash fiction submission “How To Bake Cupcakes”, an engaging tale based on a true story involving her son.

Laila Miller lives in Perth, Western Australia, where she creates stories about sea urchins and turnips, and where she places third in unfair writing challenges with her husband and son.

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Hello Unavailable: A Flash Fiction Story

Hello Unavailable: A Flash Fiction Story

I’d like to thank Y.Y. Browne for her flash fiction story submission ‘Hello Unavailable’, a quirky and clever tale about life and the memories left behind.

Y. Y. Browne lives in England with her family of two children, one husband, three dogs, and two cornsnakes. Her poetry and stories have appeared in Obsessed With PipeworkFRiGGPoetry MonthlyWeyfarersBlastAutumn SkyPeeking Cat Literary, and Everyday Fiction.

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Flowers Over My Old Clothes: A Micro Fiction Story

Flowers Over My Old Clothes: A Micro Fiction Story

I’d like to thank Y. Y. Browne of the United Kingdom for her Micro Fiction story ‘Flowers Over My Old Clothes’. A sassy tale of retribution and second chances.

Y. Y. Browne lives in England with her family of two children, one husband, three dogs, and two corn snakes. Her poetry and stories have appeared in Obsessed With PipeworkFRiGGPoetry MonthlyWeyfarersBlastAutumn SkyPeeking Cat Literary, and Everyday Fiction.

You can follow Y. Y. Browne on Facebook and Twitter



Photo by Olia Gozha on Unsplash

Flowers Over My Old Clothes

In Latin, Erica means heather, especially winter heather.

Now, just because it was my name doesn’t mean I like the flowers. Couldn’t care less, if I’m honest with you, love. But you Connie, my dear sweet girl, you’ve been relentless these past fifteen years, tending my grave. (I clearly asked to be cremated, but never you mind, we’ll just leave that there). But, oh dear, isn’t this plot chock-a-block with heather? Planted over my old clothes.

‘Old clothes’ – now, that’s what your Nabil calls it. These bodies we leave behind. He got it from that Persian poetess he tried to get me to like (I forget her name). Wrote about there being no death. Just life after life, one set of clothes off, another on, until your soul gets weary, you stop trying on new things, and you rest. I’d like that now. I’m content with my lot of old wardrobes. Now, I’m done. Done with red frocks for dancing with soldier boys, tennis whites, denims for the rebel rides, aviator leathers and slaughterman’s boots, oh, and that tiny toga that exposed my pert, left diddy (which, to be frank, was any legate’s fig for the tasting, when I was a slave).

But ‘hey ho, there you go’, as your father would say. It’s time to bring it all an end, if it’s all the same to you. You’re all that binds me now, my girl. Well, your grief. No, sod it, not grief, guilt. There it is, Connie, I said it – you’re guilty. Just in part, mind. But it’s what the judge said. You are responsible for the accident that took my life. You decided to smoke that marijuana cigarette with that Jade whatever-her-name-was before your driving lesson. You were seventeen. It was my fault. I’d given you too much credit for being the smart one (your brother Edward, he’s the one everyone said would be the death of me, but there you are).

Is that Nabil? He’s with you today, sweet man. And don’t you both look tanned. Holiday? No, not with that nasty virus knocking about, everyone and their mother stuck indoors (what a word, though eh–pandemic? — your father would say it was Latin for ‘everyone’s demons’, ha-ha). But don’t you look fat, Conn. Mind you, I heard you all packed on a stone each during the lockdown, ‘little piggies eating pies’, as your father wou– Oh! Oh my! Constance Mary Padget-Majidi, are you pregnant? 

Bless me, but that’s wonderful, love!

Have you and Nabil found somewhere else to live? Don’t tell me you’re staying in the old house? You always were one to hang on (not Edward, off like a whippet first chance). Not my Connie. Constance-steady-as-rocks, your dad called you. 

Now, so much to do. So many plans. You’re going to need me around after all, my sweet girl. (You ‘took me out’, as your father would say, it’s only right you bring me back in). Settled! One more set of clothes, then.

Been to the ‘Mothercare’ out at the new-build mall, Conn?  Loads of smashing, little outfits for me there, I’m sure…



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Saturday Afternoon: A Micro Fiction Story

Saturday Afternoon: A Micro Fiction Story

I’d like to thank Alea Giordano from the USA for her flash fiction submission “Saturday Afternoon”. Inspired by true events, it’s a relatable and raw ode to mums everywhere.

Alea is a working mom of two boys, ages 2 and 4 with one husband, two dogs, and three cats. This story was inspired by the pressure to be all things, a tidy housekeeper, a perfectly groomed woman and on top of that, a perfect mother. Alea hopes the subtle humour comes through!

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Because We’re Fancy: A Non-Fiction Story

Because We’re Fancy: A Non-Fiction Story

I’d like to thank Kathleen Kelly from the USA for her non-fiction story submission “Because We’re Fancy”. A touching reflection of the special bond between mother and daughter.

Kathleen is a mother of three toddlers and lives with her husband and their children in Boston, Massachusetts, United States. She teaches high school English, a course on social justice and professional development on equity. Her work has recently been published in In Parentheses, So to Speak, and Kitchen Sink Magazine. Along with reading and writing, she enjoys adventures with her family, libraries, the outdoors, history, good television, trying new foods, and exploring new hobbies with hopes they’ll stick. She is forever appreciative of her own mother and the lessons she continues to learn from her now that she is an adult who is friends with her mom. 

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The Cure For Pain: A Tribute

The Cure For Pain: A Tribute

I’d like to thank Jeremy Merillat for his submission ‘The Cure For Pain’, a poetic and touching tribute to his wife, who’s kisses he says “are the cure for most of the maladies experienced by our boys and me alike.”

Jeremy Merillat is a husband and father of 2 young boys and an emerging writer based in Budapest.  His nonfiction has appeared in The Piker Press and The Potato Soup Journal and his fiction was recently long listed in the 2020 Fiction Factory Short Story Competition.  You can find him on Facebook and Instagram. 

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