By Laura McGinnis

Which shall shatter first?
My hopes and dreams?
Or the glass ceiling?

I see my future.
But how do I break through,
When I’m on the bottom, looking up?

By some miracle, I shatter the ceiling.
I crawl up, bloodied hands and knees,
To be greeted with, “What are you doing here?”

The ceiling is gone,
But the hearts and minds won’t change.
Waiting out attrition I pull up others,
Through the shattered ceiling.
The balance of power
Swings into a flat line.
Equal numbers,
Equal authority,
Equal powers.

I shatter the ceiling,
Not my hopes and dreams.

“I write because there are words inside me that need to get out. And I’m the only one who can free them from my mind, releasing them to the wild, to sow ideas in other gardens.” – the poet




By Virginia Miranda

She sat upright, heart thumping, hyperventilating as she struggled to breath.

His side of the bed was empty. She grabbed the bedclothes. ‘Breathe,’ she said, ‘it was a nightmare … breathe.’

Moonlight filtered through the blinds, coming to rest on his photo. A white haze engulfed the picture.

In the eerie silence of the night, from across the mud flats came the cry of the curlew, an ancient warning that told her one tonight would die.

Her heart cracked, splitting open like a catastrophic earthquake.

He would never steady her again … never quieten her panic.

“I write because I have many stories to tell.” – the writer

One Shot, One Hit


By Allen Billy

Contact! Target sighted, in range. Clear on all sides, approach vector optimal. No friendlies or enemies visible.

Faint sounds of the ongoing conflict in the offshore fishery drift in.

Move in to complete mission. Weapon good, safety off, approach considered safe, all sides still clear.

Launch! Close on target, move fast. I have a clear shot – can fire.

Have fired! Evade, dip and duck, use cover.

A quick backward look confirms the target suffered a direct hit.

That’s one windshield that won’t glare for a while.

Time to fly to the fishery to refuel and recharge the primary weapon.

Allen is a new flash fiction writer and writes to have fun with life’s experiences.


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By Maira Bakenova

The moment we meet starts the countdown to forever.

It’s the kind of love that holds no if’s but one. It’s the I do anything for you and you for me; it’s giving you anything you ask for, from our walks together in the mountains to the midnight snacks and holding you in my arms whenever the summer storm rattles our windows. It’s the curve of your brows and the slight tilt of your head that convey more than the words can say. My faithful Shepherd. My dearest friend.

If only forever could last a little longer.

Sometimes I Forget Where I Am


By John L. Malone

You okay, mate? You look forlorn.
Like the knight in ‘La Belle Dame’? I say.
‘Alone and palely loitering.’
‘On the cold hill side’. Keats, I say. “La belle Dame Sans Merci’
John Keats. Romantic poet. You must have done him at school.
This is a butcher’s shop, mate. Not an English classroom. What can I get you?

John Malone is a South Australian writer of flash fiction, short stories and poetry. He delights in Literature wherever it is found.

Careful What You Wish For


By Sandy Wilson

The fairground crone gave her three wishes. Eleanor laughed and wished for a holiday. The next morning she won a holiday for two in Magalluf. When she told her dad she was taking Darren, he said, “No you’re not!”

“I wish you were dead!” she said truculently. After her father’s funeral she lay on her bed floating in a sea of misery. Then she remembered; she had one wish left!

She raced back to her dad’s grave. “I wish you were alive!” she shouted. Nothing seemed to happen. Of course, she couldn’t hear her father screaming six feet beneath her.

“I enjoy examining and dissecting emotions whether writing memoirs, fiction or poetry.” – the writer

Flower Boy


By Leah Siviski

Allium. Narcissus. Daisy. Dandelion. Peony. Poppy. My son names flowers, Ls like Ys, syllables added and mis-emphasized. On the summer terrace packed bright with blossom, he toddles in circles, desperate to see and smell every flower.

“Whoa! Big! Pritty! Smells good!”

Please let him run through the world like this, Queen Anne’s lace in one hand, Forget-Me-Nots in the other, dizzying himself with a kaleidoscope of colors, sunlight glowing on his cheeks, face in rapture as it takes in the world.

“I write to make sense of the world.” – the writer