It seemed like it was always Matt Eastman fighting somebody or Matt Ladreau fighting somebody or the two of them fighting each other.
Fiction
Cowards
Shedding
by C. Kubasta
He could imagine the way the metal-hitting-wood would echo through the darkened rooms in the middle of the night, bouncing off the worn wooden floors from downstairs to upstairs, her body tensing in the bed beside him.
Sellouts 1985: Patrick Süskind’s Perfume
by Brianna Di Monda
By co-opting the style and tropes of the Romantics and applying them to an ironic magical realism story, Süskind created a postmodern text liberated from the delusion of originality.
Without Barricades There Is No Proof of Intrusion
by Craig Foltz
“Dispossession is not the word you were thinking about. There is a moment before/ the moment before the moment. That’s the moment your body morphs into another. You think, There’s no place like it.”
Helsinki
by Niles Baldwin
I approached the truck like I had never seen one before. I didn’t drive but I had seen a lot of people turn a key to make a car start. I wished I could do that to the truck. It would take a long time to get warm and melt the ice that made it stuck where it was.
March Madness Flash Fiction Contest!
The top 16 contenders will be selected by MAYDAY fiction editors and the winners will be determined by popular vote on social media beginning March 14.
Minnesota Women Writers in Short Fiction:
Darci Schummer interviewed by Raki Kopernik
Raw talent is not necessarily a predictor of success. However, engaging regularly in your practice, listening openly to critiques of your work, and not allowing rejection to deter you will all help you succeed.
To Dust We Return
by Darci Schummer
The only cure was lying on her back and looking up at the sky—losing herself in the drift of clouds during the day and the rise of stars at night. Sometimes she wondered if anyone could see her, if anyone was watching.
Nothing Bad Part 3: Opening the Door
by Mary Grimm
At the end of the path, just before the turn that would take her to the convent, she stood facing the hedge, running her hands along the bushes. “Here,” she muttered to herself, “here, here,” pushing a little at the dense green branches. And finally, her hand went in, a space big enough for a slender girl to push through.
Being the Murdered Nanny
by Cathy Ulrich
The children were small and you were pretty and you were young and you kept your door locked at night and your journal under your pillow.
