I felt like the only queer in the galaxy until Captain Picard and his crew showed me how to boldly go somewhere brighter.

Mum has ketchup on her finger, she’s been painting on empty plates again.  Bobbi and I, elbows on the table, wait for her promises to sizzle, to pop. The kitchen smells of fried and crispy nothing balls and in the TV ad some kids are licking colours, chewing Gummy Bears, their tongues all rainbowy. It’s all an illusion, this life thing, Mum says. But still. Bobbi’s eyes water, my mouth too. The plate is a pizza is a plate. The plate is a pizza and it breaks when Dad kicks the table. Mum has ketchup on her finger.  --- Nora Nadjarian is a poet and writer from Cyprus. Her short fiction has been published in journals including Milk Candy Review, Ghost Parachute, Fractured Lit and was chosen for Wigleaf‘s Top 50 (selected by Kathy Fish). She placed third in the Welkin Writing Prize in 2025.  

Signs it is time for a self-clean cycle: buildup of grease, odors and heavy emotional residue.  Some say there is no bad time for self-cleaning, but avoiding special occasions such as wedding anniversaries is recommended.  Self-cleaning requires extremely high temperatures, which will trigger an automatic shutdown. During this time, you may experience reruns of bad decisions, like having sex with your partner’s best friend in the bathroom at Lowry’s.  The unit will unlock once these errors have been processed and temperature is within limits. Ensure good ventilation and wipe out any debris with a soft cloth and a heartfelt apology.  --- Cole Beauchamp is a queer writer based in London. Her stories have been in the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for multiple awards. She’s a 2026 Smokelong Quarterly Emerging Writer Fellow and contributing editor of New Flash Fiction Review.  

Raka says she is fine being a water flask. Steaming inside even when it is freezing outside.  Chilled inside despite the humidity outside.  I wonder if she needs to be wrapped, tucked away, not exposed in order to preserve the temperature inside. But she is bold and insists with a flip of her finger, it’s okay, it’s fine, the outside doesn’t matter. I am what I am. When Larry comes home shivering one night, a twisted sponge dripping from top to bottom, a muddy pool at his feet, his jacket as wet as overnight soaked raisins, Raka hops out from the larder and pours him a glass of hot water, water that distils through the pores on his skin, right into the reservoir of cold basins whirling inside his tummy. First, one glass, then a second, then a third as well, and she waits on him until his eyes brighten, his blood warms, and he shakes off the excess water and peels off his formals. When Larry comes home musical another night, his shoe laces half-untied, the tail of his jacket crumpled, his forehead feverish but his eyes starry, Raka is cool and comforting, and ignoring the unfamiliar feminine scent on his collar, she pours down his parched throat.  Raka nods and trots to the table, Raka plops and settles at the bedside, Raka can scald, Raka can soothe. Insulated even when kicked in her soul, protected even though she has been bruised and carelessly thrown around, hit by words that she doesn’t deserve, let down, her faith betrayed, her love trampled over. A water flask is my spirit object. I am fine being a water flask, she assures me and proceeds to the stove to fill herself with a fresh round of hot water. --- Shrutidhora P Mohor writes literary fiction and has been published by several literary magazines, and been nominated for Best Micro Fictions and the Pushcart Prize. She is from India, loves black coffee, light tea, and daydreaming. Unfortunately, her professional identity threatens her literary pursuits but fortunately pays her moderately well.  

Thursdays - 4-Weeks - Begins May 7th, 5pm-7pm PSTInstructor: Finnian BurnettThis class is for flash fiction writers, or the intensely curious, who want to craft stories that bite back. Flash fiction i...