Sarah Crysl Akhtar’s shtetl forebears gifted her with the genes that impel her to make much from little. So of course she writes flash fiction, cultivates orchards on her windowsill and bakes fabulous shortbread. Her son gives her what’s immeasurable — the best of all possible worlds. (Less miraculous fruit of her labors has appeared on 365tomorrows, Flash Fiction Online and Perihelion SF Magazine, as well as on EDF; her posts on the craft of writing — including reviews of stories selected “From the EDF Archives” — have appeared on Flash Fiction Chronicles.)
Let nothing upset you; let nothing frighten you. Everything is changing; God alone is changeless… — Teresa of Avila She was Thérèse for the French one but the words of the Spanish one saved her. Calm practicality; unarguable truth. Ecstasy… Continue Reading
The door is not there. Everything else is the same. It’s not a dream. Time keeps moving by in the right way, my watch shows its relentless progression. The bus stop was right, the street is right, the building is… Continue Reading
You can say anything to babies, if you do it in the proper tone of voice. “Once upon a time,” and I put down Good Night Moon, “Grandma’s very bestest friend was a boy named Rickie. And he became a… Continue Reading
I always go for the bad ones. Or so my mother said. Rayneer said this one was chivvying the tails of her littermates from the moment she opened her eyes. When a dog already knows how to hunt, you just… Continue Reading
“…sounds like his feet ‘re in a cauldron of lye,” said Aunt Belle. Twilight was coming on fast, daylilies closed up like sentinels going off-duty. In the flickering shadows, Astreen could’ve been twelve, or twenty, or thirty-five. She put a… Continue Reading
“Of all the fairy stories we tell our children,” said Arkady, “The Tale of the Greater Good is by far the most wicked.” “You sound like the fifth Karamazov brother.” Outside, the cold reduced everything to elemental purity. Traces of… Continue Reading
“Mommy’s not gonna leave him, is she?” “No,” I said. Lina frowned, shifting the perfect geometry of her face. Mark wasn’t even our stepfather. One word described what he was. He was acrid. Lina’s sharp. You don’t notice at first; she… Continue Reading
It’s not so uncommon at holiday time, but — “…folie à trois,” said Halko. “Three lords a-leaping.” He was already at the club, relaxed, comfortable, when the others arrived for a restorative drink. He hadn’t gone to the funerals. No… Continue Reading
How many angels can dance on a flake of snow? Winter’s black-nailed hand has come early to the village. From under its beautiful white mantle it will reach deep into the wombs of wives ripening with hope; it will choke… Continue Reading
In that last hard winter of the war, the farmhouse looked almost like a cabin for the enjoyments of the season. Those gorgeous drifts of snow would have burned your toes to stumps, if you had no boots. No one… Continue Reading