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.)
Ascending in kafi, Aziza’s voice was raw sugar and pomegranate syrup poured through a smoky fire. It caught in your throat when you heard it. It didn’t lift til later. First — Her father was a Sufi Pir — like… Continue Reading
“A beautiful child you have there,” said Horvath. “Think so? Really? Take her. Be my guest.” It was mostly a tough crowd and everyone knew Jeanie and her broken-glass sort of banter. But the room went quiet. “I mean it,”… Continue Reading
Simet felt him coming closer every day. Dreams troubled her; they seemed like messages sent ahead by Moritz from every dark waystation on his infernal high road towards home. He had broken himself on the wheels of vanity and falsehood,… Continue Reading
Feed me the sun, said Grandma, so I can get warm again. I woke up crying, my hands still curved from pressing Grandma’s cold, soft, swollen feet in my dream. Outside it was gray and damp but without the relief… Continue Reading
People should look where they’re going. I slipped into Luxuries on Loan and Robyn surged after me, her Golden Horde crowding behind. They barely even glanced at the window. All legs and mane, they trampled everything in their way. Bad… Continue Reading
“I went back to Egypt last night,” said my sister, with horrible cheer, “to my real family.” Mom and Dad had already left for work. The best I could manage to news like this over breakfast was a feeble “oh… Continue Reading
“Stop screaming,” said Old Ma. “The baby is gone. Make another one when your milk dries up.” Suddenly I hated Old Ma. I wanted to smash her. But I was clever even in that moment. I stopped my hand and… Continue Reading
Gendelman kept refusing every offer for the shop. A peculiarity of the lease rendered him untouchable, though the landlord’s heirs hoped Gendelman’s bereftness after Dina might end their misery. But he came of an older stock that goes on. Some… Continue Reading
Straight to the heart of the wood she brought me, where oak and beech grow thick — but it was under a rowan tree she set the basket down. “Mushrooms enough for the king’s army, if you stir yourself to… Continue Reading
He seized me up like a carrion bird and like a dead thing I let him. Then I came alive again. “Oh no,” Reinhardt purred — defaming the language of cats — “oh no, my girl. Under Heaven you swore… Continue Reading