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.)
I hated my options. Wouldn’t sell my jewelry. Agathe said, “You can’t take it with you,” but we can’t take anything with us. My husband had turned into a toad and hopped away; my kids were just starting out; I… Continue Reading
Uncle Fida had reached that grim age where food is the chief pleasure but most of one’s teeth are gone. He’d been a fiery young man; his reputation as a terrifying old one had been vanquished by his own frailty.… Continue Reading
Her face was dark and strange, unwarmed by the firelight. I’m her heart’s whole world and even I felt chilled by it. That man was every way a fool to make my Nan so angry. If I grow up half… Continue Reading
In the airless space between thunder and a slash of lightning, the fat woman was there on one of my kitchen chairs. She heaved herself around to an easier position and stared at me. Stared isn’t the right word but… Continue Reading
People who’ve lived in proximity to a monster sometimes acquire a tangential notoriety of their own. Reporters pursuing them usually bag nothing more insightful than “always saw it coming” or “never had a clue.” I’d evaded the first round when… Continue Reading
Ever try to shake a bad habit? “Son of a gun,” I said to Donovan the other day, for maybe the millionth time. “No wonder you can’t keep a partner.” He laughed, as he always does, and I laughed too.… Continue Reading