Amelia Flew Home – by STEVE CARR

AMELIA FLEW HOME

by

Steve Carr

Her feet; those elephantine, calloused, dry, mop-water-dirtied appendages, lifted from the ground, raising that bloated, overworked, undersexed, unappreciated body into the air where she momentarily hovered like a bewildered wounded butterfly unable to flutter its wings. Pushed by a foul smelling breeze that came in through the open kitchen window from the garbage dump next door, Amelia floated through her dilapidated ranch style house, bouncing and bumping against the door frames sending chips of wood from the broken moldings onto the piles of used, dust-filled vacuum cleaner bags kept by her doors in hopes that one day her oldest boy, Wynken, would do the one chore assigned him and throw them over the fence onto the of hills of refuse in the dump. She came to rest against the living room wall that was decorated with a magic marker rendering of the Battle of Gettysburg, and was flattened against a cannon like a half-griddled, gooey pancake. Cursing gravity she slid to the floor like an amoeba clinging to a petri dish, landing on the warped floorboards on the side of her body that was numb from sleeping on it because her three-legged cat wouldn’t let her sleep the night before any other way. Rising with all fours holding her up like a wobbly coffee table, she crawled over to the sofa that had almost spit out the last of its stuffing and pulled herself up on the nearly flattened cushions and stretched out flat on her Quasimodo-like humped back and turned her bulbous head toward the television that was always on because once turned off there was no proof it would ever be turned on again, and stared at The Price is Right, and hoped for better days to come.

 

Dragging the swamp-scented snapping turtle into the house by a leash made from Amelia’s last faux gold chain necklace, Blynken would have gotten all the way to his room with it had the sound of its claws carving scars in the floor, not alerted Amelia who was perched on top of a leaning ladder trying to put scotch tape on a crack in the hall ceiling that leaked every time it rained. Parachuting like a falling boulder down from the top step of the ladder in her fifty pounds of pink bathrobe, she landed on her kneecaps needing to be drained of built up fluid, and told him “you’re not bringing that in the house.” Of course he had already brought it in the house which he pointed out and continued making turtle tracks to his room where he promptly slammed the door. Looking up and seeing the tape peeling from the ceiling, Amelia resigned herself to being a failure when it came to doing home repairs and somersaulted down the hallway loosing her hair curlers along the way like a ball of unraveling yarn, and arrived at the front door just in time to see through the flapless mail slot at the bottom of the door two Mormon missionaries coming up the cracked walkway overgrown with crabgrass. When they knocked on the door she flattened herself on her stomach like roadkill and stayed there until they left with the sun glinting off their starched white shirts.

“Damn you Blynken,” she muttered as she started to rise and found herself glued to the floor by turtle shit, and laid there until dinner time hoping someone would pry her up like a burnt egg stuck to a pan needing to be scooped up with something better than a dollar-store spatula.

 

A bowl of gray lumpy mashed potatoes embellished with a single black olive that Amelia thumb-pushed into the center at the top stared at her like the mushy dead eye of a one-eyed zombie. Watching  an undercooked meatball hurdle in front of her face, a comet propelled by Nod’s spoon, and crashing onto the scabby landscape of their mange-ridden dachshund’s back, Amelia said to her youngest child and only girl, “you’re worse than the little girl in The Bad Seed.” The dog quickly scooped up the ball of pink meat with its blistered tongue and carried it to the refrigerator and let it drop on the floor, apparently wanting an opt-out on the whole table scraps plan. Amelia passed on taking any of the potatoes and scooped on to her plate a pile of canned cream corn that spread across her plate like her cat’s diarrhea, and pushed aside her plate and watched Wynken, Blynken and Nod shoot spit balls made of overcooked broccoli at each other shot through toilet roll tubes acquired from a large plastic bag thrown into their back yard from someone digging around in the trash in the dump. Amelia spread her arms and with the wind being caught in the flaps of skin hanging under each arm, she flew into her bedroom and landed on the raggedy mattress of her bed with her head at the wrong end and stared at a Playboy playmate calendar from 1972 tacked to the wall above the headboard by her husband. The calendar was flipped to the month of August, which is meaningless other than that it had always been flipped to the month of August.

 

Waking in the middle of the night to the sounds of water drops playing ping pong on the metal pan underneath the accordion-like steam radiator beneath her bedroom window, Amelia rose up on her arthritic elbows and counted the drops per minute to determine if the leaking radiator was an emergency, and satisfied it wasn’t she started to lay her head back on the edge of the foot board and choked on a glob of phlegm that had abruptly risen in her throat and coagulated there like one of her cat’s slimy hairballs. Coughing the ball of mucus to the front of her mouth she propelled it out with the force of a bazooka hitting Miss August right on the ass. For once she was glad she had fallen asleep with the lights on, because she had always wanted to spit on Miss August but out of respect for her husband, she had never done it, but seeing the wad of throat-snot slide over Miss August’s derriere was more fun than she had had in a long time. As her double chins jiggled with mirth, Amelia looked down at the toes of her fuzzy blue slippers seeing that one or more of her children had crept into her room at some point and cut off the ends, leaving her swollen toes sticking out like pale Vienna sausages.

 

Rolling out of her bedroom just before noon like a ball of tumbleweed, Amelia was wind-swept into the living room where Wynken, Blynken and Nod sat on on the sofa imitating the three monkeys who neither saw, heard or spoke evil. “Whatever you’ve done along with cutting the tips off of my slippers off you’re not getting away with it,” she said before being caught by a gust of wind and sent rolling into the kitchen.  She came to rest like a deflated balloon against the table and stared into the eye-potatoes and threw up in her mouth. Setting about to put the kitchen in order to fix breakfast she tossed the used paper plates and green plastic utensils into the trash, then scraped the mounds of leftover food into the dog’s bowl and got a box of strawberry pop tarts that had been hidden from Wynken and Blynken on the top shelf of the cupboard and put it in the middle of the table and yelled “breakfast is ready you little monsters.” She then stood at the window and inhaled the ambrosia of trash that had been cooking in the morning sun.

 

After mopping the kitchen floor with yesterday’s mop water, Amelia sat her cellulite-ridden buttocks on a lumpy pillow of air and floated around the room with the telephone to her ear, speaking to her mother.

“The children go back to school next week. They have been such angels all summer,” Amelia said.

Inaudible.

“You were right about the joys of motherhood. I feel so fulfilled.”

Inaudible.

“Stu will be home tomorrow. I spent all morning cleaning so that the place will be extra nice when he comes through the door.”

Inaudible.

“Yes mother, he respects me in every way a woman can be respected.”

Inaudible.

“I’ll call you next week after Stu and I have had some time together. He must get so lonely for me and the kids being on the road driving that big rig for weeks at a time. Goodbye.”

Click.

 

Standing on the front porch that tilted like the deck of the Titanic just before it went under, Amelia clung to the railing like the last passenger on the deck of that same doomed ship and held her breath as toxic clouds of trash fragrances washed over her. Her body was extended outward, horizontal to the splintered wood of the porch floor, as if raised to that position by a magician performing an act of

levitating. The dachshund was doing his business in the hip-high grass, straining out the morning’s meal of cold pasty mashed potatoes, creamed corn and an olive. She watched as Blynken dragged the upside down turtle back and forth across the street while dodging cars.

“Blynken, let that turtle go,” she yelled.

“It’ll get hit by a car,” he yelled back stopping in the middle of the street.

“I meant let it go where you found it,” she yelled, her feet drifting further upward toward the ceiling of the porch.

 

In the evening and flat on her back on the sofa with Nod riding her stomach like a demented jockey riding a watermelon, Amelia felt the pressure on her intestines being released in a steady flow of flatulence. The brush she had tried to comb through Nod’s hair was stuck in a mass of tangles with the handle sticking out the side of her head like a plastic horn. The television had pre-empted the night’s programs with a continuous optics test of squiggly lines. Wynken and Blynken sat cross-legged on vacuum bags full of dirt and dust, glued to what they were watching. “Your dad is going to be home in the morning,” Amelia said to all three of them. “Are you excited?”

Inaudible.

 

Amelia cartwheeled into the bed nearly squashing the cat who hissed and jumped off the bed and limped out of the room. With her head encased in a pillow that had lost most of its filling she gripped onto the mattress not wanting to be sucked out the open window. Looking down at the yellow nail polish on her exposed toenails she wondered if the color was just a bit too jaundiced. She became aware of her own sweating under her freshly shaved underarms and decided she would have to apply more baking soda before Stu got home. The sound of Wynken tacking waterbugs to his bedroom wall echoed through the house. “Leave those bugs alone,” she yelled and to her surprise the thumping stopped. Keeping her grip on the mattress she rolled onto her side and curled her body into a fetal position as the cat leaped back onto the bed and curled up against her bouncy breasts. She fell asleep and spent the night dreaming of clouds.

 

Staring at the phlegm-smeared butt of Miss August Stu humped Amelia and when finished rolled over onto his back and said “I heard on talk radio one night while on the road a really interesting theory about why no one has ever found Amelia Earhart. The guy on the radio said everyone was looking for her out at sea when in reality she had just turned around and flew home and lived out her life as a wife and mother.”

                                                          -END-

***

Steve Carr photo

Steve began his writing career as a military journalist and has had short stories published in Sick Lit Magazine, Literally Stories, Viewfinder, Short Tale !00, The James White Review, and The Northland Review: An International Journal, among others. He has stories coming out soon in Fictive Dream and in anthologies by Flame Tree Publishing, Centum Press and Fantasia Divinity Publications. His plays have been produced in several states including Arizona, Missouri and Ohio. He writes full time.
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More – by NICK BLACK

MORE

He holds a crisp new fiver between his fingers.

“No,” I say, encouraged by the sweat on his top lip. “More.”

He sighs and parts his wallet again.

“I’ve only got a twenty,” he says. “Have you got change?”

“I’ll take the twenty,” I say. “And the five.”

Since The Incident At Svetlana’s BBQ, I’ve been making my husband pay for certain things he wants done. Her push-up bra’s been a nice little earner for me.

“Ok,” I say, snapping on my Marigolds. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

The spider in the shed is big and bulbous. Jesus! I don’t even mind them and I need a moment to approach it. “Have you got it yet?!” he pleads from the kitchen door. “All gone!” I walk slowly around the side of the house with it cupped in my hands. And drop it through the bathroom window.

I’m learning.

***

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Nick Black’s stories have been published by Spelk Fiction, the Woven Tale Press, Sick Lit, Cafe Aphra, Litro and (forthcoming) the Lonely Crowd and Firefly Magazine.  More can be found at fuzzynick.wordpress.com 

Lunch with Maurice – by MICHAEL ZONE

Lunch with Maurice

By Michael Zone

 

 

I was doing time at the Aqua-Cola warehouse.

 

My eleventh W2 in my factotum year facing eviction and total starvation.

 

Maurice, a pudding formed figure with a handlebar mustache, sat across from me during lunch.

 

A half hour ordeal of me trying to eat my peanut butter sandwich as he explained to me how he wasn’t a sex offender and got laid every weekend working as a karaoke DJ.

 

“Put on the Manilow, smile and announce ‘this is for the ladies.’ Wink, point… panties drop.”  

 

No one really liked him and only spoke to him when work required it, as he replenished our stocks.

 

I was new, but didn’t have the unspoken collective permission to dislike anyone.

 

Rendering me just as disgusting as the socially misunderstood pervert who swallowed rolled tortillas and liverwurst like a duck. When you’re new and people can sense you enjoy your solitude and are not the type to construct an existence around work, they despise the false sense of freedom they have and the discomfort you bring through indifference co-mingled with a decent work ethic.

 

His “incident” had something to do with girls’ volleyball and a repressive government “out to besmirch believers…we are not of this world…America hates God and anything to do with him.”

 

He was big on home security. “I keep a weapon in every room. I don’t even lock my door. I’ve got a shotgun hanging on the wall, and handguns in both my nightstand and medicine cabinet…unregistered (take that, Dictator Obama), I got a barbed-wire wrapped baseball bat  next to the toilet and a samurai sword under my bed with a hunting knife  between my pillows.”

 

“Expecting trouble?” I asked against my better judgment.

 

“My dad was in the Navy. Antiwar activists target the family members of veterans,” Maurice replied seemingly shocked at such an inquiry.

 

Maurice was later found dead in his apartment.

 

Stabbed in the eye and ran through with his own sword.

 

I ate my sandwich.

***

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Michael Zone is the author of Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings and Better than the Movies: 4 Screenplays. His work has been featured in Because Eileen, Dead Snakes, Horror Trash Sleaze, In Between Hangovers, Three Line Poetry, Triadae and The Voices Project. He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI

 

Love’s Wrong Turn / Winter Made the Trees Suffer – by PEGGY TURNBULL

Love’s Wrong Turn

 

She seeks portals

places prone to wormholes

where time travelers shift between planes.

She seeks answers in objects

touched by geniuses.

She trudges across airports

to end up gazing

at Hemingway’s  desk.

or at an animal skull

on O’Keeffe’s hearth.

She longs for a molecule

from the other worlds

that great artists visit

and she’s learned

how to feel her way

towards that particular magic.

There are clues in place names:

Manitou, Sleeping Giant, Spirit Lake.

She took Dan to a park the locals said was haunted.

They wandered side trails.  Dan saw his first blue bird.

He wanted to turn back but she persisted

until she saw it at trail’s end:

a gray weather-beaten structure

shaped like a tepee.

She paused

stunned by the strength

of its protective force field

while Dan foraged for litter

one of many reason why

she loved him.

When the particles dropped their charge

she moved respectfully forward.

Dan was gone.

There was no sign.

And now she wanders

alone

seeking  that place

that portal

that will bring them together

again.


 

Winter Made the Trees Suffer

 

Ice encased them,

then the weight

of a foot or more

of dense wet snow

drifted

onto dry branches.

 

The trees grieve

as any would

who lost their beauty

on a day of slow torture.

Burdens were exacted

until limbs ripped off.

 

Amputees now

they wave phantom boughs

into the wind

expecting to feel it.

 

Had it been?

Had they once been graceful

their needles

shimmering

in the sunlight

moving

to the breath of the earth?

 

Like betrayed lovers

searching for kindred souls

the trees noticed me.

 

And that was our first meeting.


***

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Peggy Turnbull is a Wisconsin poet and librarian.  Her work has been published in I Am Not a Silent Poet and Rat’s Ass Review: Love & Ensuing Madness Collection.

Kaleidoscope – by PHILLIP WENTURINE

Kaleidoscope

By: Phillip Wenturine

“We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.”  – Abraham Lincoln

 

Envision blackness.

Stagnant, trapped, immobile.

Imagine clawing your way out of your body.

A spirit cemented inside a physical habitat—helpless to the mercy of bodily transportation.

Escape yourself.

Channel your natural energies. Crawl all the way out. Don’t lose focus on yourself, your earthly skeleton. Mind over body.

Now, you’re free. From yourself.

Imagine backing away from your being. A stereotypical figure. Picture yourself from afar, from above, watching your spirit. A shiny mist, floating over you, like an exhale.

You are watching you watching yourself, with your eyes closed. Imaging all of this.

        Imagine a camera.

Now, be the camera. See yourself from the lens from high and away. You are still watching yourself, squinting through the fisheye glass. Tunnel vision.

Fixate on something specific. The recess of your earlobe. The skin, made up of a million particles smaller than the smallest particle known to man.

Zoom out.

Zoom further out. Further. You’re distancing from your body and receding upward, and away.

You see your roof, the weathered shingles covered in grit.

You see the city, the Xeroxed neighborhoods with the matching yard plans, the model citizens, the stepford children.

Continents pan into focus: One, two…seven.

The Galapagos and the Strait of Gibraltar; the Black sea, impenetrable to skin; the country shaped like a boot; the Garden of Eden.

You defy gravity. Soar backwards, higher.

        A chill ripples through you as you traverse the ozone. Transparent. Like you.

        You spot the tip of Orion’s belt.

        Continue zooming out. Past Saturn’s rings. Micrometers of rocks, of ice. Perfectly balanced disks orbiting the sun, floating on the absence of anything. More.

You see blackness. Rather, you are blackness.

You see nothing.      

Can nothing be seen?

For a moment, time stands still.

Far, in the back of your head. A memory—or, a dream? It’s hard to get to. Like trudging against thick molasses. But you find it.

And then, your spirit exhales, and a droplet of moisture plummets.

Through the gap of Saturn’s rings, it passes Orion, and parachutes downward. Through the ozone, toward the oceans. Life’s layers reflect; her light shimmers. It shines back upward, like a kaleidoscope. And plop, on the weathered roof.

Right above yourself.

And everything that goes up, must come down.

Darkness fades to technicolor as you descend.

Throw away the camera.

        Imagine a golden, plastic cylinder. Inside, filled with tiny shards of neon glass that point inside your mind. Go through it. Cock your head. Adjust the focus. The colors are everywhere, and there’s no sense to them, and it doesn’t matter. Zoom in. The lens, a guide.

        Twist the narrow tube. Shift perspectives. Subject the subjective.

You see a surface like the moon. Craters. A floor of compressed, solidified lava stone.  The speed of light refracts on fragments of mirrored glass. Zoom in. Past the absence of gravity. Back the way you came.

You recede though the ozone, transparent no more. The cotton candy of the sky, the sunrise’s decadent decorations.

Striations, swirls, swivels.  

You pass between Mother Nature’s ice crystals. Cirrus, cumulus, then stratus.

        You see the aqueous areas covering three-fourths of the Earth. The glossy turquoise; the briny solution. A dark spot—a sea turtle taking a break.

        Inhale, life

        Exhale…

Spy what’s beneath. The low rumbled song of Beluga birthing. A new starfish limb’s pointed rise with the tiny beat of suckers on a painted desert of coral. The yearning trumpet of a bottlenose searching the deep for its lover.

Zoom out. Pan left.

A boy in Namibia dying from AIDS. His parents, skin and bones, sit idly by watching him deteriorate. Helpless.

Pan left. Zoom in.

A reflection in the water. Your face, but not yourself.

Pan left once more. Zoom in. Further.

A patch of green. A scarlet critter caresses the top of the blade—good luck.  

Zoom out.

A flock of birds frolics around you.

Violet tufts splotch their underbellies; their tails elongated. Sunflower seeds pop and crack under their beaks.

Their ululations and whistles move through you, while you watch yourself with your eyes closed. Imagining all of this.

The sun gleams on the back of your neck.

***  

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Phillip Wenturine is a middle school English teacher, where his job description is to change the world, but the reality is fighting the endless struggle to end comma splices. He has published other essays in Aurora magazine, The Talon Review, Intrinsick Magazine, and Potluck Magazine. He completed his MFA from Eastern Kentucky University where he attended residencies in Lisbon, Portugal, and he just received a Fulbright Scholarship to go back and teach. Phillip enjoys traveling to foreign countries, consuming a large goblet of sangria on the weekends, and the color orange makes him smile. Read more on PhillipWrites.com.

The Basket – by SOPHIE VAN LLEWYN

The Basket

A loose straw pinches the tender flesh between my nail and the tip of my middle finger. I hesitate, unsure if I should withdraw my hand or if I should let the pain linger for a bit longer. I am unloading the basket my husband had received from the bone marrow society as a compensation for the holes he got in his ilium. That’s just a fancy word for the pelvic bone, one I learned when the doctor explained to us what they were going to do to him so he can help a very sick stranger. I remembered it because it sounded just like the name of one of those characters in World of Warcraft. I would lose my husband to it on a regular basis. I’ve lost him now, too, but it’s a bit more permanent. I won’t be able to wrench him back by turning off his computer.

One after the other, I discard the contents: homemade raspberry jam, pickled beets, a fancy tomato sauce, tiny chocolates in a golden package. The kind of jars which make you think of somebody else’s very rich grandmother. Though I’m sure no rich grandmother bothers to make her own jams.

I feel like desecrating a tomb, though by now they have all long expired, just like gratitude. The only thing that I can rescue is a bottle of red wine.

His bone marrow went to a seventeen-year-old in France. At least, that’s what it said in a letter from the bone marrow society.

Try to Google ‘donating bone marrow’ and let your cursor hover for a moment, like suspending your foot in mid-air. Look at the suggestions. ‘Donating bone marrow risk’. ‘Donating bone marrow pay’. ‘Donating bone marrow pain’. In this order. I can tell you the pain is excruciating. After the teeth grinding at night, for weeks after the extraction, the days spent with his eyes on his watch, calculating time left until his next dose of painkiller, my husband could never bring himself to open the basket. It was a somewhat of a rowdy reminder, resting on a cupboard, that he was actually a good man. He would pass by it every time he would go to his room to play some WOW.

Nobody asked about the pain. They all wanted to know how much he got paid. As if doing something noble is another privilege reserved for the rich. A concept foreign to a construction worker. Nobody believed him that his reward had been a goodie basket. And knowing that a teenager would be able to eat as many croissants and foie gras as she wants to, for years and years to come. His pay had been giving the gift of life.

I look at the bottle in my hand and barely don’t smash it against the floors. I barely don’t press its severed neck against my wrists. He had donated so that she can have fresh, healthy blood. Old blood in a young body.

Half a year after the first letter, they sent us another one saying that the young girl didn’t make it.

The disease had returned to her blood.

Without the bottle, all that would be left of my husband would be an empty basket and an inactive character in a game. Empty carcasses.

I carefully put the bottle down, willing it to break. But it doesn’t. Some things are meant to endure, even against their will. I press the flesh under my fingernails against the loose straw in the basket. I’d like to keep the splinter buried there for a few days, just to remind myself that no pain lasts forever.  

***

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Sophie van Llewyn lives in Germany. She is an Assistant Editor at Bartleby Snopes. Her flash fiction has been published in The Molotov Cocktail, Sick Lit Magazine, 101 Words and is forthcoming in Flash Frontier.

Muesli – by KATE JONES

Muesli

After you leave, I sit and stare out of my rain-dotted window, that used to be our window.  I stare out at the red-brick buildings.  I watch the raindrops drip from the telephone wires like the tears of jilted lovers.

I stare into the windows of the apartments opposite, at the contemporary kitchenware and wine racks.  Things I thought we might own one day.  Grown-up stuff.  Earthenware dishes.   A juicer.

The couple opposite, the ones we used to make fun of together, sit at a granite-topped breakfast bar, eating something grainy.  Muesli.  She still wears workout gear; Lycra pink leggings tighter than a snake’s skin, and a black hoodie.  No inch of her arse hangs over the sides of the black and chrome stool she perches on, like a delicate bird ready for flight.  She brings her loaded silver spoon to pink lips.

As I sit on the floor eating leftover pizza, I try to imagine transmuting myself into her skin and wonder whether you would have stayed if I’d worn skin-tight Lycra and eaten muesli from a spoon.

If my arse had fitted neatly onto a stool.

The man gets up now.  He’s wearing a brown wool suit and ironic tie.  He puts on his jacket.  It’s one of those suits that make him look slightly creative – definitely not a banker’s suit – and I remember how we used to make up jobs and names for them.

He leans across and kisses her on the forehead.  She smiles up at him showing perfect white teeth.  Her blonde ponytail bobs lightly.  (How does it stay so perfect when she’s been exercising?)

He picks up a soft, brown leather briefcase from the floor and leaves the room.  She sits on, reading the newspaper and sipping her orange juice.  I watch her wait there for a few minutes, until she’s sure he’s gone.  Then, she pulls a pink mobile from her pocket and taps a message into it.

I watch for a few more minutes, biting my nails, a habit you hate, until I see her jump from the stool.  She’s running out of the door, which I know leads to the hallway where the outside door is.  I know this because it’s the same set-out as my apartment – the one that used to be ours.

I can’t see her now.  But still I know what she’s doing.

I know that she’s kissing you and tasting that unique taste you have, of mint and a hint of garlic, even when you haven’t eaten it.

I know that you’ll be tasting muesli on her tongue.

And I know that you’ll be wrapping your thick arms around her slim waist, as I let my tears splash onto the glass, mirroring the raindrops on the other side.

 ***

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Kate Jones is a freelance writer based in the UK.  A regular writer for Skirt Collective, she also writes features and reviews for The State of the Arts.  She has also published flash fiction and poetry in various literary magazines, including Sick Lit Magazine, Gold Dust, and 101words.  She has been long-listed for Flash 500, and won the weekly AdHoc Fiction contest, as well as being nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Kelly Coody of Sick Lit Magazine for 2017.

Find her on Twitter: @katejonespp

She also blogs at: writerinresidenceblog.wordpress.com