Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction: Periods

20 June 2019

My Lost Sisters

By Amber Meyer

The imposing mass of hooded figures listened on, arms linked like chains. The same energy surged through their bodies, painful, punishing. This was the Lost Sisterhood.

“For too long, we separated for the protection of men. Scattered across the globe. Disconnected.”

Each woman knew of their ancestral sacrifice. Muscular agony to constrain their strength. Cyclical bleeding to neutralise their immortality. No more. Almost all Sisters were in the proximity required for mass menstrual synchrony. The last remaining few will complete a union unseen in centuries.

The divine union.

Power shall return to each sister.

“Now, we are in sync. Now, we rebel.”


By Mark Yin

you fill your lungs with the pummel of the blue-green majesty and you remember a time when he was here with you at the edge of the world, when he was here and his wide eyes would reflect every depth every expanse of the blue-green and you would see yourself in their every depth every expanse as well, and as you stand here now you wonder what it would have taken to staunch the bursting timelessness you had shared except retrospectively you know every detail of the other man with whom he had needed room to breathe, period.


By Catriona Smith

The colour drops like tears down a cheek, like droplets of copper or fine wine.

The ichor of fertility that runs between her legs captures her attention.

The sight reminds her of the remains of iodine throat gargle as it runs down the drain, removing antigens and replenishing health.

Dissimilarly, she feels dirty, unaware of the beauty, seeing dirty dishes served up to ungrateful mouths.

The shame growing in her.

But she will come to love her body.

A figure filled with femininity, fertility and freedom.

A place for life to grow, to become whole


By Taylor Thomas

According to Hippocratic doctors, if you had too much blood in your system. You

were too sanguine. Too carefree, too content. Now, a passing glance makes your

stomach turn. It doesn’t go over your head. You’re not handling it. You’re not doing

well. It’s sinking through your skin, the roots strong and deep. It moves through you

like molasses: congealing, pouring, a brilliant red. The place where fruit falls from

trees, hives die, crops wither, is the same place that you repentantly peel the matted

briefs from your thighs.

Hippocrates would be thrilled if he knew how miserable you are.

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