Tag Archives: Micro-fiction

Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk

By Chimen Kouri

Children’s toys litter the grass, a bicycle laying on its side; water flows between the wheel’s spokes, tarnishing them, the same thoughtless action of a tampon caught in a sewer pipe. There is blood. There is always blood. I flinch when he kisses me forcefully, and all I say is how sorry I am. Sometimes he chokes me, wringing my neck like a chicken, my halfhearted sighs acquiescing my regrets. I was always destined to meet the devil in disguise. They find my car abandoned outside the carnival, the key still in the ignition. I’m bleeding out in the woods, watching a hare, its long ears detecting the sound of a boy pushing his fingers inside everything that reminds him of his mother’s mouth, dry and twitching. I think of giving birth to a son, how effortless it would be to expel him, his body dropping to the ground, limbs clumsy like a newborn deer born with its eyes open. Partitioning a daughter is harder; she will plunge her claws into your cervix, delay the delivery, make you shit in front of a man. You feel an ache every time you look at her, her hand inside the wolf’s mouth.

Chimen Kouri is a writer based in Cliffwood Beach, New Jersey. Her writing focuses heavily on horror, crime, and femininity. She has been published in Brenda Magazine, Verses Magazine, Jawbreaker Zine, The Luna Collective, Zanna Magazine, and Emotional Alchemy Magazine. She is currently editing her chapbook, Peach Milk, and hopes to have it published by 2022.


By Pete Mladinic

Schaeffer writes:

Jeanne, before your grandfather 
was your grandfather, one afternoon
he towered in a door at the top of stairs
that led from the breezeway to a foyer:
a black fedora, full, trim white mustache,
black jacket, across his black vest a silver
watch chain.
I was five.  Looking up at him laughing I felt
alone, frozen there.

Three years later, in your cellar with its tiles
and knotty pine,
a daguerreotype from before the Great War:
his mustache a dark handlebar,
he wore a blouse, at his side a sheathed
saber, a tassel on its grip.
In the old country
he rode in the cavalry of Kaiser Wilhelm.

He towered in a door at the top of stairs,
the fedora’s tilt to one side.
Looking up I shriveled into the trim
of his white mustache,
misery white hot, balled
inside, three years before you were born.

Peter Mladinic’s poems have recently appeared in Neologism, Adelaide, the Mark, Ariel Chart, 433, Art Villa and other online journals.  He lives with six dogs in Hobbs, New Mexico.

Forgot Kid in Bar

By Pete Mladinic

Schaeffer has his favorite this
and that.  His favorite female singer,
Nancy Bradley, would be his age,
she died decades before he heard her
voice, such depth, clarity and range.
She chain smoked, and cigarettes
were not helping, nor was alcohol.
She married and had a daughter,
a short troubled marriage and finally
her ex got custody of the daughter,
but before that, there was a day or
night Nancy, in a bar, got so drunk
she walked, or stumbled or staggered
out of the bar, not aware her kid
an infant was there.  Good singers
do bad things sometimes, or don’t do
what they should, or like leave
the infant with a sitter or something
Nancy neglected to do.  It’s a story
Schaeffer heard, but mostly her voice
what remains is the thing, a voice
to his ear like no other, such range
clarity, the voice of Nancy Bradley,
what she’s remembered for, renown
to those who appreciate her songs.

Peter Mladinic’s poems have recently appeared in Neologism, Adelaide, the Mark, Ariel Chart, 433, Art Villa and other online journals.  He lives with six dogs in Hobbs, New Mexico.


By Christina Rosso

On my third birthday, my mother told me she had a special treat for me. She placed a dome-shaped cake the colour of smashed berries in front of me; a flaming candle stuck in the tip of the arch. “Today, you begin your transformation,” she said, smiling. “Today, you discover hunger.” The lines by her eyes and mouth reminded me of the tracks birds left in the dirt. I beamed up at her, showing my jagged grin of baby teeth and gaps of pink gums. I blew out the candle, wishing she’d stay this happy, and then she cut me a large piece, the insides oozing crimson onto the plate.

The hunger increased steadily until the monthly bleeding began. I was thirteen. My limbs stretched, my body blooming just as my mother’s had. I was her double, twenty years removed. She said she could smell it on me, the blood. She nodded, saying it was time for me to hunt on my own. She told me to use the blood on my mouth. “Men can’t resist women with blood-red lips,” she said. “It reminds them of your cunt.”

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

A man lies at my feet, cracked ribs and gutted organs displayed. Dark brown blood stains my bare toes; I wiggle them in the syrupy liquid; I hold the man’s heart in my palms. It pumps softly, fluttering, unaware that it’s left its body. I remember biting into that cake on my third birthday, the shredded heart chewy and a little slippery. The taste was hearty, like steak, but better. Now that I have been hunting for over a decade, I know each heart tastes different, reflecting the man it comes from. The women in my family subsist on men. Our kind has existed for centuries, adapting to technology and popular culture and beauty standards. We use the male gaze, shaping our appearance, to lure and trap our prey. 

Hunger is the one thing that doesn’t change.

I raise the heart to my mouth, jaw stretching, fangs extending to deadly points. I salivate at the thought of what this man’s heart will taste like. Sweet? Tangy? Chocolatey? I press a finger into one of his heart’s flexing valves and dress my lips in purple blood, a hot appetizer. My mouth opens, my fangs tear into the heart with a crunch. I grin. I remember the words my mother told me all those years ago. A fresh, beating heart is the best. The blood dripping from it the sweetest.

Christina Rosso is a writer and bookstore owner living in South Philadelphia with her bearded husband and rescue pup. She is the author of SHE IS A BEAST (APEP Publications, 2020), a chapbook of feminist fairy tales. Her first full-length collection CREOLE CONJURE is forthcoming from Maudlin House. Her writing has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and the Pushcart Prize. For more information, visit christina-rosso.com or find her on Twitter.