Temple in a city

@templeinacity.bsky.social

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Lit mag for flash fiction, poetry, art and letters. Throw it all at us. Reading is punk. https://templeinacity.com

Solape Adetutu Adeyemi / Hugh Behm-Steinberg / Yuan Changming / Jay Chesters / Andrew A. Chibi / Lori Cramer / Anselm Eme / Zary Fekete / Travis Flatt / Madison Golding / Kyla Houbolt / Christine Gallagher Kearney / Cuyler Meade / Kelly Murashige / Gloria Ogo / Nora Rawn / Esther Sadoff / Beth Sherman / T.L. Tom|janovic / N.H. Van der Haar / Jenny Wong / Huina Zheng
I will grow old, Because if I die young this poem will be a tragedy, And I demand a happy ending.
Quiet monochrome shot of trees shot from underneath, a slice of white sky and raindrops like faint flowers.
Flash fiction by Madeleine Armstrong February 18, 2026 / in Resurgence Monday Morning, 9:05am Outside Reproductive Choices, South London Edith unfolded her garden chair and settled in. She had her Thermos, raincoat and book - it might be a long day.
Micro fiction by Betty Stanton February 18, 2026 / in Resurgence Sixth Street The houses on Sixth Street are identical, white teeth in a jaw that never closes. Their lawns are shaved to the same length, sprinklers hissing like snakes. Windows stay shut, blinds tilted just enough to catch light, never enough to reveal who is watching.
Poetry by Darren C. Demaree February 18, 2026 / in Resurgence 5/28/25 In this case alienation means there is only one American & he is a boy in a failing man's body & that means we are all vulnerable when he focuses his attention on us.
Dark haired kohl-eyed one hit wonder Sam.
Imprint of willowy frond on pavement.
Ivan de Monbrison, Marseille, August 2nd 2025 Monica Dickson, How to make a living coffin Emily Rinkema, Lou Rachel Rodman, He Always Lied, I Always Told the Truth. And Then We Fell in Hate Vijayalakshmi Sridhar, I heard you became a father again
Winter willow tree image against a cloudy sky.
A pressed frond on pavement.
A joyful painting, acrylic on canvas, bright yellow backdrop with pressed dahlias and flung paint in blue and green and more.
She also brought home bags of plastic petals, stamens, and leaves. She showed us how to glue petals around a stamen, how to wrap green tape around wire to make a stem, and how to attach the leaves in just the right spot. But we complained about the sharp smell of glue and how plastic flowers lacked the scent of real ones. "Use your imagination," my mother said. "We're conjuring blossoms." She told us we were magicians capable of creating beautiful, fragrant flower fairies, though she opened a window and set the fan facing outward for fresh air.
Abstract painting with a yellow background, pressed dahlias and splashes of colour, one that looks kind of like a snail travelling outside its shell. Very happy. Daring snail. Whee.
You're on top of the world until you're not, until you totter past your granddaughter's room and hear her asking a Magic 8 Ball if Grandma will ever come back. Outlook not so good. Until her little friends visit and your goosey excretions stain the trains of their taffeta dresses. Until you remember that geese aren't made for company.
'It's not a peace offering,' she adds, in case God gets the wrong idea. I’ve not forgiven you for taking him.'
Through the night, she talks of whips she surrendered for baskets she never saw, how kids never collected her catkins, how her broad-rounded crown never sheltered a courting couple. She admits she's sad not to have lived in a meadow 'or just near a stream
As they round a bend in the road a great house comes into view set on a low hill below them; it sits in a verdant expanse of grass, its sides studded with tall dark windows, columns support its wide portico. "Why are you afraid to answer?"
In the darkness, I didn't have to worry about how close I would come to crossing the lines that were engraved on my body and burned into my skin. Boundaries were blurry in the confusion of the shadows that haunted all the places I passed through like a ghost. The bold letters of the signs I passed told me I was beautiful, or that I should let the animal out. Every time, while I was lost in the beauty of the stars and the throbbing music and the sparkling bars, I thought I could even believe them.
"You're the best man I've ever dated,' say, bringing my mug to my lips. He takes the compliment impassively, staring into my eyes, probing around for the other shoe. We know each other well enough for him to find it before the words congeal on my lips.
During your last Christmas in this room, your oldest daughter pulled a set of keys from your hand. You don't drive anymore, remember? She asked. And you blinked into the white space in your brain, found a buzzing instead of clarity. I gave up my own life to raise you, you said, unsure of where the rage came from, wondered if was always inside you.
Tell her they grabbed her and ran and her mother said go and you raced to follow, to ask, to protect but they didn't explain and she didn't cry then they said she needed help to breathe to be that maybe she wouldn't learn, wouldn’t walk
My grandmother notebook always kept overflown with wonderings whether anyone cares on about things left unheard, misundershared unsaid, always writing, often feeling less than understood
sometimes, i think about dying in a place where my sins backlight my regrets i am the poltergeist sleep seamripping crushed velvet in my i am the dancing santa on the dashboards of a suicide heist rum drunk off cherry wine and cyanide
IT'S ALL IN HERE He doesn't get my poetry. To him it's just words and more words, sprinkled randomly on the page.
L. Acadia Mehreen Ahmed Hilary Ayshford Samantha Backlund-Clapp Robin J Bartley Lanie Brice Chris Cottom Ivan de Monbrison Litsa Dremousis David Gaffney Ezra Gatlin S.A. Greene Alaina Hammond Rachel M. Hollis Amy Marques Rob Moore Jay Parr Juanita Rey Chris Scott R. P. Singletary Calla Smith Joanna Theiss Christina Tudor Dominic Walsh
Best microfiction Elizabeth Rosen, Endeavor Slawka G. Scarso, And then she told Jack off Sumitra Singam, You-and-Kate in a field, loving me Vijayalakshmi Sridhar, I heard you became a father again Huina Zheng, The pin inside my body
TiaC Timely and JOY, always open If it's great and urgent now we'll publish it under TliaC Timely without waiting for a curated issue. And if it's joyful, send it our way. It may find itself in the ongoing JOY issue.
Best microfiction Elizabeth Rosen, Endeavor Slawka G. Scarso, And then she told Jack off Sumitra Singam, You-and-Kate in a field, loving me Vijayalakshmi Sridhar, I heard you became a father again Huina Zheng, The pin inside my body
Best of the net 2025 Sumitra Singam, Bird swallowers Rachel Rodman, He Always Lied, I Always Told the Truth. And Then We Fell in Hate Kathryn Reese, Post-vespers Pushcart Prize 2025 Cole Beauchamp, If Only Emily Rinkema, Lou June Gemmell, The Homecoming Kendra Cardin, A change in the recipe S.A. Greene, Brian Wilson is dead and why can't I stop crying? Dominic Walsh, Slice of life, in Absentia
Some of the work here is just a few words. Or just the right words. Sometimes nonsense words or nonsense use of words. Words to make you smile or laugh or feel, for a moment, the warmth of a friendly sun, the touch of a loving breeze, the touch of another being, human or animal, equally in the dark, equally looking for strength to keep going. That moment can fuel the next moment, and the next. It doesn't need anything else. It just is. Please let this issue wash over you. Let it give you some relief amid the burdens of being alive, with all that trying. Don't ask it to be anything but what it is, then give yourself that same kindness. We hope you find joy, here and everywhere you can.
Mix and match: Creatives, we see you. Why stick to one form when you have three? Send up to 3 pieces of any mix of micro, flash, poetry or art. One poem and two flash? Sure. Two poems and one micro? Why not. Fly free. Same word counts apply (up to 1,000, no minimum). Submit in one .doc or doc file, art as 1000-1500 pixels wide files
Mix and match: Creatives, we see you. Why stick to one form when you have three? Send up to 3 pieces of any mix of micro, flash, poetry or art. One poem and two flash? Sure. Two poems and one micro? Why not. Fly free. Same word counts apply (up to 1,000, no minimum). Submit in one .doc or doc file, art as 1000-1500 pixels wide jpeg files
Mix and match: Creatives, we see you. Why stick to one form when you have three? Send up to 3 pieces of any mix of micro, flash, poetry or art. One poem and two flash? Sure. Two poems and one micro? Why not. Fly free. Same word counts apply (up to 1,000, no minimum). Submit in one .doc or doc file, art as 1000-1500 pixels wide jpeg files
Wishes can come true. Beautiful flower seedling not yet scattered to the wind but getting ready to burst out and find welcome soil.
Unlike your legendary Alexander the Great None of us has come to conquer; nor are we To be conquered (even by God), let alone any Human artifacts including science or behaviours, And tech blockades & tariffs. Rather, as Confucius Has taught us, we always avoid talking of strange Phenomena, disorder or sprits feats of strength, Whereas we do worship our Ancestors, especially those not accepting defeat
In the elementary school's lobby-White Plains is K-6th—we parents mill about congratulating one another and one another's children. I find my Ex and say "What the fuck was that?" a little too loud. "Right?" she says.
Maddie's birthday was one of the few predictably sunny days of the year, along with Thanksgiving and Christmas. Free from the eggshells she and her mom were so used to walking on around the house. As the smoke from the burning candles curlicued above her cake, Maddie would hope that this year, yes, this year, her wish would come true.
His wife, Eleanor, enjoyed a different pathway into the light: Influenced by an influencer, she went out each dawning before Anything else. Barely dressed, barefoot or flip-flopping along, Ellie followed the notion of forcing undesired action into being, Doing that which she didn't want to do to skill her mind into Facing the unknown; specifically, the rest of the unraveling day. As a strategy, this swelled and broke like an egg.
From story: Rylee Faulk, in her cardboard armor and Burger King crown shouts. "Say: 'There's a dragon,' Camel Boy!" Gasps from the parents. Miss Katie hops up from her director's chair. My Ex, seated at the far end of my row, stands and makes a choked outraged sound alarmingly close to a death rattle. Rylee's mom, in the third row, stands and says, "Oh my God. I'm so sorry darling." (Whether "darling" refers to my son or my Ex, I'm unsure.)
From story: This all happens at 10:00 AM, which is important to the story. A certain song was playing on the speakers. "Takin' Care of Business." Big with the Boomers, but it's a bop, not going to lie to you. Anyway, the manager starts to boogie. He's dancing around, flipping the clipboard over his head, and smacking the boxes of cans. Metallic thuds galore. What performer!
Text snippet from story. ‘Eyes squeezed tight, she'd sit at the dining room table, holding her breath, anxiously waiting for her parents to finish singing Happy Birthday. Mom smiling soft and reassuring. Dad wearing his fair-weather grin.’
Screenshot of text from poem in link
Snippet from Yuan Changming poem in Temple in a City literary journal.
Contributor list and little note on the name.
Excerpt from story.
Text from poem.
Text of contributors
Text of contributors
Contributors list
Screenshot from text story.
Screenshot of text snippet from the linked story.
Contributors
Small text excerpt from story.
Excerpt from Joshua Walker poem.
Snippet from the pin in my body.
Unfinished sketch of half the face of a young blonde girl with empty eyes, illustrating one of these stories.
Contributor names for issue 2
Text of contributors to the next issue.
Tree roots crawling down a rocky slope.