House Woman
At first it’s the dream I
always have. The one where my teeth fall out. But I can’t help making it
different. I pencil wings to my back and color screams in permanent marker
until I look like a child again. There is, of course, the question of eating.
Of how to consume without sharp edges. That’s when the son enters his childhood
home after many years, only to find nothing changed. He finds a woman gumming
the walls. When he clips the hand-drawn wings, a mother awakens, smiling. Am I anything,
without his naming of me?
A Haunting
I miss you (but not this
part of you (you know the part (the body (I miss things in the dark (there is a
monster in my phone (because I saved things (years later I realized you lied (but
I’m not scared (are you?)))))))))
Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, The Citron Review, and Flash Frog, among other publications. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and was selected for Best Microfiction 2024 and 2025.