Flash Fiction Magazine

By Chris Cerone

Outside, insects buzzed loudly in desperate revelry at the end of the summer, and for Richard and Yvette, bedtime had come and gone. They were getting close to finishing, though. Only ten more colorful doodles for their granddaughter’s party tomorrow. Of course, it wasn’t strictly speaking necessary to mock up dozens of different depictions of Disney princesses by hand, but they were the type of people who saw no limits to what could or should be done in service of a grandchild.

The work, at this point two or three hours of it, had been a more or less pleasant experience, though, Richard thought to himself, as he continued in his labor of love. There was a certain joy in putting crayon and marker to paper, and he enjoyed sneaking in little jokes into each of his small pieces of art.

[Read more…] about Some Small Skill

By Amy Neufeld

Perfect Romance Ballooning Adventures wouldn’t refund her deposit, so rather than lose the money, Clarissa decided to fly solo. The basket didn’t look large enough for all six passengers plus the bored attendant, but somehow they fit. The red fabric of the balloon cast a pink glow. In the corner was an open bottle of champagne, already poured into three pairs of glasses, bubbles rising. Clarissa’s phone vibrated, and, exerting considerable control, she ignored it.

[Read more…] about Float

By Dennan Chew

I texted her around 20 minutes ago.

Okay, it wasn’t around anything. It was 17 minutes and 46 seconds ago. And if she doesn’t write back within 20 minutes, I never hear back. At least when I’m waiting, I feel alive. My heart’s jacked, my blood’s hot, and my brain short circuits. Good times.

The best times are when she writes back. Margot’s messages are never more than three words and always devoid of grammar: “heyyy whats up” or “what you doin” or “im outside”. The ‘im outside’ text is the worst of all. Like when I open the door and she’s not there. I’m not a complete idiot—I know I’m not the only one waiting for her to send a drunk text. And I know she gets drunk enough to message the wrong idiot when she’s outside the right idiot’s place.

[Read more…] about Waiting for Margot

By Elisabeth Giffin Speckman

This Story Won Third Prize in Our Contest

The bus had appeared out of nowhere. They didn’t have to go looking for it, or stumble upon it like those boxcar kids. The bus had just shown up, in the woods outside of town, and they all somehow knew it was there. There were no tire tracks, and the bus itself was missing tires. No hurricanes or twisters had been reported in the news, no airports nearby. It had simply appeared.

It was a pale baby blue, not like a bus should be. It had been painted recently—there were still thick drip globs near the wheel wells, and they discovered if you pressed hard enough, the globs would pick up fingerprints. And so there grew a collection of tiny mazes, each of them taking turns pressing their thumbs into the paint, then ahh-ing with a small satisfaction at their ability to make an impression on such an impressive beast.

[Read more…] about Kettlebell Kate and Handsome Jake

By Jan Alexander

This Story Was an Honorable Mention in Our Contest

I lift off, glide, and then break the surface in my best swan dive yet this summer. Down below, the sea serpents and mermaids dart through algae and wave their tails. They might be saying welcome back, Olivia! No sign of Casey splashing through. I bob up and there she is, still on the pier, settled in a lotus pose. She’s still in her shorts and wearing that look again.

[Read more…] about How to Keep From Sinking

By Rachel A.G. Gilman

I am lying upside down on my bed with the bottoms of my feet pressed to my headboard and Cal’s semen pooled in a puddle over my belly button. A drop of cum drips down the skin covering my bottom-most false rib. I’m not very good at break-ups.

Balmy, curry-scented air wafts through the window in my Rose Hill apartment. It is going on two in the morning and still in the mid-eighties outside, the coolest temperature for the day: August in Manhattan. Cal lies next to me, my burgundy lipstick stamped on his collarbone. We’ve been trying to call it quits all summer. We tried on the floor of his kitchen the morning after his graduation party when I was “only staying for pancakes.” We tried before he left his job at the Italian pastry shop after getting off the waitlist at law school in Chicago. We’ll try anything—anything but admit our feelings this past year have barely spanned two boroughs. Our proximity has allowed for our burning physicality. Our physicality is our entire relationship. Three states will break our fuse.

[Read more…] about Not Hard at All