Flash Fiction Magazine

By Lana K. W. Austin

Frankie hates the fuckin’ cold. If he could get to Mexico, or Hawaii, he would. Hell, he’d stay with the old farts in Florida if he had to. Anywhere but Maryland in the winter.

He keeps saying, “The fuckin’ cold,” over and over in his head until Seth says, “Why don’t you crank it up?” Frankie knows his friend likes to blast the music after a run, but Frankie just wants to talk. He looks over and sees that Seth has one hand on the steering wheel while the other dangles out the window.

By Derek Harmening

A strange man used to frequent our local park. We’d see him, sometimes, as we settled our lawn chairs on the newly cut grass. He’d pace beneath the willows, cloaked in shadow, rubbing his arms, muttering. If you listened closely, you could hear him: a low, plaintive murmur which tended to erupt, without warning, into a dissonant jumble of obscene threats.

He would point accusingly at the squirrels in their trees. He’d shout arbitrary numbers: Three! Seventy-five! Eleven! He’d blare foreign songs from a battery-powered boombox. He’d impose his middle finger on passing clouds.

By R.L. McGuire

A body on the sidewalk was a common sight by the time I moved into the Roosevelt. Some weren’t quite dead and would reach out at you, so it was best to walk in the street to keep your suit a little cleaner. The street was safe; the traffic had died with the people.

Collectors had become as scarce as rain in the desert. Turns out there was a limit to what people would do for money after all.

The dead littered the sidewalk like leaves in a New England fall, waiting to be collected. If nobody came, the thriving rat population would get to work, a force multiplier for the plague.

By Kenn Brody

This Story Was an Honorable Mention in Our Contest

In her bedroom, Julia had two mirrors set up carefully facing each other. She would check her hair, make sure her lipstick was straight, for a myriad of images reflected back and forth in the mirrors. She would wave her arms and conduct an orchestra of Julias, pirouette, and lead a ballet troupe of dancing Julias. In the far, far distance, even that last, tiny Julia was her faithful puppet.

Apart from her hair and lipstick, she was not much concerned with her appearance—a little plain, a little plump, but not yet dowdy, she supposed. She wore a simple print dress, no perfume, no jewelry except for a wedding band. Who would care? No one in her real life paid her much attention at all.

By Dan Reilly

This Story Was an Honorable Mention in Our Contest

Not going anywhere, no plans to go anywhere.

“Could take a drive. Get out of town,” I say.

“Yeah, and? How far out?” he asks.

“I don’t know, an hour. Or two hours, get dinner. Four round trip.”

By Ella Ananeva

This Story Was an Honorable Mention in Our Contest

Stanley’s head throbbed after twelve hours of being a stapler, and no amount of coffee could wash the taste of paper from under his tongue. He gargled with espresso as he strode across the corridor to Mr. Cranston’s office and took a deep breath before knocking.

“Come in,” a high-pitched male voice prompted.

Mr. Cranston lolled in a chair, but his charcoal suit was crisp and tight. Angela, Mr.Cranston’s assistant and Stanley’s girlfriend, was present too, but it took a while to find her in the room. The System had turned her to a USA Gold pencil, and Mr. Cranston was poking her into his yellowing teeth. Angela must have been late for work. She never managed time well, not even for their dates.