Flash Fiction Magazine

By Jim Bates

George and Ida Ferguson, my great grandparents, were second generation cattle ranchers in eastern Montana. Mom kept a framed picture of them on the fireplace mantel when I was a kid. It was taken in their parlor, and you can just make out a piano behind Ida with a vase of cut wildflowers on it. They were dressed for the occasion: she in a calico dress, her long auburn hair wrapped around her head in a twirled braid, he in a white, snap button shirt, vest and gray Stetson hat. The flat prairie land of the Yellowstone River valley can just barely be glimpsed through the billowing curtains of a window in the background.

[Read more…] about Music On the Wind

By T A Westacott

“Hello, sorry to bother you. I need your assistance.” The man is tapping on my shoulder, his face concealed behind the giant walled plant. “You see—I’m going to kill that man over there soon and thought I’d better tell you.” The tapping stops. “Please see to things afterwards and, of course, make sure my bill is paid.”

I turn quickly, but he has disappeared fully behind the green shrubbery. People are laughing at the tables opposite—a birthday tea, perhaps with strawberry jam and cream. I put down my teacup and begin to stand.

[Read more…] about The Stranger at Table Five

By Blue Herring

My mom’s shadow stained the ground like wine soaking into a white shirt.

After years of doing the same routine over and over again, her shadow began to detach from her body. Even on the days when she wasn’t following her routine, her shadow was a constant reminder of what she did. First, it got up from the bed and took a few seconds to walk around to the closet. Then, it lingered in the doorway of the bedroom, a gentle time when my mom lovingly gazed at my father sleeping. Next, her shadow made its way to the bathroom, with a sway in its mass, and then into my room, where she stood in the doorway like before, and finally into the kitchen where the gentle clink and clatter of pans and dishes could be heard. Always the same. Bed, doorway, bathroom, my room, the kitchen.

[Read more…] about Shadow Stain

By Tom Hazuka

Call me Dracula. People say I’m a sick man, and though their condemnations pierce my heart, the claim is true. I am a sick man…a lovesick man. An undead lovesick man, to be sure, but those in love know not to split hairs.

I met Lotte Sanger at Transylvania Stadium. I was a relief pitcher for the Carpathian Wolves (who fortunately only play night games). My control could be erratic, and a sportswriter for the local rag dubbed me “Full Count” Dracula. When I gently confronted him for hurting my feelings, he said, “Bite me, Vlad,” and that midnight I granted him his wish.

[Read more…] about My Heart Is at Stake

By Amy Chase

The glossy, plastic eyes of our stuffed animals turned ravenous as we slept, waiting to devour us as the ritual of the girlhood sleepover grew darker. High-pitched giggles staved off sleep until they lowered into the salacious talk of budding sexuality, embarrassed truths, and unseemly dares. We didn’t sleep because we couldn’t. We wouldn’t.

Mr. Stripes, my plush security tiger, became a weighted rock in the bottom of my overnight pack, a shame I dared not share with my friends as we crested the teen years. Calls for a mother in the middle of the night turned into whispers about Bloody Mary, and we turned out like bacchanals, whipped into a frenzy of dark potential. Eventually, the tiger in my bag grew fangs and took hold of my wrist, teeth to tendon, as I searched for a toothbrush, and I knew that to fall asleep now was to surrender to the beasts sharing my bed. My blood was warm and thick to the touch, and the sorry wildcat licked my wounds.

[Read more…] about Mirrorverse

By Aaron J. Housholder

I hate myself for saying what I’m about to say to her. My best parenting strategy is to sound as little like a parent as possible. And yet here it is, 4:17 in the morning, my daughter’s sitting straight up in bed, eyes wide open, and she’s scared of the monsters in her closet. We’ve been here so many times.

“If you close your eyes,” I tell her, loathing each word, “they can’t see you, honey. They only can see you if you see them.”

“It’s true,” says a voice in the closet, a low growl. “Honestly, we’re not sure why that works, but it does, every time. You’d think word would get out about that. It’s so easy.”

[Read more…] about Daddy