Flash Fiction Magazine

By Sue

They queue up outside my door for a romp in my bed, eager to pay the price to savor my erotic black skin and alluring athletic body. My well-toned legs are incredible, if I do say so myself.

With all that carnal activity you’d think I’d want to entice one of them to hang around long enough to form a lasting relationship, but one by one they rapidly disappear as though they’d never entered my life.

[Read more…] about It’s Not in My Nature

By Sarah Colon

She wakes up to find the tip of her pinky disappearing. It is there, but a ghost of itself, a pink film through which she can see the navy blue of her comforter. When she touches it, she can still feel it, but somehow more vaguely.

“Yes, it starts in the extremities,” the doctor had said, removing her socks to examine her toes. He pointed to her right foot, where the edge of her big toe has begun to blur. “You’ll still be able to wear your clothes,” the doctor told her. “It’s nothing to worry about, really. You can perform all the same functions as before. Be a little more careful when crossing the street.”

She is shocked it is starting so early. She thought she had at least a decade left.

[Read more…] about Disappearing

By Jacqueline Moran Meyer

This is my sixth day of eating breakfast at a diner in Plainview, Wisconsin. I am drinking water from a spotted glass, gazing out the window at the fifty-five-gallon drum that’s parked by the curb in front of the restaurant. Pretty soon, my waitress, Sallie Beth, will saunter over to take my order. My guess is, she’ll ask, “What would you like, young man?” She’s asked me the same question every morning.

[Read more…] about Sunny-Side-Up

By Raymond Sloan

Sam always fished on Saturdays. At least, that’s what Irene thought. This Saturday, however, he was denied his well-earned recreational time, and was to spend the scorching day tearing up their old garden in order to make Irene a new one.

Like always, Sam complied.

[Read more…] about Geranium on the Side

By Matthew Gomez

The day before their anniversary, Salvador heard a song his wife, Alia, would love. He had to stop himself from texting her about it. She’d been gone two years already.

Not gone—dead, he reminded himself. Gone suggested she’d left for an errand and could return any moment. It was a reminder he’d grown used to—a mantra he told himself each time he read a moving poem or saw an infuriating headline—freezing just as he unlocked his phone, clicked Alia’s name, and glanced at her last message: “Love you, too.”

[Read more…] about Boundless

By Robert P. Bishop

The cold water pushed against my legs, threatening my balance as I shuffled over the stones in the creek bed, worn smooth and round by centuries of rushing water. A thin, smoke-like mist rose from the water’s surface and spread into the surrounding forest, suppressing sound, imposing a silence in spite of the noise of the churning water.

I loved these morning fishing trips in the days of a fading summer, surrounded by cool mountain air, being alone in a perfect world. Many times, I’ve thought this is what it must have been like in the beginning, before asphalt ribbons spread like cancerous growths across the land and the earth was blighted by the effluvium of an industrialized world.

[Read more…] about Deception in the Garden