Flash Fiction Magazine

By Michael Degnan

I decided to visit Uncle Jack after my mom’s funeral. I threw a few changes of clothes into my backpack, grabbed a couple of books, and went to the airport. I got a discount ticket to Rome on one of those budget airlines that is supposed to save you money but charges you for just about everything. None of that mattered. I was off to see family.

Uncle Jack loomed large in my childhood. Growing up an only child wasn’t always the easiest thing. I’d watch shows like the Brady Bunch and movies like Home Alone and wonder why my family was so small, why our holidays were so quiet and uneventful.

[Read more…] about Uncle Jack

By Richie Narvaez

Certainly, you can kill the wife. Women are killed all the time in fiction. Everyone will expect it. To get sympathy for your protagonist, make sure your reader knows she was a faithless virago. That will sway their small, judgmental minds. How dare she stray, break the marriage contract, and still ask your protagonist to shower daily?

Stack the deck by mentioning her intention to go through with a brutal divorce, to take the child, the house, and half of the priceless Funko action figures your protagonist has slaved for years to collect. That’s your stuff—your MC’s, I mean.

[Read more…] about Writing Tip #23: Never Kill the Dog

By D S Powell

His given name was Henry: Henry Brewis of Limehouse, but everyone called him “Beau” on account of his good looks and popularity with young ladies.

Together we made the trip from Tyneside to Poplar Dock once a week, and Beau Brewis acquired a reputation in both of those places as a bit of a dandy. Beau took a fastidious interest in his appearance. He sported a large, fashionable moustache, the ends of which he kept waxed. He was particular about the cleanliness of his clothes, when not on duty, having in his ditty bag always a fresh-pressed shirt and trousers, and a cake of soap.

[Read more…] about Beau Brewis

By Victoria McCurdy

The human body has a timeline. You don’t know that it’s merely a matter of weeks for Claire’s. You just wish you could pick up these baby lettuce leaves with your fingertips, as it is almost impossible to stab them with the tines of your fork.

“Is lettuce dead?” You stop yourself from blurting to her from across the café table, an emotionally induced Tourette’s threatening.

The leaves are still so seemingly green and fresh, yet the pale root fingers, severed from their nutrient source, no longer plumb the earth. What state are they in now?

[Read more…] about Cut of That Chin

By Martha Moyer

Claire Wilcox hugs her orange tote bag while the principal scans her resume. Her bag is heavy with tools like a fire extinguisher, a flashlight, and wire clippers. It’s hard for her to focus because today is the eighteenth anniversary of the fire she barely survived when she was four years old—the day the pilot light of the gas stove lit her puffy nightgown, and the flames cooked her skin.

“Why do you want to teach high school?” he asks.

“I want to enrich the minds of children with mathematics and…”

He waves her resume. “I don’t care about math. All I want is someone who can keep the kids in the room and start on Tuesday.”

[Read more…] about The Orange Tote

By Ann Yuan

“It’s hot today,” she says, as though talking to herself. The embroidery hoop in her left hand frames an image of leaves, all outlined by exquisite, golden fishbone stitching.

“Yeah, it is,” a man’s voice says from a corner of the living room. His upper body tilts in his armchair, looking almost ready to slide down and out the base; his long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles.

Outside, cicadas buzz fiercely on the top of parched oak trees. Two small pots of succulents stand on the windowsill, dark-green all year round; nobody can tell whether they are thriving, or just clinging to life—either way, they look equally fine.

[Read more…] about The Embroiderer

By Molly Weiland

Felice’s husband, Ronald, was preparing to leave for an unusually long work trip to Philadelphia. Felice stood in the mudroom watching him tie and re-tie the laces of the dress shoes she had bought him at the Men’s Wearhouse Black Friday sale.

“Why are you wearing your brand new shoes on the plane?” said Felice. “You’ll wear them out.”

“You never know. I might have some important business to attend to,” Ronald said, raising his eyebrows.

[Read more…] about What We Think Is Real