Flash Fiction Magazine

By Henri Colt

Love is like food. Take it away, and feel the hunger. Lose it, and life is a starving nightmare. My therapist says I have abandonment issues because I miss the symbiosis of my mother’s womb, but it’s as natural to need love as it is to eat, and I’ve wanted food since I was born.

It’s a ninety-minute ride to downtown Tokyo. I stare out the window and marvel at how silently the bullet train glides past row upon row of wooden homes. Their gabled roofs of slate tile remind me of how I stack tablets of dark chocolate on my kitchen counter. The man beside me is garrulous in his complaints about his wife. The smell on his breath betrays a preference for scotch over bottled water, so I chomp on wasabi beef chips and chug a soda to drown his words.

[Read more…] about Breakfast in Tokyo

By Paul M Clark

I’m in the shit. I know it. He never sees anyone in person. I stare at the plastic sign on the door —black with the word “Boss” in white Comic Sans. Not like the stylish Hugo Boss logo, which is what I’d go for if I were the boss.

I slide into his office and his face confirms my pessimism. Is this about my attempt at sushi during our shared lunch? I know gutting a fugu with a letter opener wasn’t the best idea, but I maintain it was my choice of tools that sickened people more than the fish. Anyway, it was Bob’s fault for suggesting a fish theme with a difference. He was the one claiming sushi tested people’s bravery. In the end, no one ate the fugu, so what could possibly be wrong?

[Read more…] about Constructive Dismissal

By Laura Jeu

In a kitchen without a table, the corn husks fall on the floor, silky threads entwining with the uneven floorboards and encasing toes in a smooth cocoon. As the stove floods with each ear of corn dropped into the pot, Cara laughs and darts to avoid rogue droplets. Mama brings the moths inside with the waning light, darting to the single bulb swinging in the soft breeze. Under the warmth, she chops lettuce, dodging slugs and dropping the lettuce’s green roots onto the ground.

[Read more…] about Sustenance

By Roy Isen

My father ate like the Tasmanian Devil, the perpetually pissed off cartoon biped with a mouthful of daggers that buzz-sawed through trees and boulders. Rather than savor every bite or thank a deity for the edible bounty, he would cut, rip, and shred whatever was put in front of him. He would expel a spray of food parts and saliva that landed on the cheek of the nearest family member.

The only interruption to the blur of chewing and chomping would be a quick gulp of seltzer, which produced a suppressed belch that inflated his neck to resemble a bullfrog in heat.

[Read more…] about The Choker

By Eric Persaud

The wall of cobblestone and overgrown vines make the climb to my window possible; daringly difficult, but possible. I have not seen my father since the Fall, but there he is, down below, looking up from the bushes. I can barely make him out against the dark backdrop of this summer night. His eyes glint back at me. Nothing is spoken aloud, but I understand he is screaming inside for me to be quiet.

I can hear my mom snoring through my bedroom wall. I sneak over my toys on the floor, open the window, and poke my head out of the frame to watch him back.

[Read more…] about Roaming View

By Annie Kuster

This Story Won Second Prize in Our Contest

Her back is to the bed, staring towards the steeples of the Catedral as she sucks in smoke. She used to joke that she only smoked so she’d die before him, her husband, fifteen years her senior. Yet, as she stands in the Spanish sunshine inviting death into her lungs, his breath grows shallower in the dimly lit room behind her. She wants to scream but takes one last hit instead.

She throws the cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath the heel of her boot. She runs her fingers through her long curly black hair—dyed; she’s fifty-seven now—and takes a deep breath. She leaves the balcony door open as she walks inside.

[Read more…] about Spanish Ham & Cigarettes