Flash Fiction Magazine

By Priyanka Sacheti

In years to come, she will turn that day into a story: an anecdote to narrate at parties or share during her poetry book readings. “So did you hear about the girl who thought her boyfriend was going to propose to her in a rose garden by the sea—but he dumps her there instead?” she will begin. “I mean, what kind of a person breaks up with their girlfriend in a rose garden of all the goddamned places in the world?” When she finishes uttering those words, her audience will be utterly silent for a moment before breaking into a ripple of sound, one of commiseration, anger, bemusement or perhaps, all before lapsing into silence again. And then she will smile and say, “But the good news is that I still like roses.”

[Read more…] about A Prayer of Roses

By Paul Dicken

The only thing worse than a nightmare is a happy dream. I used to have the most terrible nightmares. I don’t know why. I live a quiet life. I have no secrets. I yearn for no forbidden vice. But then again, maybe that explains it. I can’t even remember what they were about now, only that I would shake myself awake long before the dawn and watch the inky memories slink away into dark angles and forgotten corners, and wait for the dreary light of day to summon me to another turn of the wheel.

[Read more…] about Dreaming

By Amanda Fletcher

“You’re on your own,” Joe says. “If you don’t know your ass from your elbow by now, that’s not my problem.” I am eighteen and I know I have it figured out, summer legs flung across the basement coffee table. While he talks, I keep my eyes on my Coney Island Cotton Candied toenails, flexing and relaxing on either side of a brass casting of the three wise monkeys my stepdad has had since before my mom and I moved in a million years ago. Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil. I start thinking about a boob job.

[Read more…] about Right

By Jamey Gallagher

The dogs were all the same: German Shepherds that had been made mean. The dogs had a room of their own in our father’s apartment, in Lowell, that we were not allowed to enter, not that we wanted to. When we first showed up, the dogs—two, sometimes three—would bark like crazy, repetitive threats that would suddenly stop. We would forget about the dogs, but then one of us would walk past the door and from behind would come snarls, guttural sounds that raised our hackles.

[Read more…] about Dogs

By Mike Nolan

Bill’s keys were on the dresser, arranged in a neat row with his phone, wallet, bank statement, some insurance papers, and the title to his car. If Barbara had been there, she would have called him compulsive, and she would have been right. The ultimate sign of obsessive compulsivity, Bill thought, a to-do list before killing yourself.

When life was good, or at least when it was better, Bill went places, did things, saw people. He’d even surprised himself by enjoying the apartment “meet and greet” after scrawling his name on one of those adhesive labels you peel and stick to your shirt. He had always been a bit of a loner, so even with Barbara by his side, Bill had felt out of his element. But he had to admit the people were friendly.

[Read more…] about Of Hummus and Suicide

By Jedediah Smith

Feeling the need of increased stature among his peers, Pepkin decided to grow a beard, like those of the great philosophers, or Tolstoy or Brahms, and so he stopped shaving. When his beard came in, though, it came not as many hairs but one enormous whisker. It grew just above the jawline of his right cheek and resembled a tree trunk. Since it lacked the look of a conventional beard, he thought about shaving it off, but decided to give it some time and see how it developed.

[Read more…] about The Enormous Whisker