Flash Fiction Magazine

By Lauren Lang

Dear Agnus,

I’ve always hated your name. I couldn’t tell you that when you were alive, but now that you’re dead, I can say anything I want. Your parents gave you an ugly grandma name, which didn’t suit you at all. You looked more like a Kelly, you know, with the normal spelling. None of those crazy “i’s” for you.

By Lynn Nicholas

Claire’s eyes were vacant; unblinking and watchful. It saddened me to see her once-vibrant face so expressionless. At least today she wasn’t fearful, ready to spring away or strike out.

“I’ve reached the equinox of my life.” Claire swept long, graying bangs to one side and leaned closer to my lawn chair.

By M. C. Tuggle

Sounds travel farther in the cold December air, especially ominous ones. It’s three in the morning, and I’m walking the dogs. Duke and Bear flinch at every tortured moan from the upscale bungalows we pass. They whimper as they search both sides of the street, taking short, nervous sniffs. I’d worked late at the hospital again, and hoped I’d hear fewer cries of helpless terror from my neighbors tonight. No such luck.

By David X Lewis

It was a special occasion. It must be, or we wouldn’t be going to the Barn. “You can have a knickerbocker glory,” Daddy said. He knew I liked those. “Or a water ice,” he said to Mary.

My sister and I loved the Waterend Barn. It had been transplanted from an estate that had something to do with a Duchess of Marlborough and a man called Churchill. We’d heard those names. Cracked oak beams soared to the height of a church. We thought it was fab.

By Sujana Vangala

Your mother’s eyes cradle something shattered and forgotten in their pooled darkness. She draws you in with slow, still whispers, and sometimes you wonder if she breathes at all. Her rib cage swells and caves, but you’ve never heard her gasp, sigh, heave earth shaking sobs. Your mother stands at the windowsill and, for a second, you’re sure she’s going to take flight. Instead, she fixes a flower box of wilted orchids and lets sunshine sear her retinas.

By Omobola Osamor

Even in the dimly lit hall, where the floodlights were focused on the stage, his eyes were beautiful—dark brown framed by thick eyebrows. His hair—an afro a couple of inches away from his skull—was high enough to take notice of his broad forehead. The nose was tapered; a pink, full lower lip that I later discovered to be remarkably soft, cradled a faint mustache. I saw him slamming the door of a red Chevy in the parking lot, and when he turned around, the raised black fist, synonymous with the maestro, contrasted the white T-shirt at the center of his torso.