Flash Fiction Magazine

By Emmeline Roche

The woman walks alone, wind lifting her limp hair, twining and twisting it into wild, unnatural patterns.

She had curls, once, but they disappeared long ago, and now lay flat and feeble. She is brunette now, her blond gone with the setting sun. Her skin is pale and won’t freckle like it used to, her body frail and thin. Stick-legged.

[Read more…] about The Girl on the Dark Path

By Kate Handz

When they sense the bodies on earth scattered on the smashed battlefields, clustered among the bombed houses, heaped in the barbed wire enclosures—fleets of angels come.

[Read more…] about Angels

By Kayla Wiltfong

There is an alternate universe where everything is fine. I’m at your place, on your twin mattress, where I never actually felt like there wasn’t enough room. I can feel you beside me. I can hear you breathe. We ate leftovers from the meal we made from ingredients we bought at the grocery store, and we played Grand Theft Auto V, and we read before bed. We probably had sex. We usually had a lot of it because it’s what we wanted. Now, we are asleep because it’s 3:39 in the morning, and no one should really be up typing at this ungodly hour.

[Read more…] about This is How I Feel Better

By Katy Goforth

Daddy was a diesel ghost, floating into my room in the middle of the night and leaving a soft-edged memory in my dreams. The crispness of his shirt sleeve rubbed against my neck as he bent down to give me a goodnight kiss. No matter that I had been tucked in hours before.

[Read more…] about My Diesel Ghost

By Pat Foran

The Father, who said to the spinning ceiling fan, “I want the world to name a building after me,” remembers the first time the Children showed signs of climate anxiety.

We’re going to block the fall wolf hunt, Father, they said. Come with?

[Read more…] about The Father Who Said

By Matt Saccaro

After Christmas one year, Dad took the decorative angels we had placed out front and lined them up in the backyard. He drove a stake into each of their flimsy bases to keep the bodies planted in the ground—critical for when the sweet spot of his baseball bat sent their hollow heads flying.

[Read more…] about Headless Angels

By Terri Lewis

If you’d asked Wesley about his life before he got sick, he’d have said he loved his family, but hated noise.

His office twitched with clicking, ringing, and beeping. Co-workers hollered from cube to cube, and at lunchtime, when everyone was out on the street grabbing a bite, the fax machine whirred. At home, his girls yelled, laughed, pounded down the stairs, turning up the volume wherever they went. His wife, Shirley, crashed about the kitchen, chopping, crushing, blending.

[Read more…] about Sign Language