Flash Fiction Magazine

By Nicky C White

I stroll through Jubilee Gardens, past couples and young families picnicking, laughing, and chattering on the freshly mowed lawns. I inhale the sweet smell of the orange lilies wafting through the air and feast my eyes on the blankets of pink moss phlox plants paving the way to London’s iconic capsule—the London Eye, turning gently, but looking as majestic as ever sitting on the south bank of the River Thames. I leave the din of the crowds in the gardens and step into the capsule just after having one last look at the array of colors behind me. I decide to sit at the back and rummage through my bag to look for my most precious possession—my purple fur-lined journal. I begin to write with my glittery pen, while the big wheel starts to rotate and hum, showing me, bit by bit, the magnificent views London has to offer, including the spectacular red sunset over the City’s famous skyline.

By Riham Adly

That day, the air had a drugged quality to it—the kind that hovered around the unfamiliar calm of the house. Mama touched her face where Baba’s fist last punched her. She looked ethereal with those swollen, split lips, and for some reason, all I could hold in my head was an image of that American actress, Angelina Jolie.

She was looking at the window’s cracked glass. “Amany, I think you’re possessed,” she said.

“Why are you so sure, Mama?”

Her inflamed eyes turned here and there. She sniffled with her pink-rimmed nose before lifting a face that opened up like the sunrise—in layers.

By B.W. Carter

He would tell her, if only he could, how right she’d been. About him. About how goddamned selfish he was. How it really was all about him. He would give anything; he’d give every single thing he ever had to tell her that.

But of course, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not now. He could say the words, sure. But what good were apologies and promises when the recipient could no longer understand? When the spoken word, or language at all, no longer mattered. When to apologize served only to antagonize.

By Jean Wolfersteig

The pandemic was in full bloom on the day the Governor announced the stay-at-home order. Noelle went into her bedroom closet, shut the door, and sat on the floor. The closet was her safe place—her inner sanctuary from life’s obstacles and her own imperfect responses to them. Her closet was always there for her.

It was dark and cool inside, except for a thin stream of light from a window mounted near the attic hatch. She liked the color-coordinated clothing hung by length and the objects with special meaning she’d tucked away on the shelves. Even the musty smell of suits, shoved into the corners after her working years were over, comforted her.

By Yelena Crane

The mountain burned. Plumes of smoke rose, the stench of burning waste permeating every square inch of the rubbish island. Beneath Almeeda’s feet lay the shame of her country—hidden to the tourists expecting paradise. In the same pair of steel-capped boots she got when she first started the job a decade ago, she waded through the mountains of garbage, separating the real trash from what could still be salvaged for other markets.