Flash Fiction Magazine

By Maddie M. White

I sat in the brown leather chair once more. When I had sat here three years ago, I swore I’d never be back. I was a completely different person then. I remember sitting on my couch watching my favorite show, and suddenly this commercial came on about a new local dating service. True Match guaranteed to find you your soulmate. If it didn’t work out, they wanted you to come back and do a sort of exit interview.

The same grey-haired woman I had met years before walked in and sat down at her desk in front of me. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here,” she said. I nodded because I was surprised too. “So, what happened?” she asked. I felt my insides crumble. I didn’t have anything bad to say. There wasn’t really a good answer to that question.

I thought back to our first date three years earlier. “Hi there!” A beautiful brunette woman stood in front of me in the park extending her hand. I can almost smell how the air had that first day of spring smell. I can hear her infectious laugh and see her crooked grin. I remember walking through the park and not being able to take my eyes off of her.

The first year with her was pure bliss. I spent every free moment I had with her. She talked about wanting to be an artist. She surprised me on our first anniversary with a painting of the park, with us sitting on the bench by the fountain. We decided to take a trip and drive up the coast to Maine. Hours of old-school playlists and talking about our future made the trip the most memorable. Every time I would get us lost, I’d curse under my breath and she’d laugh. Looking at her sleeping and seeing her bare feet on the dash, I knew that I’d never want to see anyone else in my passenger seat.

That Christmas we went to her parents’ home in Vermont. The snow was falling, the fire was burning, and her entire family was gathered in the living room opening presents. I knew that this was the moment. The last gift was handed out, and I watched as she ripped the paper away from the box. My heart swelled when I saw a gleam in her eye like a child opening their most wanted gift. She said yes, and we started planning our future.

I got a call one afternoon that April. I got the job I had been waiting for. I made a special dinner and sat candles on the table in our tiny apartment. I was bursting with excitement to tell her. “What’s all of this?” she asked as she sat her purse in the floor. “I got the job!” I said with arms open. “Baby! That’s amazing news!” she exclaimed and jumped into my arms.

The night of her first art exhibit, I was full of pride. She was glowing and everyone that walked by was enamored with her painting. A gentleman in a black suit strolled up to her and handed her a card. After the show I wrapped her in my arms and whispered in her ear: “I’m so proud of you.“ She showed me the man’s business card from earlier. He wanted to talk to her about selling her paintings. That night we went into the city and celebrated with a bottle of champagne.

Another year passed, and we were nearing up on the wedding. We sat at our table filling out invitations, and I remember thinking how adorable she looked with her tongue stuck out to the side as she tried to perfect her handwriting for each card. Suddenly, my phone buzzed, and I saw that it was work. “They offered me a promotion,” I said quietly and set the phone down after ending the call. “That’s amazing!! I’m so proud of you!“ She smiled. “They want me to cover a story in Europe. I have to leave right after we get married,” I said. “We’ll make it work. I’ll come with you,” she said and placed her hand on top of mine.

A week before the wedding she got a job offer across the country. It was her dream job. She told the man that she’d have to think about it. We didn’t talk about it much, she was distracted with last-minute wedding plans. We agreed to write each other letters to read the night before the wedding to keep each other calm. I don’t remember the exact words I used, but I remember the feeling I got when I read hers.

“My love,

I hope you know just how much I do love you and cherish the time we spent together. This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I’m taking the job and I think you should do the same. We are both far too talented not to. I hope you can forgive me one day. I didn’t know until I started writing this that my decision was to go. I’m so sorry.”

I looked up at the grey-haired lady who was waiting patiently.

“What’s the last question?” I asked. My heart ached after recounting the three most wonderful years of my life.

“Would you do it again?” she asked.

“Absolutely. I’d do it all over again. In a heartbeat,” I said and stood from the chair.

By Rachel Small

Victoria was a non-smoker. “I’ll never forgive you if you start now, at your age,” Ellie had said. Ellie had been trying to quit for years. She had the right to say that. Victoria couldn’t blame her.

But there was something about Europe. “When in Rome,” she thought, lighting up with glee. Cigarettes transported her to a new world, a world that wasn’t exactly secret, but mysterious all the same. The Smokers’ Club.

Perhaps it was shameful, gaining entrance to the club in her thirties. “I really should know better,” she’d think, each time she slipped outside for some fresh air. But she couldn’t resist the pull. Something new to break up the monotony. The solitude. Isolation. Other club members welcomed her on the pavement.

Ian. She’d heard passersby greet him. Ian had been a member for quite some time. Even before she joined the club, she’d see him from her window, lighting up while she sipped her morning coffee. And her afternoon tea. He lived just across the street. It wasn’t as if she were spying. He was out in plain sight, after all.

That morning, cigarette in hand, she finally found the nerve.

Inhale. Exhale.

“So, you come here often?” she called out. Laughed. She’d meant it as a joke but cringed internally. No matter the tone, it was cheesy.

But he grinned and crossed the cobblestones between them. For a moment, she lost her breath. “Beautiful…”

The word lingered between them. Shit. Did I just say that out loud?

He laughed. Smirked. “You’re not so bad yourself. I should ask you the same thing, but I already know the answer to that. I see you out here every day.”

Long, slow drag, his eyes wandering down, back up.

Way to play it cool, Vic. “I was referring to your teeth. How do you keep them so white as a smoker?” Ugh. There was no way he was buying it.

He let the smoke drift out of his mouth slowly, still smiling. “‘As a smoker?’” He cocked an eyebrow. “Again, I might ask you the same thing.

She chuckled, ashed her cigarette casually. She hoped. “Well, I actually started fairly recently. Thought it might be a good way to meet people.” She winked.

Did I just wink? I’m such a fucking dork.

“Lucky me.” Those white teeth again. “Are you a natural blonde?”

This time, she laughed. What a weird question. But he was talking to her. That’s all that mattered.

“No, also something new I’m trying. Well, not that new I guess. Started dying it a couple years ago. Needed a fresh start.” Stop babbling, Vic. Sultry smile. She hoped.

“Hmm. It’s nice, though I’m more of a brunette guy myself.” He shook his head. “Too bad. Don’t tell me,” he said mockingly. “You dyed it after a bad break-up? Needed to prove to some jerk what he was missing?”

She ran her fingers through the ends self-consciously. “Yeah. He preferred blondes. I thought, ‘This will show ’im!’” Awkward laugh.

He pursed his lips. Faraway gaze up and down once more. Slow exhale of smoke. “Well, dude’s an idiot. His loss.” Turning his full attention on her, he said, “I’m Ian. And you are…?”

“Victoria.” She shifted her cigarette to her left hand, extending her right.

He took it but didn’t shake. Instead, he held onto it, leaned in close, and said into her ear, “A pleasure to meet you, Victoria. Maybe next time you’ll join me for a cigarette on my side of the street?”

She flushed, felt it all the way down. Cleared her throat. “I’d like that.” How long had it been? No, she couldn’t think like that. This time, she would wait. This time, it would be something real.

As she got ready for bed that night, she couldn’t shake Ian’s words from her mind. I’m more of a brunette guy. Staring hard at her reflection, running her brush through her long blonde hair, she knew what she had to do. She would do it first thing tomorrow.

~

She was waiting for him that afternoon, outside his place, cigarette in hand. As his expression of shock melted into one of approval, she grinned. A flat victory.

“I don’t really need a cigarette that bad,” he said. “Why don’t you come inside? For coffee. Or something.”

She looked at him. Yes, she needed…something. So bad.

And so, she finally found the nerve. “It was nice to meet you, Ian.”

Victoria threw the rest of her cigarettes in the trash as she walked away. The cost of membership was just too much. But she stayed with the new-old brown hair. She actually preferred herself as a brunette.

By Amanda A. Gibson

Marvin Drummond walked head down, feet stabbing the sidewalk. His morning had gotten off to a bad start. This time his wife had complained about the soapy puddles around the sink. Last night at dinner, she’d nagged him to sit up straight (“You know slouching is bad for digestion! No wonder you’re always eating Tums like candy!”) and before bed, she’d groused about the socks in the hamper (“Marvin, how many times do I have to remind you? Undo your socks when you take them off!”). His stomach was often awash in the acid that required he ingest the pastel tablets.

A bicyclist whizzed by so close his tie lifted and sailed in the breeze. Turning, he saw the retreating figure of the small, dark-haired boy with the blue backpack. Why couldn’t he ride on the street where he belonged? Marvin shook his head.

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By Ken Poyner

He had been curious about the Society of the Left Hand for as long as he could responsibly remember. Born ambidextrous, he wondered if his experiences were all that segregated from those of the truly left handed, from those with a weakened right appendage, and what in their collective commonalities would drive them to fathom and maintain their own identification society. His hands dangled equally beside him, and that, perhaps, is all the difference in the world; or, perhaps, it is nothing.

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By Jake Ristic-Petrovic

A wolf’s head rose up from windswept grass near the base of the mountain, eyes pensive. Calvin Reno had just emerged from his red and white Suburban a little ways uphill, next to an isolated patch of three young spruce trees. In his hands was a Mini-14, a small semi-automatic rifle with just a box magazine to distinguish it from an everyday hunting rifle at a distance. He was a large man in every sense—arms like furry tree trunks, a bulging belly, a broad chest, an enormous head that was hairless above the ears. People called him Cal.

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By Kim Martins

He smashed another vase this morning. Petals swam through the air. Thorns fell to the carpet and burrowed in. If I watered them, would they turn into blush pink rose bushes?

I was seated by the open window. It was a particularly rosy-hued morning. The front room was my own once more. My pounding heart quieted.

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