Flash Fiction Magazine

By Genevieve Leanne Dominguez

“We’re almost there,” I said. Gem wriggled in my arms, but I held her tight. I used to sit by the window with her on my lap, amazed at how the sunlight revealed the different colors that made up her golden-brown fur—though, lately, I had noticed the streaks of white on her body spreading.

A cool wind ruffled my hair as I climbed up the hill. When we reached the top, I gasped at the sight below. Fields of flowers stretched towards the horizon with a clear path laid out in the center. It led to a small bridge and a large fenced-in area where dogs raced and jumped high. A woman stood tall in front of the bridge, as if she were guarding it.

Gem whined and placed her head on my shoulder. I stroked the top of her head and began to walk.

[Read more…] about Crystal

By Gail Mackenzie-Smith

On a warm evening in August, Jujube was attacked by the feral cat living in the alley for the third and last time. She dragged her bloody body up two short steps onto the porch and collapsed in front of the screen door. The sound of gunshots filled the living room where three girls sat on a velour couch watching Bonanza. Mini, the eldest, noticed the half-dead cat, its ginger fur matted with blood.

[Read more…] about Bad Cat

By Claire-Lise Kieffer

“And you are sure,” the inventor said, “that this is where you want to go? 2002?”

“Yes,” Thomas said.

The inventor shrugged. “So here, zip yourself in, when the green button lights up, press it, and off you go.” He sounded tired, like a merry-go-round operator at the fair. The only way he could get funding for his time machine was to let members of the public use it via a lottery system.

Thomas settled in and pressed the green button. It would take one hour and thirty-six minutes, the inventor had explained with pedantic precision. Thomas would have three hours in 2002, and he replayed in his mind what he would have to do.

[Read more…] about Teenage Time Travel

By Amy Suzanne Parker

“You’ll give birth to a baby boy within the year,” the psychic told me. Her warm hands clasped mine. My fingernails were blue. I’d spent the morning shoveling snow. The news said forty inches, and it was the first time I’d gone out since after the blizzard.

Of course, nothing came but monthly blood. I watched the toilet paper turn pink to red to brown, little death cycles, like leaves turning, seasons lasting a few days. I didn’t tell her I’d divorced my husband in August. It was February, almost a year since I’d last had sex. I was starting to believe that the cold and the absence of another’s touch, would fossilize me.

[Read more…] about The Year in Fruit

By Rick Williams

Thanh kneeled as he took the small white cotton towel out of the silver basin filled with soapy water and washed his father’s feet. They felt soft and cold. Thanh tenderly cleaned between the toes with his fingers. Unlike the rest of his body, the small feet were without wrinkles or remnants of gunshot wounds. Thanh created his own history of where they had been. Bare, battered, bloodied, and bruised, running down hard mud paths fighting the French. A decade later, they’d slipped in and out of villages scattered throughout the Mekong Delta, attacking Americans and their lackeys. Thanh imagined them submerged in rice patties with clinging black leeches sucking his blood and covered with lacerations from running through the jungle. To him, the feet were no different from when he was a boy more than four decades ago. After drying them with a clean towel and sprinkling baby powder on top, he slipped white wool socks and cushioned gray slippers over the silky-smooth feet.

[Read more…] about Lamp Unto His Feet

By Pete Lindemann

“Far out,” he said to the bartender, his hand over the mouthpiece. “She’s got one of those answering machines…hey, it’s me, George. I’m at the Ambassador. Not sure what you’re doing—but if you get a wild hair, come on over.” He hung up the phone and slid it toward the back of the bar.

He was glad she hadn’t answered. Now every time the door opened, he’d get a rush. He looked left toward the door, pulled the slip of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, twisted open his pen, and wrote “near-miss effect,” then “B.F. Skinner.” He closed his eyes for a second, smiled, and added “skinny hips.”

[Read more…] about The Night George Fell in Love