Flash Fiction Magazine

By Morgan Brennan

Hal Peters shuffled along the old Telegraph road. He’d traveled many a mile and was dog tired and hungry, but his shoes, well, they felt real good. A perfect fit and genuine calfskin leather brogues, wouldn’t you know. They made a comforting crunch on the broken ground. The dead guy he’d pulled them off of back in Mobile wouldn’t have missed them. No, not one bit. It had always been sneakers with Hal, but he could get used to these. Yes sir, they had status and solidity, unlike the ground before him. He had to criss-cross the road’s yawning cracks and its melted tarmac, but that was ok. He was alive.

[Read more…] about One Billboard Past Mobile, Alabama

By Jamie Fouty

I had never attended an event like this before; I didn’t know so many people were looking for love. There were 200 people in a room with a capacity of half that. The smell of sweat mixed with bleach burned my nostrils. The frenetic energy and collective voices felt like a low, threatening rumble of thunder. The ceiling fans made buzzing sounds with little progress. Confusion and excitement painted everyone’s faces. Where other setups at least select matches for you based on certain criteria, this was a free-for-all. Upon first glance, there were a few I could see living with, but my hesitation caused them to make faster connections with those more outgoing.

[Read more…] about Where to Find Love

By Rebecca Bennett

Like a guilty thought, the smell of stale nicotine is buried but present. Tara has seen every version of Mayfair Diner, from smoker’s paradise to revamped mom and pops. Despite the changes, bad decisions still coat every surface like a thin film of nostalgia. Pentacles carved into the laminate, relationships inked on red pleather. The smell of the diner always hits her hard—Tara wants a drink, needs it. There’s no such thing as ‘just a drink’ with Mel, though. Any mention of alcohol brings on long-suffering sighs and lectures, as if Mel had personally sat through every one of Tara’s drunken screaming matches. As if Mel’s done more than just email once a year.

[Read more…] about The Weight of Someone Else’s Memories

By Mark Cote

Charlie stood on the sidewalk towards the end of the line. At fifty-five, he looked older than his years, having gone almost completely bald in his mid-forties. Soon, what was left was gray and white, and, coupled with his ever-expanding beer belly, one could easily mistake him for a gentleman in his sixties. He would have been there sooner if it hadn’t been for his wife’s nagging him about being late. She had been doing that a lot lately, more so than usual. It began when he walked through the door from work and ended only when he turned out the light and pretended to be asleep, though she still nagged in the dark of their bedroom about how he never listened to her anymore. He could hear her in his dreams, which caused him to toss and turn restlessly in the bed, which caused her to nag him even more.

[Read more…] about Next!

By Robert Tamplin

The train, which had exited the station at a crawl, halted halfway across Rochester Bridge. I shifted in my seat, worrying about the British Transport Police who had accompanied the conductor on his ticket check. I’d managed to play it cool that time, but I wasn’t up for another visit.

[Read more…] about Moored

By Julia Paillier

It was a Sunday when Alice first noticed the back gate was off the latch. It must have been, because she was pegging out her weekly wash, a Sunday job. At the time, she thought nothing of it, putting it down to kids mucking about or a drunk, taking a sly pee on the way home. But two days later, when she went out to the bin, the gate was open again. And again the next day, when she crossed the yard to check.

[Read more…] about Night Visitors