Flash Fiction Magazine

By Levi Andrew Noe

Deep in the green Irish Sea, somewhere between the Doolin Dock and Inis Oir, she barrel-rolls for no one and nothing.

“Eh! Eh! Eh! Eh! Ah!” She tells her best pun to the sea cucumber—more of an acquaintance than a friend, even after seven years of how-do-you-dos and dirty jokes. Larry barely even undulates. Or she thinks his name is Larry, he’s just such a dud. She chirps out one lonely laugh. Tough crowd.

[Read more…] about Dusty of the Aran Islands

By Mary Adams Belk

Sonny Banks jumped from the boxcar as the train slowed down outside of town and hurried along the path through the woods to the cemetery. Standing in the brush, he could see below where the family had already gathered under the tent—Roland and Bonnie, Uncle Buck, and Aunt Peg. Mama had been right. It looked like the whole town had turned out, even Doc Thornton and the sheriff.

[Read more…] about The Funeral

By Linda Baten Johnson

Nobody hired in the middle of winter. Why couldn’t his family understand that? He retrieved the key from the fake rock amid the shrubs and let himself inside the house.

Moving quietly in order not to awaken her, he surveyed the living room. What would be of sentimental attachment? He’d start with the things she’d never miss. Old people, even sweet grandmas, collected stuff they never used.

[Read more…] about Look Who’s Here

By Andrew Boulton

Do not call me a liar. But.

I took off my boot tonight and saw, not my own, but Tilda Swinton’s toe.

(Do not ask me how I know it was Tilda Swinton’s toe. If you saw it you would know at once it was Tilda Swinton’s toe.)

[Read more…] about Tilda Swinton’s Toe

By Ian E Gonzales

The airlock opens, revealing the moon’s surface. It’s beautiful, a palette of grays and blacks in a thousand different shades. The light of the distant sun makes everything it touches luminous, throwing crisp shadows across the moondust.

I turn to the only other occupant of the airlock. “Time for one last first, Kate,” I say, staring down at the still form wrapped in a black plastic bag.

She doesn’t answer.

[Read more…] about Last Steps

By Lori Cramer

I awaken to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee—which is strange because my roommate Suzanna always sleeps in on Saturdays. Pulling a hoodie on over my PJs, I head for the kitchen.

Suzanna’s not there. Instead, Tyson, her Flavor of the Week, is seated at the table in plaid boxers and a T-shirt. “Oh, hey.” He sits up a little taller. “Good morning, uh…Kayleigh.”

[Read more…] about Nice Guys