Flash Fiction Magazine

By Kai Harris

I know it’s her before I even see the stick-on name tag attached to her shirt. In the beginning, he refused to tell me her name. He said he didn’t like talking about her because he didn’t want to think about her when he was with me. But I suspected he didn’t want me to know her name because, deep down, he worried that one day, I’d go looking for her. His perfect wife.

Joy.

[Read more…] about No Joy

By Jacob Rosemeier

It was a quiet day, and a cold one. There weren’t many visitors. A few groups ambled about, shuffling along in their boots, chins nuzzled inside the collars of their coats.

The young boy was quite a ways ahead. The man watched him jumping up and down excitedly and smiled. When he reached him, the boy raised a finger and asked the man, “So, what lived there?” His finger pointed to one of the larger enclosures, a wide one with little comprising it save the few arrangements of rocks spread about. A cluster of acacias at the back of the enclosure swayed to and fro in a gentle breeze.

[Read more…] about In Account of the Times

By Philip Keith

The car is on blocks in the vacant lot. Two boys stand on their toes, eager to see through its hazy windows. They stretch against the passenger side where the taller boy thinks the haze is like frosting and wonders if it might taste sweet. He is eight. His name is Will. He doesn’t know the frosting is an amalgam of sap and dust deposited by the dark pines swaying nearby. He doesn’t know the car is a Buick. He daydreams about licking its windows.

The shorter boy is Joel. Joel is six. He pokes a stick through a rusty hole in the car’s fender. He watches Will press a thumbnail into the sap, casting a series of frowns around the tacky glass.

[Read more…] about A Turn Behind The Wheel

By Michelle Wilson

The flyers went up, reluctantly: BOY MISSING: 5 feet 2 inches tall, 98 pounds, sandy brown hair, dimples. Last seen playing Call of Duty in the Johnsons’ den. Honestly, we figured he was with the Johnson boy, sucked into a video game marathon at an undisclosed location, curfew the last thing on his mind. The Johnsons were the liberal, jet-setting type who left the credit card on the kitchen counter while they flew off to Aspen for the weekend. The boys had ordered dinner from Seamless and were slaughtering enemy combatants in a secret hideaway. Boys will be boys. They need freedom to run wild. Worrying about others (such as their frantic parents) wasn’t in the How to Raise a Confident Boy handbook. They’re different from girls. You teach them to obsess over others’ needs, they’ll turn out timid.

[Read more…] about Boy Missing

By Derek Kagemann

His ankles itched, but mosquitoes were a symptom of summer. He lit another citronella candle. The thick, black wick kindled slowly and fizzled as it burned.

A young woman watched him from the steps of the neighboring apartment complex. She was an economy smoker who savored each slow draw right down to the filter. He had seen her at the pharmacy, paying out of pocket with a shaky hand. She scratched her arms, but mosquitoes did not bite on that side of the block.

[Read more…] about Natura Vult Vacui

By Amita Basu

Noon is the longest hour. She’s packed off her children to school. She’s packed off her husband to work. Their clothes pressed, their breakfasts served, their lunches packed. She’s let in the maid, and supervised her through dish-washing and floor-sweeping and floor-mopping. She’s nipped down to the greengrocer and planned dinner. She’s boiled the daal and rice for her own lunch. She’ll eat them as is: with a dash of salt and a sprinkling of mustard oil. She likes plain food. Secretly, at her solitary meal, that’s what she’ll sit down to.

[Read more…] about Noon