Flash Fiction Magazine

By Emma Raymond

During the summer, when I was eleven, we played marbles on the school field at lunchtimes.  My technique was good, better than most anyway. You had to gauge how much force to use according to the length of the grass between you and your target. That was what I understood and my opponents didn’t.

Once, on a day that was too hot for football or cartwheels, a crowd gathered around my adversary and me. I chose my weapon: clear with orange spaghetti swirls. There was a hush as my smooth, gleaming orb hurtled towards that of Chris Winch. The satisfying clink of glass on glass. I stepped forward, swinging my bag as though careless, to claim my prize, a sphere of iridescent green.

[Read more…] about Losing Game

By Elaine Cohen

Brian came to her home at exactly six-thirty as Marie knew he would. With Brian, you never wondered if he would show up—always, always on time. God, she loved that, that never wondering.

Good evening,” Brian said.

She smiled. “Good evening.” She was tired of the casual men who muttered, “Hey babe,” as they brushed by her. She loathed their stained t-shirts and ripped shorts and the sound of sandals flip-flopping dirt across her tile floor. She liked Brian’s formality, his coat and tie and that, on the hottest day, he never perspired.

[Read more…] about Dinner With Brian

By John Slayton

Leyland grips the chair’s armrests, half logs of birch, slick with lacquer and yellowed. He shifts his weight to relieve the ache in his body. Above him, on the mantle, a row of framed photographs. Old friends. His mother and father. His sons. A black and white of his first dog: Smokie. On the end, the closest to him: his wife. All now gone, separated by death or distance.

A dull wind whistles at the back window of the house, and the chimney damper shifts, squeaking to a hollow clunk. A cold draft bears the scent of ash from the fireplace. It’s mid-afternoon, he wonders if he should start a fire. He glances to his dog, Blue, on the rug in front of the window. But there’s something he may need to do today. He doesn’t want to leave the fire untended.

[Read more…] about Beyond the Woods

By Kika Dorsey

Adam blamed me for the day the rains stopped, the plains yellowed, and our cat disappeared. He wasn’t able to make the decision with me, so I made it alone. For the sake of the baby I carried, I stole from the garden of the rich patriarch, who built a house so big it blocked the view of the mountains. I told Adam that we needed to see where we could climb, so we, too, could look down at the world. I told him the man had more than he would ever eat. I told him, “Fuck the rules, Adam,” and I climbed over the fence, walked past the cherry tree, and gathered tomatoes and zucchini. The tomatoes were ripe as sin, and I set them in a bag my father gave me embroidered with angelfish, waves, and coral. I’ve never been to the sea. We ate them with dandelion leaves and shredded dock weeds growing on the plains.

[Read more…] about Eve

By Zoe Marzo

I told Jill we were so close, and we decided not to stop for groceries, driving on from Holy Cross Cemetery, where we’d stopped to stretch our legs, to the Airbnb in Topanga.

Wobbling under heavy bags, I made my way up the path to the cabin, and Jill followed behind. A tree’s twisted grey arms held clear glass ornaments as if offering hanging fruit. I slipped my phone out of my pocket, and I poked and flicked to find the door code.

“Shoot,” I said. “I didn’t download the app.”

[Read more…] about Topanga or Not Topanga

By Nick Gardner

The three of us are bellied up to the last bar in the world, tipping back Car Bombs to the televised violence of the end times. Barman shakes martinis, changes channels as the film crews covering the chaos are slaughtered. In the static between reports, I imagine strings of newscasters like lemmings at the edge of the cliff.

Ich, the critic in our group, says that lemmings are cliche. Give me something fresh.

[Read more…] about The Bar at Which We Watch the End of the World