Flash Fiction Magazine

Donald

March 30, 2015 10 Comments

By Miriyha Davis

When she was twelve years old, she fell in love with Donald. He was blonde haired, blue eyed and had a smile to match his sweet persona. She was a cute black girl with pigtails and a pudgy stomach, but Donald didn’t seem to care about that. They giggled in class and passed notes as if they were the oldest of friends.

“I’m faster than the Flash at almost everything.” He’d say and she’d laugh, not really knowing who the Flash was until she was older and the internet was a thing.

When she was twelve and a half, Donald died. He loved to climb trees and test the limits often. One day, he ventured into the tall oak behind his house and had gone higher than he’d ever gone when he stepped on a dead branch. He plummeted several feet and his body was crushed upon impact.

She always figured he’d grow up to be one of those daredevils who leapt from planes or swam with sharks. He would climb Mount Everest and take a selfie or ride a camel in Egypt with only a canteen and some beef jerky. That was Donald. But he barely made it out of eighth grade when he was buried.

She found out when her first year of high school began and Donald was nowhere to be found. She’d thought perhaps he’d moved somewhere exotic like Africa or Australia. Perhaps his entire family had been daredevils and they needed a place with more perilous terrain than the southwestern United States. After the first week, she’d asked her friend Ailene about him. Ailene knew everything about everybody.
[Read more…] about Donald

I’d Like to Help if I Could

March 29, 2015 6 Comments

By Roy Dorman

In the apartment above him, Alvin Andrews heard the sound of something glasslike, probably a plate, hit the wall and shatter. He heard the sound of a woman pleading, “Roger, please, don’t,” in a frightened voice. He knew he should do something, this wasn’t the first time, but he was afraid. He knew he couldn’t go upstairs and confront the jerk named Roger because he was afraid Roger would beat the hell out of him. He didn’t think he could call the police because Roger might guess that it was he who had called and, you got it; beat the hell out of him. He was ashamed of himself for being such a coward.
The next morning as he was coming out of his apartment, Judy Simpson, the woman from upstairs, was coming down the steps. Alvin worked up his nerve and asked, “Are you okay? I’m sorry, but I can hear everything when he gets angry.”
Judy stopped and looked Alvin in the eye. “One of these times he’s going to kill me,” she said in a matter of fact way. She then walked past him and out the door.
Alvin told himself that the next time he heard Roger being violent he was going to call the police. Resolving to do that made him feel a little less guilty for having done nothing in the past. [Read more…] about I’d Like to Help if I Could

Burning Incense

March 28, 2015 3 Comments

Chuck Crowley burned incense constantly, in a little clay dish on the sill of the drafty aluminum-framed window in his room. At first I thought he was just reliving his youth. He was tall and thin and always wore faded tie-dyed tee-shirts. He had a beard and wore his thinning gray hair in a long ponytail. I imagined him back in the day; strumming a guitar and smoking a joint wrapped in strawberry rolling paper.

Turns out, he wasn’t an old hippie at all, but a career stockbroker. Oh, Chuck was into derivatives all right—he was a shark like the rest of them—but he wasn’t high enough up the food chain to actually make a profit when everything went to hell in 2008. Instead, he came crashing down along with the rest of us.
[Read more…] about Burning Incense

Bus Stop

March 27, 2015 7 Comments

By Kerry White

With short steps she approached the bright green metal bench and sat down, being careful to use her hands to bring her coat tail forward and not let it scrunch under her. Next to the bench on her left side stood a sign fixed on a wooden post It simply stated, “Bus Stop”. Her hat, a flimsy thing, an upside down bowl shape with some gauzy material around the front, was held on with black hair pins. From underneath the hat strayed grey hair, turning white, combed but limp, not styled.
The red coat she wore was in stark contrast to the bright green bench color. They clashed, each fought for any passerby’s attention. The street, layered with fresh autumn leaves, was empty of vehicles. The leaves stirred, sometimes swirled, in the not too cold and intermittent breeze. Even so, she drew the collar of her coat tighter.
Faded blue eyes, once deep pools of color, surveyed the street up and down. With nothing seen, she leaned back into the bench, resolved to wait, age spotted hands folded one over the other.
The breeze tumbled the leaves again and brought the smell of smoky leaf fires from somewhere else, farther down the street. She closed her eyes, drew in that golden smell, so familiar and yet distant, it had a name, it was on the tip of her tongue…a burn pile or something.
The noise of a passing car drew her attention. Tires mulched through the trees fallen foliage. She looked again, up and down, did not see anything else, and settled back once more.
In time, a man walked her way with a newspaper and using a spiral shaped wooden cane. She noted how his steps were very deliberate as he made sure each footfall was properly planted before the next succeeding one was attempted. His coat was lighter in material, a grey windbreaker. He wore a flat ivy cap, herringbone patterned, around which curled his thin grey hair and bushy, long side burns. A large nose parted the thin moustache above his upper lip.
He asked, “Is this seat taken?” gesturing towards the empty half of the bench.
She moved more to the side, “No,” and tucked her coat in tighter to he thighs.
With care, he maneuvered into a sitting position on the open bench seat. “Thank you,” he said, “It feels good to sit down.” [Read more…] about Bus Stop

When in Rome

March 26, 2015 2 Comments

By Linda Thornton Peterson

The mountain town, where I taught at the four- room schoolhouse, was snowed in all winter. The café and gas station remained open for twenty winter residents. With the mountain blocking the sun, darkness came early, but tonight a full moon reflected off the snow.
I was the only female in the cafe, sitting among a sea of baseball -style caps with company logos. [Read more…] about When in Rome

Coffee Break

March 25, 2015 13 Comments

By J. M. Gofton

The world is full of brave men. Tommy isn’t one of them.

For three weeks now, since starting his new job in London, he’s been visiting the same café at lunchtime, sitting at the same table, and watching the same woman out of the corner of his eye. She’s had his attention from day one, and he’s still not entirely sure why.

It’s mid-October, and the entire café is decked out in oranges, greens and purples; there’s a carved pumpkin sitting on the windowsill and little spiders, crafted from pom poms and pipe cleaners, dangle from the ceiling. Tommy’s never been particularly fond of Halloween – his parents love throwing parties and dressing up, so, naturally, he does not – but he does love autumn. It’s the colours he likes best; the warm browns and the burnt oranges. Perhaps that’s why he likes this girl so much.
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