Flash Fiction Magazine

By Andrea Rothman

The man walks into my house. Tall and absurdly young, he has come to inspect my roof, and possibly fix it. My roof is over eighty years old and likely to be the only flat roof in Seattle. For over a decade now it has been leaking. When it rains, water invariably finds its way in, and it rains often here. Winters especially, I live surrounded by buckets; my living room and kitchen recalling in some distant way a children’s art project. I thought I had made peace with it, but the roofer’s presence in my house means I probably haven’t.

“Flat roofs are a problem,” the young man says, stating the obvious, yet something about his smile and large gruff hands hanging open at either side of him, suggesting a willingness to help, gives me hope.

[Read more…] about Things I Thought I Knew About You

By Alan Meyrowitz

With a lurch, Tom backed away from the wall calendar and muttered, “My God.”

Molly looked up from her knitting, careful not to make a slip with the needles.

“What’s that?”

“Truth be told,” he said, “God’s got nothin’ to do with it. Angie’s comin’.”

[Read more…] about Angie Is Coming

By Evan Sheldon

His phone buzzed again on wooden kitchen table, like an angry bumblebee. He glanced at it, then pushed ignore. He took a sip out of a tiny bottle of Chianti, and glanced over the odd assortment of items he had collected. They were in no particular order: a tiny Dala horse, a shooter of grappa, one of rum, a metallic Japanese style dragon, a lavishly painted ceramic bowl, a scarf, a hat. He didn’t know what to do with all this junk. Part of him wanted to throw it against the wall, shattering everything until the collective pieces formed something new, something unrecognizable. But he was too old for such outbursts. He thought maybe he should bury it or donate it all, but he found both options exhausting. He placed his wrinkled hands, palms down on the table. God, he was tired. He almost got up then, to sweep it all into the box and return it to an upper shelf in the garage. But instead, he grabbed the Dala horse.

[Read more…] about Tastes Like Grappa

By Jillian Tan

Singapore noodles. Extra spicy.

According to user Fattybombatty on Zomato, this restaurant does the “best, most authentic” Singapore noodles in Melbourne. They’d been more than willing to wait forty-five minutes for their “plate of true southeast asian flavour.” Fortunately it isn’t busy when I’m there and my order arrives in under fifteen. I put a forkful in my mouth, and I immediately call the waiter over.

This isn’t spicy enough, I say, do you know what extra means? It means more than normal. Way more. Please bring this back to the kitchen. Tell the chef, again, extra spicy. I say this extra slowly. The waiter stares at me, and I stare back until he is forced to look away. The customer is always right. The waiter does what I say.

[Read more…] about Authentic Flavour

By Joseph Mills

Everyone had been surprised when the ball went in. Even the kid who took the shot. He had a look of astonishment, like, “Did I just do that? I couldn’t have done that.” Some kids have the arrogance of thinking every time they shoot, it’s going to go in. They truly believe it. Some, like that kid, are surprised they even touch the ball when they swing at it. Scoring? Sure, that’s the goal, but they know by now that it doesn’t ever happen like that. Except sometimes it does.

[Read more…] about Zidane

By Maya Lazarus

Philomena fed her children gelatin for breakfast. They chose the color. She gave them burnt vegetables at lunch, believing the carbon would strengthen their bones. She offered them filtered rainwater to drink and poured cod liver oil down their throats at dinnertime. To say that she had some quirky nutritional beliefs would be a misjudgment. To Philomena, these ideas made perfect sense because they were natural elements of the earth, at least most of them. They were as natural as the kinky, dark curls that sprouted from her skull, as natural as her confident, hip-swaying walk or her bronze-colored skin.

Her eight children accepted her ideas without complaint. They knew no other way as they didn’t go to regular school or play with other kids. They loved the braids she made in their hair. She placed trinkets on the ends that tinkled, so she could always find them.

[Read more…] about Choices We Make, Chances We Take