Flash Fiction Magazine

By Jami Kimbrell

Fig trees were weighed down, limbs touching the ground, and what felt like rotten fruit-sludge squished between my toes as I stumbled barefoot across my Aunt Joree’s backyard in search of her missing cat. It made my granny mad to see all those figs go to waste, but her sister wasn’t all there anymore. We knew that because Aunt Joree had been letting things die around her for years.

Still, she seemed content unless she lost her cat.

So what if she hadn’t changed the light bulb in her spare bedroom since my granny stayed there two Christmases ago so neither of them would have to spend it alone. So what if her pantry hadn’t been stocked since that same Christmas, and so what if you could open her fridge and see a jug of clabbered milk, a bag of shriveled grapes, and a moldy box of Arm & Hammer. Things were different when it came to that cat, the one she’d named Loretta even though it was a male, even though it couldn’t sing, never made a sound even, had been born that way. “Such a shame,” she’d say as she stroked Loretta’s back while the two of them took in their daily dose of *Wheel of Fortune.*

[Read more…] about Rigor Mortis Never Looked Less Rigid

By S.E. Casey

Andy was thirteen when he found the first finger. Seeking the shade away from the bullies at the pool, he discovered the finger in a gap of the rock wall. It would be the first of many that kept appearing in odd corners of the world.

The loose finger wasn’t dirty, bloody, or in any way gross, as normal as any of his own. He snuck it into his bathing suit pocket, casually wading back into the pool to let the chlorine kill any germs.

He didn’t tell his mother or anyone else. The bullying boys didn’t need any additional ammo with which to torment him.

Upon his return home, he dumped the firefly corpses from the jar to make room for his latest curiosity. It was too bad about the fireflies; they were certainly a wonder, but he hadn’t poked any holes in the twist-on lid. However, it’s proven airtight quality would keep his new treasure preserved.

Andy considered telling his sister or his best friend Thomas, but he didn’t. He hid the glass jar under the loose floorboard behind his bed.

[Read more…] about Tickle Jar

By David Cook

It’s a bit dark in here, but it’s cozy. I like it. I’ve got my monitor, I’ve got my phone, I’ve got everything I need. I feel calm, confident, and in control for the first time since the office move.

There’s some chatter outside. “What’s that?” people are asking as they clock in. Jim—who sits at the PC next to mine—is telling them exactly what I told him when he arrived this morning.

“It’s a box fort,” he’s saying. “Bob’s built himself a box fort to work in.”

People then ask why, or a variant of that question prefixed with swearing. And swear words—which are frequent round here—are one of the reasons I’ve built this thing in the first place.

“Bob says he can’t work in this, quote, open-plan hellhole, end quote, any more.”

“What about office synergy?” someone asks.

Phrases like “office synergy” are another reason for the fort.

[Read more…] about Box Office

By Craig Loomis

This aging stuff is getting in my way, especially when I decide to take a simple walk from bedroom to kitchen and back again, minding my own apartment business, and before you know it, I bump into a table corner, scrape my hand against a doorknob. And the next time I look—feeling something like an itching—the back of my hand has grown a blotch of purpley-red, my forearm an angry welt. How can an innocent, never-mind bump against a brass doorknob cause that: a no-nothing rub against the table? Whose idea is that? And so, after a typical day of bumps, mini-collisions, and assorted scrapings, I end up with hands and arms that look like something out of a death camp. That’s all wrong. Ask anybody. All wrong.

[Read more…] about What Old People Talk About When They Meet at the Coffee Shop

By Brian Saunders

I wrote the bones of you in a single afternoon. Coffee-soaked, scribbling longhand with shaky electric fingers, leaning forward on a hard wooden chair. When I sat back, I knew—seeing nothing but your outline, how simple and beautiful you’d be. I had to type you up, had to give you hair and nostrils and a name.

You gave me a reason. A reason to stand on the subway, a reason to level my shoulders, to look shop girls in the eye. I went out at night. I drank red wine with friends and smiled knowingly and said “Yes, something,” when they asked about my days. “Something with promise.”

And you were. You were radiant.

[Read more…] about Knuckle

By Terrigus Teague

In 1971, I started in a new school for the sixth time in nine years. As always, I was fearful, because in the past I had often been the target of abuse. My parents spoiled me with money and possessions; therefore, I had no need to work, but I wanted my own money.

One of the first people I met in Clyde was a kid named Dwight. He told me of a great moneymaking venture. He told me we could make $50 a weekend working as chicken catchers. About every eight weeks, in most cases, the chicken houses had to be emptied, and new chicks arrived to replace the ones which were sent to the processing plant. These houses were humongous, often housing over 50,000 chickens. Men who did not have regular employment could get a job catching chickens. Also, other men who were the bosses would contract directly with the major poultry suppliers. They would recruit a crew of 6-to-10 people to work per-diem. They were paid several hundred dollars to empty these houses and put the birds in cages. A local man named Bill operated one of these crews. He would pay his workers $2.20 an hour, and anything left over after he paid the crew was profit. Considering minimum wage was only a $1.60 per hour, working in the houses paid well. Anyone could get work, most any night. Naturally, this work attracted the uneducated, the junkies, and the drunks. It was as unglamorous as it sounds.

[Read more…] about Catching Chickens