Flash Fiction Magazine

By LJ Phillips

I remember the voices of my mother’s lovers. Their rise and fall in the perfumed evenings. I didn’t speak English then. The sounds that echoed through our apartment could have been the low cooing of doves, the chatter of distant demons.

I slept on a couch in the living room. When her lovers came, I would have to scuttle to the kitchen and hide there until they made their way to her room. But sometimes I glimpsed them, their broad backs, the foreign maleness of them. Intruders into our cloistered world. Even my dreams were haunted. When I closed my eyes, I heard the grunts and slaps of love.

Now that I’m older, I know what it really was. Not love but commerce. Not true affection but something more fleeting and more honest.

[Read more…] about The Marked Man

By Salman Ahmed

You’re at a loss for words. Your mind is numb, and your body is in shock. Your family is weeping around his corpse. Well, what is left of your family. Your brother escaped to Turkey in the trunk of a car, and your sister crossed over to Europe in a boat. So  your mother weeps, and all you can do is stare. Stare at what they did to him. His fingernails are missing. Nails are hammered into his face.

Where were you? You weren’t home! You snuck out to play with a computer at school and do some programming. Because you love computers.

[Read more…] about How to Avenge Your Father’s Murder in Damascus

By Caroline McEvoy

You were boring me with your latest round of excuses, so I took my alter ego out of storage and let her take my place. It took me a while to find her. I rooted around under the bed and even pulled the wardrobe apart. Eventually, I spotted her in our basement locker, patiently waiting behind all those other things you’ve neglected through the years—the exercise bike, the electric guitar, the rollerblades. She was covered in dust, but otherwise she was fine.

I’m glad I kept her.

[Read more…] about Spare Me

By Kaia Gallagher

It was my first trip to Portland, and I was in a rush, annoyed because I forgot my toothbrush. Leaving my unpacked suitcase, I searched out the hotel concierge who assured me a drugstore was close by.

“When you leave the hotel, turn left, then walk four blocks. Take another left at the corner, continue for two more blocks, then cross the street, and the drug store will be on your left.”

The directions were confusing, but setting off in the dim, late-afternoon shadows, I skirted around the looming office buildings, counting the blocks, hoping I would be able to retrace my steps. She was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, only a few blocks from the hotel: a teenage girl with limp blond hair and a wide-eyed look. Trying to avoid her, I turned to cross the street when she grabbed my arm.

“Please, can you give me $3.59?”

Her voice was pleading, apologizing through her words, even as she gripped me tightly.

“Why would you possibly want $3.59?”

[Read more…] about Just a Hug

By M. Scott Alexander

The bell atop the Saint-Sulpice Cathedral rang out, dominating the morning air. There was a funeral, and the bell rang for three minutes: first in sets of three, then at every second, then at every other. It echoed down the streets; it drowned out the sounds of tourists and buses and tourists on buses.

At a small café across the street sat a man and a woman and between them were two espressos and some morning food. They did not talk, only watched the passing crowds and listened to the sound of the bell’s toll; when it finished, the espressos were nearing cold. There was heat that morning, and the drinks might have been welcoming in that state if not for their bitter taste. As the bell ceased to ring, the soundtrack of gawking tourists overtook them.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

[Read more…] about The Last Café

By Cleveland Moffett

He was used to eating in his truck, mostly sandwiches. He had no use for napkins, plates or cutlery. If he needed it he owned a pocket knife that had a bottle opener with it. His handkerchief or his sleeve served him for a napkin. The few people who knew him at all well—the garage owner and some of the mechanics—said he loved his truck and only his truck: a 1957 Ford Ranchero—loved the smell of it, the sound of it, its reluctant roar and cough on starting, the rusted muffler, the shriek of the brakes, and the jolting rhythm of it and its broken-spring seat, uncomfortable in that familiar way it had. He had grown old and dilapidated along with it. That’s the way he wanted it.

[Read more…] about The Dead of Winter