Flash Fiction Magazine

By R. M. Janoe

“Take me for a drive,” she murmured, “I’m tired of these walls.”

Our bedroom walls and window had been her only view for weeks, and the window did little to help her restlessness. It was small and, from our bed, it framed the azalea we planted when we moved in, years ago, with the neighbor’s peeling stucco beyond. Weeks without her loving care left the bush withered in the desert heat.

[Read more…] about Drive

By Tom Walsh

Standing in the soot where the couch used to be, Jim looked at the plain, silver ring he held between his thumb and index finger.

“That was my dad’s wedding ring,” Alice said, polishing the well-worn white gold against her T-shirt. “He lost it years ago. Must have slipped between the cushions. Napping on that couch in the afternoon sun is how I’ll always picture him.”

[Read more…] about Things They Found in the Ashes

By Ashleigh Cattermole-Crump

I’ve planted pansies to splatter purple glow against the fence, but even they cannot beautify the shadows. I’ve closed my windows tight against it, but still the sound continues. They interrupt my sleep. I am alone in the darkness, listening, words jumping out of the approaching midnight. He stole from her, she says. He is a little shit, she cries. She’ll teach him a lesson. His screams fight back, his unbroken voice no match for hers, and I remain awake until morning, as though daylight might make some sense of it.

[Read more…] about Over the Fence

By Juliana Nicewarner

At the corner of two quiet streets, there was a quiet playground. Few children played here, even on sunny days when the ice cream man parked his truck full of treats on the corner.

On this particular day, a small girl—about seven years old—with wildly curly hair, the color of chocolate kisses, came skipping toward the park. She had never been to this park before. She held tight to her mother’s hand and looked about her, taking in the ice cream man, the sandbox, and the little boy who raced up the ladder to rush down the slide over and over and over again.

[Read more…] about The Voice

By Stephen G. Eoannou

It’s mid-January at the liquor store. The holiday season is over. Wine has already been bought for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Gifts of scotch and bourbon and schnapps have been rung up and wrapped or shoved in gift bags weeks ago. Bulk purchases for parties, full cases, and splits are a memory.

[Read more…] about Mid-January At The Liquor Store

By Andrew Taylor-Troutman

This is the first time we sit across the desk from the oncologist. We are speechless. We are shouting. We are weeping. We are numb and staring at the medical diplomas mounted to the walls. We are holding our spouse’s hand, our partner’s hand, our child’s hand. We are alone.

We lie awake in bed. We are listening to the sleet tick tock on the roof, the sirens wail in the distance, the heartbeat heavy in our ears. We are staring at the ceiling. We are wandering into our kitchens. We are watching the full moon through the window, the cup in our hand forgotten as the tap water runs in the sink.

[Read more…] about Firsts and Lasts

By Peaches Schwartz

The leather in my pants creaks as I stretch for a basket on the supermarket floor. I grab it and toss in some strawberries. I wish I had gone home and changed instead of washing my face at Craig’s (Greg’s?) and getting on with it. Buuut, the supermarket is halfway between our houses and I’m hungry. The only thing in my fridge is some Yuengling and half a lemon.

[Read more…] about Michu