Flash Fiction Magazine

By Will Musgrove

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line—a mathematical fact I live my life by. This nugget of simple geometry is also why I grocery shop on Monday mornings. Usually by 9:30ish, everyone’s clocked in somewhere, leaving all the premier asphalt in front of the store open, allowing me to park so close you’d think I lived at Stop-O-Mart. Usually by 9:30ish, I’m able to get in, find what I want, and get out in under fifteen minutes flat.

But on this Monday morning, I have to walk over from the gas station across the street. On this Monday morning, the plethora of cars packing the lot suggests that everyone in town had been fired all at once.

[Read more…] about The Dairy-Free Moo-d

By Claudia Wair

Agenda

1. Welcome

I get there early, take a seat at the far end of the table, facing the spot reserved for the association president. I know we won’t address my issues tonight. I want him to know that I know.

The others arrive. Everyone is friendly. The president pretends I’m not here. Someone brings donuts.

[Read more…] about Homeowners Association

By Alexandra Blogier

“I’m moving,” he says, the second day we spend together.

He tells me where. It doesn’t matter. I twist the rings I’m wearing, silver and turquoise, a bareness on the third finger of my left hand. I stand up from the couch. A guitar pick falls to the floor from the back of my thigh. I run my finger down the strong line of his nose.

“What did you do that for?” he asks.

I shrug. “Give me a sip of your cigarette,” I say, and he kisses me.

[Read more…] about July

By Danielle Epting

The man I thought I would marry bought me a dog. We drove all the way out to Lancaster, Pennsylvania to get her. She was born on an Amish farm and had four brothers. A little girl, who was maybe five years old, brought her out of the farmhouse. The little girl was struggling to hold back her tears while she placed the dog into my arms. The puppy was the kind that made you sink into yourself and maybe even into her. She looked like a deformed guinea pig and had black spots all over, and she cried the whole ride home.

[Read more…] about Dog Days

By E. L. Blizzard

With shaky hands, he forks ramen into his mouth, skimming the latest news. After an unmasked party of hundreds dance and celebrate at a famous self-help corporation, doctors beg for the behavior to stop.

Turning to his wife he asks, “Want some?”

“No babe, you finish them.”

He stares at her. “Don’t worry. I ate,” Sheri says, as she finishes wrapping a book for their son, sticking a homemade tag on the brown paper.

After slurping the last noodle, Kevin goes into the kitchen and opens the pantry. Counting, he figures they have enough for six days before next Monday’s visit to the foodbank. Sheri comes up behind him, puts her arms around his flat belly, and stands on tiptoes to kiss his neck.

[Read more…] about Surviving Intact

By Chris Glithero

All she could think of was how she would get the blood out of her clothes. Wasn’t baking soda supposed to be good for that kind of thing? White wine? Disposing of the body, that would be harder.

Their marriage had been through a lot over the years, but they had never murdered each other before, not once.

It had been self-defense, clearly. Things had got heated, one thing led to another, she had been chopping veg at the time, so the knife was already in her hand. Would it stand up in court?

[Read more…] about Trigger