Flash Fiction Magazine

By Lou Mindar

Gigi wanted to know if she could ask me a question.

We were lying in bed, naked, a sheet covering our lower halves. An autumn breeze blew in from the open window, the smell of charred oysters and Old Bay seasoning mingled on the cooling air.

Her full name was Geraldine Germand, but when she was a kid growing up in Mid City, she insisted people call her by her initials, G.G. Over the years, “G.G.” became “Gigi.”

[Read more…] about Kissing Gigi

By JP Garza

“A one-night camping trip in the Uinta Mountains is my idea of the perfect get-to-know-you kind of date,” Jeff announced as he measured the wind speed using his digital anemometer. He wrote down the wind read on his waterproof notebook. “This is really my element out here in the woods. The mountains, streams, and trees; this is all me. This is where I feel most at home. It’s almost like I was born to explore the great outdoors. And I am hoping to find out that this is also your vibe.”

[Read more…] about Camping Date

By S. Jean DeFelice

Godliness lives in the big rectangle of Ella’s kitchen. Its linoleum shines so much so it is blinding. A metal stove clock ticks faintly. The lights are off and pale afternoon sunlight illuminates fine dust particles in the air. On countertops lie only the necessary: flour and sugar tins, glass salt and pepper shakers, a folded dish towel. Ella enters her kitchen, glancing with worry at the empty driveway outside the window shut tight. It is one p.m. and she is home alone.

[Read more…] about Monkey Bread

By Stephen Duffin

Tom screamed. “Dad,” he yelled. “There’s a shark in the swimming pool!”

“Don’t be silly,” called his father working upstairs. “It’s just your imagination.”

Tom watched the shark swim round the pool as if circling prey, its dorsal fin slicing through the cool water. Tom trembled on the patio, fear chilling his spine.

[Read more…] about Shark

By Sunil Sharma

There’s a lull in the rain that had driven Mumbai crazy this year, battering the mega-city and almost drowning millions of harried commuters. It’s an annual, or almost annual, occurrence!

The city guardians blame the rain gods; activists, poor planning—and civic apathy.

The city survives—and inches ahead.

After the deluge, denizens come out.

[Read more…] about Real compassion

By Ryan Stone

I watch a spider spin beneath the veranda eaves. With care, it weaves the foundation from which its web will spread. Unfazed by the dust that swirls around us and stains everything red, the spider continues. Two years ago, I swore I’d never return to this town at the arse-end-of-nowhere. Now, the dry wind blows that distant vow back in my face. I’m sitting on the veranda in the same rickety rocking chair where my mum nursed me. The woman has gone. The chair remains.

[Read more…] about Spiderwebs