Flash Fiction Magazine

By Alexa Hailey

The apartment upstairs had a lot of smells. None of them were exactly good, although the factory that designed them may have intended them to be. Somehow, though, they ended up too chemical, too sweet, spilling from Glade PlugIns, or from plastic stations, or from bottles of oil with sticks shoved inside.

The smell spilled into their heating system, down into our shared basement. From there, it crept up into our apartment, mixing with the smell of old diapers and that cup of sour milk that we never could find.

[Read more…] about The Upstairs Mother

By Martina Kontos

“It’s time to eat, Cherry,” said my supervisor, Stella, with a grin. She placed before me a full plate of beef, mash, and roasted vegetables. “Your last meal before you’re twenty-one, that’s special, isn’t it?”

“You don’t say,” I replied. I looked down at my plate and shook my head. “I don’t think I can eat.”

“But, Cherry,” Stella said, pushing the plate closer to me, “it’s only one little plate of food. C’mon, you love to eat.”

[Read more…] about It’s Time to Eat Cherry

By Stephen McCabe

I recalled the full image of her while I sat in silence:

Her bone-dagger claws pressing into the grassy verge, deadly but relaxed.

Her beady eyes inside those iconic black thunder-stripes, reflecting the light of the full moon.

Her wide back showing off its salt-and-pepper fur cape.

Her ash-stump of a tail. It was like a small witch’s brush (an undignified backside, as if the badger-creator got bored).

[Read more…] about She’s on the Verge

By Michael Guillebeau

I kicked Max and I regretted it. I had dropped the bucket, not him. But angry at everything and nothing, I kicked him just the same.

He looked at me with those sad, all-seeing eyes and said, “I reckon I’ll go get some more water.” I sat there and wished I knew how to apologize.

Max is the perfect man here on the empty, empty plains. He is a cheerful companion who always does more than his share and never complains.

[Read more…] about Dreams Take Root

By Tara Van De Mark

Mom—I lied about going to Brian’s for a sleepover. I mean, I went to Brian’s house, but his parents weren’t there like I said they were. His parents are never there. Brian and I drank some beer and he showed me the key to his father’s gun locker. We hiked into the park. I killed some branches but Brian got mad that I won’t kill a squirrel like he did. He pointed his gun at me and pretended to shoot. He can be weird like that sometimes.

[Read more…] about Evidence Inventory #364

By Andrew Lee

My medical career began like this:

I was at a parade with my little sister, watching the floats and marching bands. I was seven years old. A man in a heavy coat walked into the middle of the street, unbuttoned it to reveal several small packages around his chest and then he raised his hands, as if to bring them together. I never saw them meet.

[Read more…] about If You Leap Awake