Flash Fiction Magazine

By Thea De Armond

They chose the apartment because of its proximity to the lake. With his non-profit job and her not working, it was a bit over budget, but she’d grown up in the area and had been eager to return to the neighborhood. It was different when she was a child—fewer buildings, more trees—but the lake was the same. On their first night in the neighborhood, they held hands and walked its perimeter, three miles strung with twinkling lights.

She was up before dawn the following day, pulling on thick, wool socks and lacing up boots. “I want to see the sunrise on the lake,” she explained to his bleary, questioning gaze.

[Read more…] about Familiar Waters

By Colette Coen

“Is that what you meant to do?” Rhonda asked.

“Of course,” Skye replied, knowing that confidence was all part of the act.

“Really?”

Skye smiled the way she had practiced in front of the mirror.

“Well, it hasn’t worked,” Rhonda said, “not at all. You can’t just throw paint at a canvas and think you’re Mark Rothko.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Skye said. She knew that the thought behind the piece could be as important as the execution for some of her lecturers. A good title could pull the wool over more than one set of eyes. The look on Rhonda’s face confirmed that she would not be easily swayed. “My intention,” Skye began, “my intention was…”

[Read more…] about As Yet Untitled

By Daphnee McMaster

When you pass the dish with the mashed potatoes, use two hands. Next, send the salt and pepper in the same direction. This is an important step because ever since Myrtle passed, potatoes don’t taste the same in that white dish. Everyone will not have said grace. This is customary of Uncle June on account of his son’s death and his love for whiskey. God don’t live in his house, and God certainly don’t provide his food. When you stand to get the iced tea that you left in the kitchen—which you will leave in the kitchen, seeing how it’s as hereditary a trait as dark skin or water soaking the mid of your belly when you wash dishes—don’t forget to add three more spoonfuls of sugar. Your mother will remind you once you step back out into the dining room. How sweet it will finally be to say “I did that already.”

[Read more…] about Piecemeal

By Michelle M Denham

He could not bear to buy her diamonds because they were ugly and common. Instead, he chose a large, labradorite stone for her engagement ring because its color always reminded him of the last glimpse of his planet from orbit, just as he left it forever for the greater cause.

In a human body now, and doing his best to follow human customs, he fell in love with a woman who never made him feel like he was alien. He once was a living flame without flesh, and now the man who called himself Hassan genuinely loved the woman who made him remember what it was like to burn. That was why he had to tell her the truth, even as he proposed they stay together for the rest of their lives.

[Read more…] about Burned Like Stars

By Emily Forster

The silence was almost tangible. She padded from room to room, relishing the solitude. Dust motes whirled in the mid-afternoon sun, settling on surfaces she would never polish again. John’s coffee table, John’s bookshelves, John’s colossal glass goldfish—ostensibly a present for her, but she had always thought it was hideous, not to mention a dust-magnet. She smiled faintly at the realisation that she would no longer be obliged to lie to protect his fragile feelings. Her bag was packed. A car was on its way.

[Read more…] about The Beginning and the End

By Susan P. Blevins

Maestro Enrico Caroselli sat in his high-backed armchair in the late afternoon, contemplating what lay ahead of him. He had conducted a major orchestra for over forty-five years. Now he was due to retire at the end of the current winter season to make room for a new, younger conductor from God-knows-which Third-World country the board seemed to be focusing on.

[Read more…] about The Last Performance