Flash Fiction Magazine

Fire

October 7, 2014 Leave a Comment

By Alex Woolf

In the hottest part of the fire I see fleeting shapes that resemble human figures. They nod and kiss the air. They cheer and weep and bow and pray, constantly refashioning themselves into ever more passionate and undignified forms.
It’s both a pretty show and inconsequential, with each flame-figure here and gone before my dull wits can fix it in my mind. But they leave an impression nonetheless, the faintest trace on the retina, and the imagination of the subjugated can sprout in the thinnest soil. When I look into the fire, I see my life with you, and each nodding, kissing, cheering, weeping, self-abasing flame is a reminder of all the roles I’ve been obliged to play.
You always disliked real fire, preferring the kind you have to plug in. Real fire is noisy and messy. Continue Reading This Story

The Harriet Piece

October 6, 2014 Leave a Comment

By Ramona Grace Bleasdale

“What the hell is this?”
Jack held up my open journal. I froze in mid stride. I had a sickening feeling that I knew exactly which page he was on. Never the less, I refused to be punished for his decision to pry.
“Why are you reading my stories?!” I yelled, snatching it out of his hand. I was right. It was on the “Harriet” page.
Jack rose and grabbed it back. “She was my fucking girlfriend! Does that mean anything to you?!”
I looked at my feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said quietly. He stared at me, unblinkingly, but before he could open his mouth, I interrupted. “I wrote a short story about a girl- a girl named Harriet. And you automatically assume it’s about Lisa. It’s fiction, Jack!” Continue Reading This Story

Elmer Has A Dream

October 5, 2014 6 Comments

By Erik Bruce Blagsvedt

Elmer finished his gin and went to bed. He quickly succumbed to a dream:

There was a woman sitting by a harp-like instrument. She was enshrouded in translucent white curtains. She was him but he could see her as if he were another. There was no music playing. She spoke: “Sometimes I have to do things that will make you question the way you perceive them. It’s a blind gutter. The faces come and go. Pick one light and rest your name on it. It doesn’t matter which one. Continue Reading This Story

Unanswered

October 4, 2014 Leave a Comment

By Meredith Castle

She laid against her husband, caressing his upper arms with her fingertips, listening to him snore softly. Tears lingered at the corner of her eyes, as she prayed silently.
She had heard that praying for someone was a form of love. So, she offered thanks for his life, his hard working nature, the stability he brought to their home. Underneath her prayer swirled a deep and painful need that caused the tears to trickle down.
They were not new tears, nor were they new prayers. The need was not new either. They had all been there even before their marriage. But as time rolled on, and the needs went unmet, the hollows in her heart grew deeper, more empty, more thirsty for just a simple touch, an acknowledgment that she was in the room, an embrace. Oh what she wouldn’t give to feel him touch her, not just physically, but with his presence. Continue Reading This Story

The Running Bath

October 3, 2014 1 Comment

By Darren Simpson

I do love a good soak. Nothing like it. ‘Charleston,’ I say. ‘Do be a good fellow and run the bath.’
‘Of course, sir,’ he says in rich, reliable monotone. Some Cognac, and then I head to the bedroom to be prepared by the maid.
Charleston opens the bathroom door for me, releasing a cloud of fragrant mist into the hall. It settles on antique surfaces in plump, silky beads.
I study my reflection in the faucet’s golden mouth and test the water with my toes. Carefully, I fold my gown and place it on the chair. I put my right foot in first, then the left, and slowly lower myself into the soft, lilac water. With only my face above the water, surrounded by lavender buds and creamy pearls, I close my eyes. My muscles untie themselves and spread like a warm eiderdown.
And this, my friends, is a beautiful bliss.
So you can imagine my dismay as the bath shakes free its brass legs and jumps through the French windows with a terrible crash. I hold on for dearest life as it gallops through the garden. Continue Reading This Story

Going Home

October 2, 2014 1 Comment

By Tom Larsen

My father came home from Viet Nam and went right to work. He went to night school on the G.I. Bill, married my mother and bought the house on Fairlawn Avenue in Trenton, a sturdy boxlike brick structure built in the mid-forties for the veterans returning from another war. A few years later I came along; their only child.
I was a good enough athlete to earn a scholarship to play linebacker for the Pitt Panthers. Not more than a week after I received my award letter Dad announced that he had taken a job in Los Angeles. We left town on the same August afternoon. Me in my seven year old Mustang and the two of them in a thirty-two foot moving van. There was no one there to see us off, except for the new homeowners—a young couple just waiting to pick up the keys. Continue Reading This Story