Flash Forward

story: Emergency Exit

2008-09-16T06:47:00.000-05:00

Las Vegas Fiction - Bodog Nation: "Tonight, a puncture in the air-conditioning unit above the third turnstile, a slow drip of chilled water into the stack of plastic trays. Like a miracle rain, delivered to Vegaboy of the Desert, but they can't see the miracle. Instead, the monsters waiting in the security lineup nervously complain: my wallet's soaked, my alligator belt, my laptop can't get wet, dammit, dammit, dammit."

Click the link to read the rest

Story: Violeta

2008-09-16T06:46:00.000-05:00

Artvoice - Buffalo's #1 Newsweekly: "He came back again. The best at the agency, knocking on her door. This time she was sitting cross-legged among candles burnt low. There were circles under her eyes; they were deep violet in the dimness. She leapt her bony frame and grabbed his arms by both wrists.

“Come sit with me!”"

click the link to read the rest

Gone Fishing

2007-01-25T08:41:00.000-06:00

Flash Forward is on vacation till further notice, which of course will be posted here.

story: Phil

2006-11-01T13:27:00.000-06:00

Phil

by Tom Mahony - pacificoffering (at) sbcglobal.net

= = = = =

It looked like a body, floating in the kelp, under the blanket of Pacific fog. Jake couldn’t tell. Too far offshore, the morning light too weak.

He stood on the cliff, sipping coffee, contemplating. He’d stopped to check the waves, hoping for a surf. Hoping for some stoke before confronting another day of vagrancy. He had no job, no woman, and no prospects. Not even a home. With Phil—his roommate and best friend—vanished, Jake couldn’t pay the rent, already way past due. The landlord booted him yesterday. Everything he owned filled his truck.

The waves were small and blown. Jake didn’t feel like groveling in the mush. But this thing, the body or likeness thereof, haunted him. Phil. It might be Phil. He disappeared last week during a giant swell, surfed this very reef and never returned. His board washed up on the rocks, but no body. Could it be? Jake paced the cliff. Only one way to find out.

He slipped on his wetsuit, grabbed his board, scrambled down the sandstone, and hopped into the ocean. Frigid water stung his exposed limbs until they grew pleasantly numb. He stroked past crumbling waves into open water. Nearing the kelp, he felt, with deepening dread, the floater was Phil. Had to be. Just too coincidental, the mystery solved. Jake could not fathom his death.

Phil was a sketchy character of dubious scruples. But he set the bar, called the shots, made the plans. He devoured life, knew the answers. A dynamic enigma. Invincible. Phil scorned modern society. Jake did too, but lacked the balls to leave.

Since childhood, they dreamed of ditching the country, permanently, for a windswept Baja headland, surfing, fishing, taking local brides. Just talk, fantasy, but Jake never abandoned the dream. Nothing held him here, no job, no house, no family save a distant sister. Yet he remained, wasting into oblivion. Poverty stymied the adventure planning, sure, but inertia was the kicker. Phil needed to trigger the journey—a wink and nod over beers, supply list scrawled on a cocktail napkin, wheels in motion.

The past week, Jake doubted Phil’s demise, figured he just split town for reasons unknown. Had expected a postcard, replete with outlandish story, any day now. But the floating body changed things. Phil was gone. The dream was dead.

Jake’s heart thudded as he reached the kelp bed. He began to regret paddling out, didn’t want to see Phil’s corpse. Didn’t want to drag him to shore, up the cliff, and into his truck. He considered heading in and forgetting the body altogether. Keep pretending Phil was alive, somewhere, raising hell. Keep pretending the future held possibility.

He hesitated, groping for a valid reason to bail. But reality sunk in. Denial would change nothing. Just get it done. He paddled into the kelp. Apprehension grew with each stroke. Thirty feet to go. Twenty. Ten. He reached it.

Relief overtook him. He straddled his board and laughed out loud. Wasn’t Phil. Wasn’t a body at all, just a large black duffel bag, perhaps washed up in recent storms. He started toward shore, but curiosity stopped him.

He grabbed the bag, fumbled with the zipper, and looked inside. His jaw dropped. The duffel bulged with several handguns, and, sealed in freezer bags, cash. Lots of it. He rifled through the cash, shaking with excitement. Stacks and stacks of bills. Millions of dollars worth. Excitement turned to paranoia. Somebody must be looking for the duffel. Somebody with serious issues. And he held it, floating in a kelp bed. Time to head in.

As he zipped it shut, something caught his eye. A yellow drybag. Inside was a wallet, passport, map. He opened the passport and stared in disbelief. Phil stared back with his classic shit-eater.

What the hell?

Jake studied the map. Baja. Notations were scrawled beside a familiar headland deep down the peninsula. A remote fishing village of fine surf and friendly people. Since childhood, he’d frequented the place with Phil.

Truth hit Jake like a revelation. Phil hadn’t died surfing, only pretended to. The washed up surfboard was a nice touch. Upon reflection, he realized Phil’s prized possession—his guitar—went missing when he did. Jake felt a surge of anger, abandonment. Why would Phil split for Baja and leave him behind? And, more importantly, did he make it? The abandoned duffel was a bad sign. He’d been snared in something deep. But Phil defied expectation.

Jake sat frozen, wondering what to do. His life could change this instant, if he had the stones. He scratched his head and studied the fog. The kelp smelled like a whale’s ass. Or so he imagined. The decision came slow but certain.

He zipped the duffel, slid it on like a backpack, and paddled inside, catching a wave to shore. He unpeeled his wetsuit, dressed, and drove to an alley. After removing the money and drybag, he tossed the duffel into a dumpster.

Impending tasks cluttered his head as he drove off. He would stuff fifty grand through his sister’s mail slot. Another fifty to a local do-gooder group. Perhaps send anonymous roses to that top-heavy girl in the downstairs apartment who always smiled at him.

Then he would buy supplies. Food, water, surfboards, camping gear. The best he could find. All that would fit in his truck. He was headed south of the border, to find Phil, to surf and live in peace. And he was never coming back.

= = = = =

bio: Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in central California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University . His fiction has appeared in flashquake, VerbSap, Void Magazine, Laughter Loaf, Long Story Short, and Surfer Magazine. He is currently circulating a novel for publication.

submit: Fringe Magazine

2006-10-20T14:51:00.000-05:00

Fringe Magazine -- "The noun that verbs your world" -- seeks
submissions in all genres, particularly flash fiction. Political,
experimental, and cross-genre work welcome. Fringe turns one in 2007!
Now accepting submissions for our first anniversary theme issue,
Feminism, due out in February. See www.FringeMagazine.org for details.

story: Just in Time

2006-10-17T12:00:00.000-05:00

Just in Time

by Rod Drake - mrdrake (at) cox.net

= = = = =

“Time is not linear. It’s circular. Actually, it’s more like a loop, endlessly spinning.”

“So everything runs over and over again?”

“Right. That’s makes time travel possible, although you’re not really traveling through time. Imagine time like a carousel; you merely need to wait until the animal you want to ride comes around and then step aboard. The animal is a moment in time; the carousel is the time loop. If you miss it the first time, it doesn’t matter; it will be around again soon.”

“So, how did you get here from the future? If you’re from the future?”

“Now that would be telling. But you don’t need a time machine or any such elaborate science fiction device. Just an understanding of how time flows. And knowing where the holes in the flow are.”

“Holes?”

“Anomalies. Singularities. Essentially gauze-like areas that let time curve and retain its loop shape. Also to allow for branching time.”

“And branching time is?”

“Time that proceeds from an event, a decision. Each event has limitless outcomes; if you go to work, one timeline develops; if you don’t, a different timeline is created.”

“How do all of these multitudes of timelines fit together?”

“They don’t. The correct timeline becomes dominant, and the others spin off into pocket time universes. However, pocket time universes sometimes create real problems, aligning themselves with the dominant timeline and influencing it, sometimes changing it. But to answer your original question, I just slip through one of the holes in the “gauze” at the moment in time that I want to visit.”

“Why did you choose here? Or rather, now?”

“Good question. Normally I would say it’s better that you don’t know. By knowing, you might influence or change things. But this time I guess it won’t hurt anything.”

“Why not? Or can’t you tell me that either?”

“Because you won’t live long enough to affect anything.” Then the time traveler pulled out a cell phone-looking device, aimed it at his companion and clicked it. His companion disappeared like a television set being turned off.

The time traveler clicked a different button on the same device and held it up to his face. “The subject who created the branching timeline earlier today has been neutralized. The end of the world has been postponed. Time is running,” he smiled wryly to himself, “back on time again.”

= = = = =

bio: Rod Drake lives and writes in Las Vegas. He is not a Desolation Angel, a Dharma Bum, a Subterranean nor is he On the Road. Read Rod’s other stories posted in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding and AcmeShorts.

story: Postmodern Love

2006-10-17T11:46:00.000-05:00

Postmodern Love

by Guy Hogan - www.flashfictionnow.blogspot.com

= = = = =

Frank Conti drove, enjoying how the car handled on the long stretches of nearly empty Pennsylvania highway. It was an old, used car but from a good dealer and it gave him no problems. Another person's old car can be big problems, but he'd been lucky and had been driving nearly half an hour before realizing Vivian Thompson hadn't said a word. He looked over at her. She sat looking away, out at an endless empty field with hills behind it and then blue-gray mountains far beyond the hills. The field was completely empty. No animals. No crops. No grass. Just dry dirt. Frank patted Vivian's thigh. She turned her face to him and smiled. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to talk all the way back into Pittsburgh. They'd been visiting Frank's best friends. The friends were young with a new baby, giddily happy in their marriage. Viv was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. Frank drove through the light traffic in the city and parked in front of her apartment building. As they sat in the car the sun was setting. Viv was fifteen years older than Frank.

"Frank, do you mind if we call it a day?"

"Did I say or do something wrong?"

"I just want to do a few things around the apartment."

"Can't you do them with me there?"

"I need some time to myself"

"I was hoping to spend the night."

"Frank."

"All right," he said. "May I use the bathroom?"

She sat holding her shoulder bag in her lap with both hands.

Inside, after turning on the air conditioning, she sat on the couch and pulled off her sandals. He stood near the couch with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Maybe he should have worn slacks. No, she was dressed casual, too. She put her feet up on the low table. She put her head back and closed her eyes. Frank sat beside her.

"Viv, what's wrong?"

"I don't know. I don't know what's wrong."

"Aren't you feeling well?"

"It's so hot. I've never known it to be this hot."

He watched her. He looked at her hair. He looked at her face. He looked at her arms, legs, ankles and feet. He leaned down and kissed the place where the pulse beat in her throat.

"Oh, stop it!"

She got up, went to the door and unlocked it. She stood holding open the door.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I want you to go."

"What's wrong?"

"Just go."

"Why won't you talk to me?"

"Frank."

"Talk to me."

"Frank, please."

"All right," he said. "All right then."

"Frank?"

"Yeah."

"I liked your friends."

"We grew up together. We were kids together."

"When will I see you again?"

"I don't know."

"Call me?"

"We'll see."

Several days later Frank took Viv out to dinner. Afterward, they walked holding hands like the young couples out that night in a nice residential neighborhood near the campus of CMU. A warm breeze blew. The full moon hung in the star speckled black sky. Families sat out on their front porches.

Frank said, "Let's get a place together."

"We've been all through this."

"It doesn't make sense renting two places."

"I like my privacy."

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"Just what it says."

They walked through a pool of light from a streetlamp. Just ahead, a young couple got out of a car parked at the curb, locked it and went into a nearby home. Frank and Viv walked past a church.

Frank said, "You lived with Ted."

"Ted was my husband and God knows I need another husband like I need a hole in the head."

The homes in this neighborhood sat behind neat lawns. The air was full of the smell of freshly mowed grass.

Viv said, "What brought this on?"

"I went down to the river today. I just sat and thought about things down by the river."

"What things?"

"Things in general."

"But what things?"

"You know," he said. "Just things."

"Well, let's leave things the way they are."

Still holding hands, they strolled on.

She said, "You want out?"

"No," he said.

"Are you positive?"

"I'm sure," he said.

"You let me know."

"I'll let you know," he said.

"Don't cheat on me," she said.

He said, "I'll let you know."

Just then the streetlamp ahead of them blinked out.

= = = = =
bio: Previous publications are Pittsburgh Quarterly, Chick Flicks, Word Riot and the book Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories (self-published at www.iUniverse.com).

story: White Moth

2006-10-02T12:24:00.000-05:00

White Moth
by Christian Smith - christianmyth69 (at) yahoo.com

= = = = =
A white moth, huge, wings stained with eyes and lines, rests in the corner where the windshield meets the roof. How the hell did it get in the car? For that matter, how the hell did the car come to stand on end like this? I lie back in the comfortable seat, looking straight up at the black sky, pondering these questions. So sleepy. Christ. I oughtta pull over. Close my eyes for a few minutes. Float backwards for a while.

I snap awake. The moth. It's a big fucker. Never seen one so big. At least a foot across from one wing tip to the other. Big as a bird. How did it get in the car? It's like a dream where you don't remember the thing that just happened, but you do recall the thing which happened just before. We’d been to a party, Ginny and me. So lit up we’d actually danced. It was nice. We haven't danced in years. Her smile whispered promises of the tastes we would share at home. On the long drive home, though, she crawled into the backseat and fell asleep. So forget about that. Still, it was nice to dance.

I feel sick. I'm not used to this much drink. It’s not my fault, though. They just kept pressing them into my hand. I turn my head and vomit blood and glass into the water.
The moth moves; an agitated flutter. Its wings hum. I wonder if Ginny sees it, if she's awake. The rear-view mirror shows her face. She is pale and white in the bright glare of the dome light. Her eyes are open. Ginny smiles at me through the shimmery curtain which has been drawn between the front seat and the back. Her hair floats about her head, buoyant upon a gentle wind. Seems strange that I see her so clearly. Strange that she looks so white.

She blows me a kiss and a bubble rolls from her lips. Water tickles the back of my ears. The moth flaps its wings, stirring the air before my face. It floats in space turned topsy-turvy.

Moths seek lights and flames because they navigate by the moon. The big moth eclipses the dome light. The car is darkened. The moth disappears but the darkness remains. I can't see Ginny anymore. The water in my eyelids is too cold to be tears.

I'm angry for a moment, and seek someone to blame, but this also soon dies. An old song plays on the radio, or maybe it's Ginny singing in the back seat. It is the song we had danced to, or maybe it's not. I can't remember. I try to laugh, but something blocks my throat.

The car dives backwards into the darkness of the lake. I open my mouth and a glorious moth flies from my lips, seeking the moon.

= = = = =
Bio: Christian Smith is a stay-at-home Dad who blogs at http://christian-lunatic.blogspot.com/ Come up and see him sometime.

story: Pink Flamingos

2006-09-06T14:51:00.000-05:00

Pink Flamingos
by the name is dalton

= = = = = =

I wanted to see the window one more time. The lock on the front door hung loose, anybody who wanted to come in and see my collection of things could and at anytime. This never alarmed me that much. The few things I did want to see were not in my home but out on the lawn, which I could see from the window.

= = = = = =

bio: The Name Is Dalton is a punk rock bass player with too many beers in his fridge and too many Bukowski books on his shelves. His work has appeared in Culture Freak, Flash Flooding and Long Live The King.

story: The Goat on the Mountain

2006-08-31T15:46:00.000-05:00

The Goat on the Mountain

By Peter Wild - peter (at) wild1234.wanadoo.co.uk

My wife doesn't understand me, he says as he sits writing at the bar.

The pretty girl balanced on the stool next to him takes a sip from her Bud and says, I hear you.

I feel like a tiger left out in the snow, he writes in his notepad, pencil gripped awkwardly between stubby fingers. Or a?

Or a?

He lifts his head and catches the girl's eye. She is really not bad. She has a nice smile and hair the color of straw. He likes hair the color of straw.

Or a goat left untethered on a mountain looking for affection from an outcrop of rock.

She thinks: he's cute. She evaluates. She thinks: sure, he's not as tall as her regular boyfriend but it's quarter to ten on a weekday night and there probably won't be any better offers and anyway who chooses to sleep alone? No-one.

So she punches his arm hard enough to hurt and says, are you going to scratch away at that notebook all night or are you going to buy me another one of these?

He looks up. She is holding the neck of the bottle between her index finger and her thumb and jigging it back and forth, the base of the bottle rocking like the ass of an Egyptian belly dancer.

He says:
Same again?

= = = = =
bio: Peter Wild is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall & The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. He is also editor of The Flash, which will be published by Social Disease in February 2007. His fiction has appeared in Word Riot, Pen Pusher, Scarecrow, Thieves Jargon, Rumble, The Beat and a bunch of other places. He also runs the Bookmunch website.

story: Office Hours

2006-08-24T17:02:00.000-05:00

Office Hours
by Jarrett Neal

= = = = =

Cecil apologized to the three students waiting outside his office and closed the door. He unbuttoned his sport coat and crossed his arms. His jaw clinched. His brow furrowed. “I told you about coming up here,” he said.

Curtis placed the framed picture back on Cecil's desk and took a seat. “When mama give you this?”

“What do you want?”

Curtis opened his eyes wide and scratched his beard. “Man,” he said, “can you lend me fifty dollars?”

“Curtis,” Cecil said as he returned to his desk, “why do you come up here bothering me like this without calling? Midterms are this week. I have a hallway full of students I need to see.” He straightened his pictures.

“See man,” Curtis said, “Val 'bout to get her lights turned off and all she need is fifty dollars. She got them kids, man.”

There was a knock on the door, and when Cecil answered, Mary, a diminutive pear-shaped white woman, stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

“No, Mary,” Cecil said.

“I wanted to make sure you got the E-mail regarding the tenure committee.”

“Oh, yes. Yes. I've marked down the new time. I'll be there.”

“How you doin'?” Curtis craned his head over Cecil's shoulder and offered his hand to Mary.

Cecil glanced down at the calloused palm and dirty nails. The odors of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana mingled in his nose. He began to perspire.

Mary took Curtis's hand. “I'm Mary Zucker. Are you Cecil's partner Gary?”

“Partner? Nah, I'm his big brother Curtis.” He turned to Cecil. “What kind of partner you got?”

“Cecil's brother?” Mary said. “Oh. Well, it's good to know you.”

As Mary said her goodbyes Cecil saw two more students take seats on the floor beside his office. He closed the door and stood in front of the wall opposite his desk. Four diplomas hung from that wall, and the midmorning sun cast them in brilliant golden light.

“I don't have time for this,” Cecil said, and exhaled a short breath.

“Man look,” Curtis said, “I know how you feel about me but don't let Val and them kids suffer, know what I'm sayin'? They ain't did nothin'.”

“And how do I know this money won't get smoked up?”

“It ain't. Man I swear to God I ain't smoked nothin' in six months. I swear to God, man.”

There was another knock on the door. Cecil hurriedly reached into his wallet and took out three crisp twenty dollar bills.

“Thanks, man. Thanks. I'ma pay you back.”

Moments later Jamal Brinkley, one of only three of Cecil's black students, sat before him holding his last paper which bore a red C+ on the front. He looked at Cecil with patient wide eyes.

“What you must always bear in mind,” Cecil instructed his pupil, “is the Joad's background. They came from meager circumstances which were only exacerbated by the destruction the Dust Bowl left in its wake.”

Cecil glanced out of his window and spotted Curtis sprinting across the university quad. He reached the parking lot and got into a red sedan. The car was dented in several places and expelled a trail of thick smoke as it drove off with Curtis in the passenger seat and several children crowded in back. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment then resumed his talk with Jamal.

“At its heart, this is a novel about a family who love each other so much that they'd rather die in grinding poverty than live without each other. That's what makes this novel universal. It isn't a story about a poor Southern white family in the Depression. It's about all of us.”

Cecil gave Jamal a list of themes he could explore in his next paper before he sent him on his way and received his next student.

= = = = =
bio: Jarrett Neal holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the author of the forthcoming novel "A Dangerous Man".

Firefly Fiction

2006-08-24T16:55:00.000-05:00

A forum based, free flash fiction workshop/ writer's community. Members supply each other with prompt, using them to write flash fiction stories that can then be submitted for critiquing/ reviewing. Also included are forums for asking grammatical type questions, for keeping up on who's recieved rejection/acceptance letters for flash pieces, and for general chit-chatting about whatever.

story: Innè

2006-08-16T12:07:00.000-05:00

Innè
by Ricard di Costa

= = = = =

The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.

"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"

"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."

I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.

No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.

My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.

"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.

Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.

"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.

Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.

"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.

Darkness.

"There can be no soul but ours."

= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com

story: Marty Seeks Sympathy

2006-08-03T13:52:00.000-05:00

Marty Seeks Sympathy

by Christopher Miller - psychic_mantis12 (at) yahoo.com

= = = = =

Silhouette and pasty watered skin. Gloomy. Brown, nonexistent. Dirt and ancient particles housed in atomic wasteland of photographs and dead memories. She's alone. She lays dying under comforter and stressful coughs. Shes dying under misconstrued conceptions of a timely death.

But she's dressed in fancy attire like attending golden ballroom. Outdated. Yellow prison ties in place of white blossomed flowers. Grandma Marty waits for ballroom dance guests to appear stricken with sympathy. To knock at the distant oak door and waltz through atomic battlefield. Asbestos. Little white darling dresses and smart gusto tuxedos with cigars optional. All to mock farewells. Mock farewells to get prizes.

Tommy gets antique furniture. Circa 1880. It'll be sold in a back alley pawn shop. Betty gets genuine silver coated silverware. Circa 1930. They'll be feeding plump disgusting red mouths with TV dinners. Richard gets grandpa's authentic rifle collection. Circa whenever the fuck those guns were manufactured. They'll be sitting underneath piles of forgotten items in attic. Sally gets Grandma Marty's pricey, one of a kind, diamond necklace. Circa 1920. It'll be worn during cheap sex and tonic self-indulgence. More generic names get more generic keepsakes.

Grandma Marty clicks teeth. Clicks teeth and counts down grandfather clock playing shuffle cards with drinking buddies. Counts down indigo blinds catching fire to a host of air born chemicals.

But grandfather quickly stops ticking and an overwhelming silence fills the room. She feels the need to clean it before the guests arrive.

She's up, scrubbing brown coated walls in elegant ballroom gown with tiara and all. She's pretty. She's dressed up from head to toe. She sparkles. She's deluded.

A whiff of gasoline and concrete spillage, of bolts and screws coated in dirt oil originate from outside the window. A thundering mechanized, industrial symphony playing over distorted memories of the kids climbing up the cherry oak wardrobe or little Tommy almost drowning at the nearby creek because his leg cramped up while swimming. Memories of grandpa's unprecedented dislike for home cooked apple pie, of staying up late at night watching re-runs of old comedy shows, the ironing board collapsing every time it's put to use, the dish washer never completely cleaning the plates, the huge crack in the foundation of the house, grandpa trying to fix the living room speakers by himself, Marty's childhood doll being destroyed under the twin blade of scissors.

All crashing and shattering before worn-out eyes. Particles of wallpaper and glass coated window seals. Picture frames and pillow cases. Furniture doorknobs and backboards. Ceiling crust and sofa cushions. Demolished.

= = = = =
bio: Christopher is 16 years old and lives in Texas.

story: Company Policy

2006-07-31T19:15:00.000-05:00

Company Policy
by Peter Joseph Gloviczki

= = = = =

Just shred it. Someone might use it against us in court. That would be really unfortunate, wouldn't you say? And there is something else, too. It's about someone who works here. You haven't met Victoria. She has her Nokia super-glued to the left side of her face. She sends text messages like it's her job. I'm pretty sure she holds her phone in one hand and simply brushes her teeth with the other. She never puts it down. I've heard of talking during sex, but this seems a bit over the line – wouldn't you say? Anyway, she is someone to avoid. When you're here, we want you to be working. And cell phones are bad for you. They cause cancer. You knew that already? Good. But it was my job to tell you. Yes, I'm serious. No, I'm not kidding. Half of all things in life cause cancer, the other half will kill you. But using your cell phone will definitely get you fired. Any questions?

= = = = =
bio: Mr. Gloviczki is a student of media and politics. This fall, he will enter the London School of Economics and Political Science to pursue an MSc in Politics and Communication. His flash fiction has previously been published in Flash Flooding.

submit: Fringe Magazine

2006-07-28T19:39:00.000-05:00

Move over Wonder Bread! Fringe Magazine, seeks flash fiction for online publication. For Fringe purposes, a flash fiction (or short short) piece is less than 1,000 words. Submit 1-3 at a time, and please put "Flash Fiction" in the subject line.

We are also accepting submissions for our special February 2007 issue, which will focus on feminism. Please see our guidelines, available at http://www.fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm for further details.

Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com. We look forward to reading your work.

story: Mission

2006-07-10T08:26:00.000-05:00

Mission

by Kirsten Anderson
= = = = =

"I'm too quiet, too set in my ways to do something crazy like this," said Linda as she clutched her purse to her chest. "I don't take chances."

"Think about my offer," said the angel. He unbuttoned his dark brown leather jacket and tipped back his fedora. "You'll see I'm right."

"No," said Linda. "Really, I'll be fine if I don't do this. Pick another person. Someone like…" She looked around the diner and saw an elderly woman slurping soup. "Like her. She's old. Probably doesn't have many years left."

"She's already done it," said the angel. "She just did it yesterday, at her grandson's birthday party. The old gal knows how to have a good time."

A strand of thin hair straggled over Linda's gaunt cheek as she gasped. "I didn't need to know that. What kind of angel are you?"

He chuckled. "Well, I'm not one of those big-league angels, all halos, harps, and announcements. I'm a down-to-earth type on a mission to help people."

"Does your mission have to include me?"

"Eventually it includes everyone." He signaled to the waitress. "The special, please."

Linda cast a nervous look at the brown, square object on the plate. A soft white substance oozed across the top.

"It's horrible, I can't!" she wailed.

"Close your eyes and think back to better times." He reached his hand over and placed it on hers with a feather-light touch. "Just a bit of the corner there." His voice became silky. "Go ahead. Try it."

Linda looked at the plate with misgivings, then shut her eyes and forced a tiny piece of the square into her mouth. When the chocolate brownie and ice cream flooded her taste buds, a smile of relief melted her sharp features. She dug her fork in deeper.

"I've been on a diet so long I forgot how good this tastes," she exclaimed. She looked up at him. "Thank you."

"My work is done here." The angel stood up. "You're now free."

As he left the diner, he took out his appointment book and ran a pencil over the list of names. A full day stretched ahead of him, filled with hundreds of carb-starved souls just waiting for salvation. The angel sauntered down the street with a peaceful smile that made passersby remember the smell of their mother's cookies cooling on the kitchen counter or dream of offering chocolate-covered strawberries to their beloveds.

= = = = =

Bio/publishing history: Ms. Anderson's short fiction has appeared in the ezines Flashshot, The Rose & Thorn, Wild Violet, and MicroHorror.

story: Tuesday

2006-07-07T06:41:00.000-05:00

Tuesday

by Rod Drake - mrdrake@cox.net

= = = = =

“I’m in position. Target sighted.” Ray York, SWAT sniper, whispered into his headset. He crouched on the roof, his rifle resting on the parapet wall.

“Copy. Stand by,” came the response from his captain.

Through the high-powered scope, Ray could see one guy, the target, either drunk or high, yelling at his ex-wife, now the hostage, and waving his handgun around. A real piece of work. Beer belly, balding, wearing a wife beater t-shirt. Every so often he would fire out the second-story window at the police cars barricaded below and shout obscenities.

Sushi. That would be good for supper, Ray decided as he waited. Maybe stop at Samurai Sushi on the way home tonight. And stop next door to pick up a lottery ticket. I’m feeling lucky today.

He shifted his position slightly. Planet of the Apes movie marathon on cable tonight. All five of the films, one after the other in order. It didn’t get much better than that, Ray smiled to himself. I really love the second one, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Those surviving mutant freaks worshipping the last atomic missile. Classic. And even good old Charlton makes a cameo at the end.

The t-shirted target weaved around the apartment, still shouting it looked like. Ray followed him with the rifle. The marathon doesn’t start till later; with any luck, I can be home before Beneath the Planet of the Apes begins with my sushi. That would be sweet.

Should I ask Caitlyn over? Caitlyn lived in an apartment on the floor below him. They had done a few things together recently. I’m guessing she’s not a big fan of scifi films, but I know she likes sushi. I wonder if she’ll be home tonight? Probably. It’s Tuesday.

Ray’s headset crackled, “Still have the target?”

“Affirmative.”

Was Tuesday the night Caitlyn took that night class? Or was it Thursday? What was that night class; cooking? No, some kind of art. Pottery maybe. Ray flexed his fingers, one by one, maintaining his grip on the rifle all the time.

Ray suddenly remembered his nephew’s birthday was only two days away. I’ve got to get something for him tomorrow, without fail, and drop it by the house before I forget.

I was late last year and still haven’t heard the end of it from my sister. Maybe a super soaker. That would be a cool gift for a nine-year old.

The headset ordered, “Take the shot.”

Ray fired, once, and the target went down hard and fast. Ray put the rifle aside and stood up. For some reason, the line “Get your hands off me, you damned, dirty ape,” flashed through his mind.

= = = = =

Biography: Rod Drake is a native of the Midwest, but currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has written creatively for himself and a few friends for many years who advised him to share his stories with a larger audience. His favorite writers are Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, Ray Bradbury and Mickey Spillane. He hopes to be a success one day.

submit: MicroHorror.com: Short Stories. Endless Nightmares

2006-07-03T07:53:00.000-05:00

This just in from the Flash Forward mail bag:

MicroHorror.com is a free online archive for short-short horror
fiction, and we're accepting submissions! You'll find no stories
longer than 666 words. Come and browse!

MicroHorror.com: Short Stories. Endless Nightmares.
http://www.microhorror.com

Nathan Rosen, editor

story: Anna's Crumbs

2006-06-21T15:55:00.000-05:00

Anna's Crumbs

By Kim Nowlin - Kimnowlin@Hotmail.com

Anna was made from scratch. She was never finished, and was constantly being remade, over and over again. It took her twenty-eight years to discover that she had been created incorrectly, that something in her was off. Anna was like a yellow, fluffy birthday cake with crumbs that had fallen off and holes dipped in where fingers had probed, slopped over with a decorative coating of rich and creamy vanilla frosting. Occasionally, when her lumps became visible, Anna would find some edible flowers and confetti to slap over her mistakes, to keep her looking like the symbol of delight that she desperately tried to resemble.

It had begun to seem unfair to Anna, that with all the expensive frosting and her time spent self-decorating, that she did not turn out just as she wished she should. She had spent years adding to herself, trying to make herself more interesting, sturdy, self-reliant and attractive. But as she reached her peak, where she found that she could not add much more to her collection, Anna found supreme disappointment in the realization that she never truly wanted a collection to begin with. "Why," she would ask herself, "do I have to become someone for everyone else?"

Anna had grown up in the suburbs, in a slightly non-descript tract home, with suburban values and non-descript friends. The first of her many best friends was, however, different. She was named, Jennifer German. It had seemed silly to Anna, that Jennifer's parents hadn't changed their last name, since they were in fact German. It was just all too funny to Anna's seven-year-old self. Jennifer was innocent and giggly and Anna became that too. The would spend their after-school hours designing Barbie's hair and arranging puffy stickers in their sticker books.

The Germans celebrated Advent, which to Anna meant, opening little doors of a cardboard, Christmas scene, finding chocolates to split for 24 days. The family was so different from Anna's. They were quiet and proper and stacked their records in the living room. On special occasions, Jennifer's Grandmother would baby-sit. To Jennifer and Anna, this meant there were at least two hours of uninterrupted goofing off with no penalties. Grandma German only spoke German, and therefore did not speak too much. This came in handy every time she played guardian, but once. The time that Anna had watched Jennifer's instructions on how to flip over the top of a bunk bed, Anna did not realize that you must hold on to the frame, not just the blankets and fell nose-flat on the hardwood floor below. The comforting words of Es ist okay liebes, simply did nothing to warm Anna's heart or cure her bleeding nose.

Long after the innocent years of her friendship with Jennifer, Anna searched her way through friend after friend, looking for the balance of peace and genuine happiness that she knew with her first grade companion. With each year, friends and acquaintances, just as Anna did, became complicated and diluted. Female friendships were so much harder than romantic relationships. When she got to know her boyfriends well enough, she could let them know when they did things that bothered her and she could try her best to change the unappealing sides of them. Getting that involved with a girl would require so much delicate egg walking that Anna never let her friendships get that far.

Each year she would find the best friend for those two semesters and perhaps a summer that would best match Anna's current likes, hobbies and humor. She spent her college years with friends who enjoyed discussing similar theories and watching the same movies, shopping the same stores, but never anyone memorable.

Spending the middle and second half of her twenties creating the image she had intended to, Anna became well versed in the art of "smoke and mirrors." With a job that everyone would compliment, as Art Director for a major advertising agency, she found true misery in Monday through Friday hours, but slight delight in the compliments from new acquaintances. She had become a master of knitting, scrapbooking, yoga, French and pastry baking. It was a Friday afternoon, two weeks before Anna's birthday and one week before her boyfriend of six months planned to propose that Anna would quit her job with ten minutes notice, go home to throw away her knitting needles and let herself die in her garage.

Something lovely inside of Anna had snapped the hot August afternoon, and it was then that she decided there would never be enough time left in her life to be beautiful. There were always too many new things to learn and become good at. Too many people to show her presentational charm off to and not enough to see straight through it, into the hole that was widening within her. The more she collected, the more Anna became crowded. Her thoughts and passions were drowned in self-inflicted responsibilities and attempts at completing the self-portrait that she thought should have been done by now. After she pulled into her two-car garage and closed the door, Anna's cake stood no longer. There would be no more bland kisses with her lover, no more Range Rover to continue leasing, no endless reading of Women's magazines. Her chunks of vanilla patchwork were melting away, leaving a mound of moldy cake to quiver into sleep. As she began to nod off in her toasty, pungent garage, Anna felt satisfaction in the one deed she had done solely to impress herself and no one else. She longed for Jennifer to sit in the passenger seat and sweetly sleep along side of her. As she gently prepared herself to die, Anna whispered, "Es ist okay liebes."

= = = = =
Bio: Previous publishing history: Nov/Dec issue of Farmhousemagazine.com Essay: "Character"

story: State

2006-06-16T14:53:00.000-05:00

State

By Cynthia Burke - cynburke@gmail.com

Upon entering the clinic he led me directly into his office past the poor woman waiting in the sad, satin coat. He looked intensely at me as if I were to utter a deep secret. I announced myself and he was perplexed – we were double booked. As he explained the situation to the other woman, I volunteered that it must certainly be my luck that created such confusion. He took my appointment and sent her away.

His square jaw and gaunt face seemed sad and familiar. Truly, in this life, such attractions are rare if at all real. I flashed forward to languid Sundays as we read the paper and shared coffee. Long defunct evolutionary chemistry, what would drive someone instantly to such madness?

We settled into our session. "Tell me about your character," he began. His eyes clear and blue like the sky that September. A blue that disarms; that makes you believe no damage could possibly be done. No pain, no destruction could come, not in that blue.

My character is myself? I wondered of whom I should speak. The person who worked in a government building or made the evening meal? Should I describe the newly-wed who just moved into the home where she planed to grow old; the hopeful, one day, mother-to-be?

The notion of classical homeopathy is discovering root causes – like cures like, he explained. So what of my roots? How far must he dig to find them and would they be healthy or twisted with rot? The mere idea that someone might see such depths ignited a slow longing.

The interrogation continued as the cool, evening air crept through the window. I grew exhausted as my words were never clear enough for him. "That's not an emotion," he barked. "No, go deeper," he demanded. We discussed my tendency to lie; my desire to feel intelligent. The shock in me when others felt I was less or insignificant, my need to control all. Too many hours, I had to leave. "I'm in control now," he beckoned.

As he studied the notes from our session and contemplated the alchemy he might employ, mutual glances were stolen. Suddenly his decision was made: "opium." This substance would potentially bring about a state of deep healing. I was speechless. Should a struggling addict take opium? But there was trust in the blue.

The homeopathic opium dissolved under my tongue. Upon waking I rolled over, pushed my legs about the bed, and explored the cool pockets inside the sheets. I spoke his name and smiled. There are an endless number of doors leading inside the human heart. So many paths, and we often choose one and blindly follow, ignoring the alternate routes and twisting roads. How do you bend fate to forge a new path in another's heart? As the day began a quest was started and he became my constant mental companion. How complicated it was: he there, I here with a husband and lovely life.

When the world was sleeping and the sky was filled with the dawn's blue haze I rose to spend time with my love. Inside I was me again, wholly myself, loved and free. Like water following gravity my thoughts returned always to him. To his face, his body, his warmth, but anxiety slowly overcame everything. Weary from the indulgence I wrote a bold message and confessed everything. My attraction to him was too strong to continue treatment and I exhaled for the first time in days, years.

A message flashed in my mailbox. It is okay to be attracted to him, he said. It is okay if he is attracted to me, he said. The problem lies in the fixation. The fixation. His face. The fixation. His name. He gave me "permission" to feel this way – it must be part of what needs healing, he said. He said.

Plumbing the depths of this mystery his eloquence, determination and compassion were beyond seductive. My form shriveled and daily life ceased. The quest consumed me. No longer were there evening meals or stories of my day exchanged with others. There became only fragments of the person left in the body my once husband knew – shards tangible enough to cut through and remind him of what was.

Each question the doctor asked about my love drew blood from my veins. The pain; I pulled further and further away from myself until I was no longer in my body. My hunger for him was insatiable, ravenous. And anger welled that made the most violent act seem kind. The fixation. But the quest, yes, healing, yes, fulfillment; I pleaded for clemency, begged like a pauper for his touch.

"Though I may have desires," he confessed in a late night message that brought me to my knees, "I cannot lose perspective."

"The proper substance" he insisted. "This would bring inner peace which is a prelude to intimacy."

Intimate, have we not been? I was his and it was never dissuaded, never judged. Fantasy and reality had merged into a purgatory where I was trapped. Just beneath the concrete wall I could feel his presence. If this was as close as I could be – all the strings in me snapped – it was here I would stay. And remain in the state of my new freedom.

He grew exasperated of my insolence and finally sent me away; there were sadder, satin coats waiting. Beyond hope, I suppose, beyond healing. "Close this chapter;" he must have felt charitable that day or the strength of my delusions slammed into him with cataclysmic revelation. Or was it that he too felt trapped? The concrete wall will never be destroyed or reveal such secrets. They are only ours to guess and wonder.

= = = = =

Bio: Cynthia Burke is a historian by training and computer geek by living.

Snow*vigate

2006-05-21T10:23:00.000-05:00

Newish Ezine accepts flash fiction. Guidelines here

submit: Fringe

2006-05-18T13:09:00.000-05:00

Move Over Wonder Bread! Fringe Magazine, seeks flash fiction for online publication. For Fringe purposes, a flash fiction (or short short) piece is less than 1,000 words. Submit 1-3 at a time, and please put "Flash Fiction" in the subject line. Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com, and feel free to check out our general guidlines here - http://fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm .

news: New online community for flash fiction horror

2006-04-07T15:14:00.000-05:00

Chad Helder says:

Dear Flash Forward:

I just started a new online community for flash fiction horror. The site contains a forum where horror writers can post their flash fiction, and others can respons. The best submissions will be compiled into an anthology. This site defines the flash fiction story as 500 words.

Here is the address:
http://unspeakablehorror.com

Also, I have embarked upon a quest to write 300 horror movies in the form of flash fiction stories. Here is my flash fiction blog:
http://chadhelder.com/horrormarchen.html

Thank you, Flash Forward!

Sincerely,
Chad Helder

You're quite welcome!

news: Ediciones Efímeras

2006-03-30T11:22:00.000-06:00

I got this email:

I'm Santiago Eximeno, from Spain. I write flash fiction in spanish in several magazines and two blogs, but recently Ediciones Efímeras (http://www.edicionesefimeras.com), a spanish online editorial, has published a flash fiction horror anthology (in english) in PDF (free to download) called Ephemerals (http://69.57.128.94/~admin13/efimero/ephemerals.html) that includes several short-short stories written by me and illustrated by Pedro Belushi, translated to english by Joaquín Revuelta. I hope you enjoy these stories.

story: The Comfort of Snow

2006-03-17T13:03:00.000-06:00

The Comfort of Snow
by D. A. Ward - daward74@comcast.net

At the end of all things, Daniel was little more than a toiler. Other men dreamt of great things and saw them come to fruition. Inventors, writers, artists, scientists, builders; especially builders. Off the backs of men like himself were their visions realized, for Daniels only skill was that of laying brick. Not the dreamer of cities, not the architect. He lacked the divine spark of inspiration for such things. He rolled down the Plymouths window and felt the deep chill of winter seep in as he lit a cigarette. The gray blanket of sky, its damp smell betraying the oncoming snow, rolled lazily above the horizon of the city, so close but never touching the tops of the tall buildings that lined the floodwall on the other side of the violently flowing river. Looking again about him, he thought of the abandoned and run-down buildings that were once part of the great southern city. It would seem that south of the James River downtown was a terrible place to be, having not yet been touched by the downtown renaissance that was taking place where the tall buildings grew and middle-aged hipsters dwelt in lavish apartments that had once housed tobacco and Union prisoners. Just south of the river, it was decay. He felt sadness, for other toilers like himself, who laid the foundations and walls of these buildings so long ago. Grand old buildings built of fine red brick that were now relegated to memory, inhabited only by the ghosts of human beings. Squatters and addicts whose lives had perhaps meant something more at one time, but who now came to call this blighted stretch of civilization their home or perhaps buzzardly wandered its streets in search of what carrion could be found. Trash blew across the street, tumbling like weeds gathered in the desert of human neglect. He snickered. How appropriate it was that he should seek knowledge and guidance in such a place as this. Surely, it was the notion only a madman would have offered, but then his friend the priest was no madman. It was he who had directed Daniel to this place, to a point of light amidst a vast darkness. An old used bookshop called Serapeum Books, a home for words of the strange and antique. Something there, perhaps, to help quell the thirst within him demanding to know more of her loss. Something that neither priest nor policeman had been able to offer.

It was a year ago, nearly to the day, that his beloved had disappeared. A blinding snow storm and her faithful canine companion with a shorn leash waiting alone in the gathering snow were all the memories he had of that night. He had suffered a year of postulation from the authorities and friends alike. Many explanations had he heard, and none had satisfied him. A violent crime? Probably. A sudden urge to flee from their impending nuptials? Perhaps. After all, he was often capable of being the lousiest of drunks. Nothing had sat right with him, nothing had added up. Last week, odd dreams and memories more powerful than usual had led him to that great hole in the earth near their apartment, and it was there that he had felt the most truthful thing since her disappearance. He remembered the sense of dread, palpable and pounding in his chest as he stood there paralyzed. A drumsong of fear and human suffering seemed to pour out of the black depths and resound in his soul alone, for none other could hear it. Daniel didn't know how or why, but he knew then that the answers to his loss lay in that hollow tunnel beneath the earth, and if he could find some explanation then he might have some hope of reconciling the days of emptiness he had endured. If the answer be there, then by God he would find it, even if it meant facing down his own demons or whatever dark thing lay hungry in the hillside.

Daniel rolled up the window of the Plymouth and swung its heavy door open wide. Stepping out onto the cold street, he pulled his coat about him as the wind toppled off the river and spiraled around the corners of the buildings and through the alleyways. Indeed the bookstore seemed like an oasis; the only building not in ruin, grand in its stature and meticulously cared for, almost as if time and poverty had spared it entirely. Warm lights burned within and wholesome smoke from a wood fire drifted from a chimney in its roof. A modest wreath of holly and red berries adorned the front door. If he could not find direction in such an unlikely place as this, then where?

Taking a last drag from his cigarette, he dropped it and ground it beneath his shoe. The warmth that beckoned from within the place stirred something in him, and he thought of the way that Shannon had always made Christmastime so special. Her spirit for it had resonated within him, where he’d nothing of his own. Hot cups of cocoa, blankets bound around them as they dozed on the couch, the way the lights of the tree in the dark of the small apartment and the scent of evergreen made him feel safe and content. The way she laughed and how she grinned like a child, her long dark hair falling around her face as she dug into a wrapped gift. Then there was the comfort of snow that had always been so magical, but which had since become a painful reminder of that night of his loss. Long had he mourned her, and he mourned her even now. As he stepped off the curb and began his pensive strides down the long walk among the first falling snowflakes, a murder of crows broke loose from the skeletal treetops along the rivers edge. That they seemed an eerie welcome was not lost on him.

= = = = =

bio: David is a native of the vibrant artist community that is Richmond, Virginia. He moonlights as an inconspicuous Ops Manager by day before sitting down to pen his tales of the darker side of the south by night. His fiction and poetry have been published in Dream International Quarterly, and Treasures.

story: Snapshot

2006-03-07T15:30:00.000-06:00

Snapshot
by Dallas Shaw - jadan2904@aol.com

            We were late the moment you walked through the door. Unexpected work kept you an hour longer and traffic another twenty minutes. You need a shower, I can't find my other black pump and I hop around, gathering your clean socks, underwear and a tie. I know now is not the time. Everyone is waiting and dinner is likely over, but the cake will not be cut until we arrive. Your father would never allow it. You are his pride and joy, he will wait until sunrise tomorrow for you to sit with him and help blow out the candles. I know this, and still I feel playful.
            I wait to hear the toilet flush, water spray and the sound of splashing as you wash your hair. I sneak in holding a Polaroid camera, my one bare foot slides on the tile. It takes every ounce of restraint not to laugh as I push aside the curtain, checking to see that your back is turned. I lean part way in, center you body in the box and call your name.
            Water is everywhere, my dress is soaked, you reach for the camera and my arm, but I am too quick. The naked, cat and mouse dance that follows leaves us both breathless and drenched.
            Another thirty minutes and we are ready to walk out the door. My dress has been changed, eliminating the search for the shoe; your tie is crooked but brings out the blue in your eyes. I tell you everyone will be furious over the wait, you say it doesn´t matter, that your dad will understand. I think you are right; your playful nature is a gift he shares. We decide to tell him once your mother leaves the room, knowing he will break our confidence later, over coffee, as he always does.
            We are still laughing over the picture, over our play fight, over the time, when the phone rings. You tell me to forget about it. You say, we have to go, let them leave a message, but I snatch up the receiver anyway. I feel the blood leaving my face. Tiny fingers of ice close around my throat, I can barely breathe. Your face is impatient; your hand is on the doorknob. I tell you, your father has died.

= = = = =
bio: Dallas Shaw is currently a creative writing student, working towards her bachelor's degree while raising two children and living in a far-too-quiet, suburban neighborhood.

story: Bad Boys

2006-03-06T09:17:00.000-06:00

Bad Boys
by Jack Swenson - swenjack@comcast.net

We were playing poker in my apartment. It was just a friendly game, nickel and dime. What we were doing in fact was keeping Ben company, trying to cheer him up. Ben's girlfriend had dumped him; she told him she didn't want to be with him anymore. I asked him why, and he shrugged. "She didn't say," he said sarcastically.

I'd had my own women troubles not long before. My wife threw me out when she found out I was sleeping with her best friend. Then our friend said adios to me and to her husband and ran off with a high school social studies teacher.

J.T. and Frank were work friends of Ben's. They were both married, happily or not, I don't know. Frank was a glassblower, and J.T. was an engineer, like Ben. They all worked in Silicon Valley, in the computer chip biz.

When Ben and his friends showed up at my place, they were wearing what they wore to work. Ben had on a navy sport coat, grey slacks, and a tie. I had a couple of cats, so I told him to hang up his coat before he sat down so he wouldn't get cat hair on it, but he made a face like he didn't care what he got on his coat, and he sat down with it on and loosened his tie.

Ben drank Heinekens, one bottle after another. I drank old fashioneds, bourbon in a glass with ice and a maraschino cherry. T.J. drank scotch, and Frank didn't drink much of anything. He had a couple of beers.

A little after midnight, somebody got the idea that we should throw soap into the swimming pool. I don't know who suggested it, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I had a box of Salvo, and we went out onto the balcony of my apartment, which was on the second floor, and pegged the soap cakes, each about the size and shape of a hockey puck, into the pool area. The swimming pool was in the center of a quadrangle of two and three story apartment units.

Some of the missiles hit the water, and some of them didn't. The ones that didn't exploded like grenades on the concrete pool apron.

When the party broke up, after Frank and T.J. left, I told Ben that he could sleep on my couch, but he said no, he had to be at work early in the morning. Some people have real jobs, he said.

I walked as far as the landing with my friend, and as he walked down the steps, I saw the slump of his beefy shoulders beneath the fabric of his coat. He was shedding hair like an old tomcat heading home from a lost war.

= = = = =
bio: Jack Swenson is a former teacher reborn as a penner of everyday mysteries. He writes about life in the slow lane and occasionally about memories of another kind of life. More than three dozen of his stories have been published in ezines including Burning Word, ken*again, Cenotaph, The Adirondack Review, and ausgang.

story: Crosswalk

2006-02-19T07:47:00.000-06:00

Crosswalk
By LaTanya McQueen - LaTanya_McQueen@emerson.edu

      At the crossing she takes a breath. The bitter air burns her lungs as she breathes slowly in. She looks up at the image of an orange hand. “Wait,” the automated voice says. She wraps her scarf tighter around her neck. It’s unraveling around the edges.
      People start to gather creating warmth around her as they huddle. A mother extends her gloved hand to her daughter, their two hands interlocking. There’s a couple across the street, they seem young and foolish, looking up towards the sky with open mouths trying to capture the falling flakes. She watches as the people in front of her rush by, trying to make the light.
      If she hurries she’ll find them. After crossing she’ll be two blocks away from her brownstone. She knows what awaits her. Two more blocks and it’ll be confirmed. She hopes now she’ll be the one to throw him out. He will leave her, she’s aware of this, and she knows that upon finding them his face will show relief and not surprise. That evening he’ll pack his bags, only the essentials, the rest he’ll get later, and leave. She’ll spend the rest of the night washing another woman’s scent off the sheets, the comforter and quilted blankets, even the accent pillows. Everything will go.
      Strangers step down on the curb tempting fate, and look around. They are eager to cross. “Hold my hand tightly now, don’t let go,” the mother says to her daughter.
      “Wait,” the voice keeps calling. “Wait.”
      The light changes, and the orange hand is replaced with the white outline of a man. Turning away, she takes one step down and exhales--a warm breath amidst the freezing air.

= = = = =

Bio: LaTanya McQueen--originally from Kentucky, now residing in Boston, Massachusetts. Published before in Rumble, a literary e-zine specializing in microfiction.

submit: Snow*Vigate

2006-02-09T11:38:00.000-06:00

"Snow*Vigate: A literary journal, a snowshoe guide, a prosodic field guide to snow"

Snowvigate, a new online literary journal, is currently seeking flash fiction submissions, poetry, and essays for its first issue. We've stretched the usual definition of flash to give writers a bit more wiggle room. We will consider stories up to 1500 words. Submissions should be sent to snowv@snowvigate.com as plain text pasted into the body of an e-mail.

More information at www.snowvigate.com

Professor Doug Martin, Editor-in-Chief, has started a blog regarding the snowvigate adventure at www.snowvigate.blogspot.com

story: The Model's Downfall

2006-02-08T08:40:00.000-06:00

The Model's Downfall
by John Colvin

     Julie is sitting at the table in Gertrude's kitchen, describing a TV movie about a girl who becomes a porn star and a drug addict. Gertrude is still wearing her McDonald's uniform and looking out the window at the house across the street. She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. She started smoking when she was in her thirties, trying to lose weight. It didn't work, but she kept smoking. She is watching the house across the street because she wants to see the man who lives there come home. She hopes he will spend some time outside this evening, maybe do a little yard work. She knows better than to wave or try to shout out the window at him. She just wants to see him.
     "They showed how it could really happen," Julie says, "It was very true to life. She started out as a model and one thing just led to another, you know. She got hard up for money and posed naked for this one magazine. Then she ended up in dirty movies, and she got on drugs and then she was a prostitute. It was so sad. It made you think. It really made you think about how it could happen to anybody. It was really true to life."
     Gertrude's feet ache from standing, but she keeps watching, shifting from one foot to the other. The man who lives across the street filed a restraining order against her after she broke into his house the third time. That last time, he walked in to find her in his kitchen, cooking him dinner. Now she thinks she may go someplace and call him from a payphone. She could act like she was someone else. She could act like she was from the phone company, disguise her voice. Maybe he will like how she sounds, and they will talk and flirt, and then they can arrange a meeting somewhere . . .
     Gertrude flicks her cigarette ash into the sink full of dirty dishes. "True to whose life?" she asks.

submit: Flash Me Magazine

2006-02-07T13:57:00.000-06:00

"FLASH ME MAGAZINE is a quarterly magazine, accepting all genres of fiction, as long as the story is under 1,000 words.

*The deadline for our next issue is March 31, 2006.* Stories received after this quarter's deadline will be held for consideration in the following issue.

Issues are published on Jan 31, April 30, July 31, and Oct 31, with submission deadlines one month prior to publication.
"

story: Dad’s Rules

2006-02-06T10:18:00.000-06:00

Dad’s Rules
By Joanna Kelly

Ginger’s room had everything she had asked for at Christmas: a queen-sized bed, mini fridge and a new microwave. She and her dad tested it out with a cold cup of tea. When it dinged, she got the tea out and took a small sip. “It’s good right?” he asked. “Now you guys won’t bug me when you’re having your party.” As part of her first slumber party, her dad would not smoke pot nor have his clients over to the house. It was 8 year old Ginger’s reward for finally living in one school district long enough to make friends. She heard him on the phone with his girlfriend, Brandi: “She wants to bring four girls here. I think people in this neighborhood are cool but little kids get into everything. Like roaches.” He winked at Ginger. “Can you come over that day and help me out with them? Oh, that’s OK. I’ll handle it then.” He hung up and asked “What’s Lee’s number again?” Lee was his other girlfriend, a graduate student who Ginger actually liked. She recited the number to him and he dialed. Lee was much nicer than Brandi and never talked down to her. “Lee will be great at this,” he muttered.

The afternoon of the slumber party, Ginger had checked everything in her room. She watched as they were printed on the long green and white printer paper. “Make sure every girl reads it and knows it,” he nagged. Now she looked it over and felt an urge to break every dumb thing on the list. Lee arrived, with some of her books and homework, and Gin read the list over and over while waiting for the girls to show up:

1: Stay away from Dad’s bedroom. There is NOTHING there.
2: Everything you need is in Ginger’s room.
3: The bathroom across from Dad’s room is the guest bathroom. This means adults Only.
4: Only food should go in the microwave; use microwave safe dishes.
5: Only Ginger is allowed to operate the new microwave. Handle all micro-waved food with care. Avoid standing in front of the microwave.

Lee teased Greg about the list saying, “I thought you’d enjoy hosting this. This list will embarrass them.” Greg didn’t want to hear it, there was too much that could go wrong and the list made him feel better. Ginger and Lee holed up in her room the rest of the night, Lee studying a book, and Ginger arranging and rearranging things in her bedroom. Ginger’s rotation included her videocassettes, books, stuffed animals, and shoes. “Relax, it’s only 10pm,” Lee said after the girl started reshelving her books. “But they should be here now,” Ginger said. “My invitation said it starts at 8 o’clock.” Lee stopped reading and asked her if she was sure she gave them the right info. Ginger gave her a copy of the invitation and watched her read it. Lee didn’t remember hearing any phone calls to cancel since she had been there. In fact the phone rang once but Greg got it while they were in her room. She told Ginger to wait in her room and went to Greg’s home office.

She knocked on the door but came in after hearing his voice. She hoped he wasn’t talking to a client and tying up the line. “Greg, no one’s come or called her.” Greg’s back was turned and he was on the phone. He finished the call and turned around to face her. “Of course not. I called them and cancelled. It’s not a good night for this.” He turned away from her and started to dial but Lee got right in his face and asked for an explanation. Greg stood up to her and lowered his voice, “I’ve got to help out my brother and his friends.” “What does that mean?”

“It means Chris is in jail and I have to help him. I don’t know what he did but I have to go right now,” Greg was trying to keep calm but she didn’t seem to believe him. “I don’t want to be going in and out of the house while they're here. And I definitely don’t want his friends here scaring the kids.” Lee was amazed; he didn’t trust her to be in the house alone with the kids. Lee argued that there were alarms on every outside door and a guard dog in the backyard but he went to his closet and looked for some clean clothes. There was nothing to feel guilty about and Lee could frown all night if she wanted, he had to cancel it. “Just take her to a movie. Pet Sematary or something’s at the Gateway.” Lee said she was OK with calling the girls back but Greg said it would be too much stress for everyone. Lee kept protesting and even blocked the door. Greg shut her down by asking, “You wanna break up over this? Let’s do that after I get back.”

Thirty minutes after telling Ginger the party was cancelled because of a family emergency, they were in line to buy tickets for The Little Mermaid. Ginger’s face was streaked with tears and she had gone silent. Lee tried to convince her seeing a movie at night was much better than a slumber party. She made a big deal about getting a large popcorn, large drink, and candy. Both sat still in their seats while the other people laughed and whispered throughout. After it was done, Ginger tapped her arm. “You’re not coming back to visit us, are you?” Lee took a deep breath and told her no; Ginger was too smart to be lied to. Ginger nodded and told her it was OK since, “I hate Dad too.” Without saying a word they stayed through the next showing; Lee paid a tired looking usher who cleaned their aisle. It was worth it so they could stay together as long as possible.

= = = = =
Bio: Joanna Kelly was born in Houston, Texas and has been published in College Bound Magazine. She’s a graduate of the University of Texas at Austin and writes for the video podcast “Student Filmmakers Showcase TV”.

submit: Fringe Magazine

2006-02-02T16:53:00.000-06:00

"Don't be shy! Send us your fiction, no matter how 'out there.' However, short stories and self-contained novel excerpts should be no greater than 7,000 words—about 22 double-spaced pages. For Fringe purposes, short shorts or flash fiction is work less than 1,000 words, and will be considered a sub-genre of fiction. You may submit 1-3 short shorts at a time, in a single attachment. Your subject line should contain the words 'Short short' before the piece's title.
Email all fiction and short short submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com"

workshop: Flash Fiction Writing Workshop

2006-02-02T16:51:00.000-06:00

"The Flash Fiction Writing Workshop (free)is for serious writers of short short pieces (beginner to more advanced, but serious). All members share one goal--to improve in the craft of writing.

The length limit for pieces submitted for critique is around 500 words, more or less, but nothing over 1,000 words.

Participation is mandatory . The minimum requirements to remain in the workshop are to submit one piece of your own each month and do four critiques for others. Those who are not able to meet these minimum requirements will be unsubscribed. We have no upper limit, however, on the number of critiques you can do for others. The more you do the more you learn about writing (by trying hard to understand and express what makes a piece effective or not effective)."

submit: Cezanne's Carrot Literary Journal

2006-02-02T16:49:00.000-06:00

"We accept flash fiction and short stories from 100 to 3,000 words. Novel excerpts are acceptable if they stand on their own and stay within the word limit.

Qualities we look for in fiction:

* Three-dimensional characters that do more than just serve a plot
* Good use of imagery and detail
* Realistic dialogue
* A beginning, middle, and end (doesn't need to be as clearly defined in flash or experimental works, but we do like to see some sense of movement or change)
* Smooth, tight prose that is the result of several, careful edits"

story: Last Natural Born Blonde

2006-02-02T16:38:00.000-06:00

Last Natural Born Blonde
by Tamara Wilhite - tamarawilhite@hotmail.com

“I don’t like your latest modeling contract promotion,” Lexus mewled.
“We’re looking for someone who is unique.” Yvonne countered. “That is, by definition, a unique promotion--"
“Can’t you find another undiscovered beauty somewhere?”
“What? A fifth trip to Papua New Guinea to look for a girl who is so backward that she has an outhouse?” Yvonne grimaced. “Or do you want us to sneak into the Muslim territories and find a neglected beauty under a burqa AND smuggle her to the civilized world? Anyone who meets the requirements of this promotion will be unique in the world. And there is far less risk. And no one else has done it before.”
“There are plenty of blondes walking around.”
“And they’re all products of that `enhancement’ available after 2033. You can find blonde Arab girls because their oil prince papas wanted them to be. You can find Asian girls because some doctor paid the parents to make a beauty to sell in Calcutta’s bride market. There are even girls who have European descent who are saying, `I got this blonde hair from my grandma!’ We both know how rare that really ever is. Rumor has it, there aren’t any more.”
Both women glanced at the photo of the blonde black woman posing in the genetic tailoring ads on the nearby wall. “Gentlemen prefer blondes. Make sure your daughter gets the gentleman!” With the rich paying for their kids to be geniuses, tweaking coloring genes to meet an old fashioned standard of beauty was the middle class “upgrade”. “This could be taken as racist. After all, natural blondes were of European descent.”
“With all the hype about how genetically engineering your kids being bad, this `natural blonde’ search dovetails into the `all natural’ movement. And with several generations of mixing, any natural one is as likely to be Asian-Anglo-Hispanic as mostly Anglo.”
“How do you prove someone is a natural, compared to manufactured ones?”
“DNA testing.”
“Isn’t the gene the same?”
“Require DNA samples from the biological parents. If both parents are carriers of the blonde gene, then we can assume the kid is.”
“What if the parents had the procedure? It’s been around for 80 years.”
“Then require that any blonde parent prove they inherited the gene themselves. Find parents who carry the gene for a birth date before the enhancement is available, and you’ve got your last natural blonde.”
“You said it’s rare. What if the last one is past 40?”
“Do the standard touch-up graphics and say we’re not guilty of age discrimination like so many of our competitors. Play off the all-natural angle again.”
“Doesn’t it seem funny that the standards of beauty haven’t changed, even as the population demographics have?” Lexus reluctantly agreed. “OK. Do the model search. Say it’s for the Chi-guna’s latest fashion line. They are begging for something different.”

It took 14 months. There were many entries, though 90% were rejected immediately by DNA profile comparisons of person to parent. It turned out there were plenty of people who actually thought they were blonde whose parents had lied about a pre-conception doctor’s visit. The remaining 10% were weeded out more slowly. Double-checking DNA databases of the deceased added an extra year to the search.
At the 18 month follow-up meeting, Yvonne arrived with a report in hand. Lexus asked. “Did you find the last one?”
“Yeah,” Yvonne replied quietly.
“Why did you have to go through the deceased database?”
“No. Our winner and all of our runners-up’s parents were dead.”
Lexus went stiff. “How old is our winner, then?”
“Our last natural blonde is 69.”
“Didn’t you put in an upper age cutoff on the modeling contract?”
“No. We released the model search with all participants having to meet the natural DNA requirements. We didn’t think to limit it to a maximum age. We though that looking for the last one would inherently mean the youngest one would win.”
“So why isn’t the youngest natural blonde younger?”
“None of the natural ones we found were younger.”
“Look at their kids.”
“Interracial marriage. Or even same race marriage with people with darker hair colors. Engineered blonde grandchildren in many cases, but no younger candidates who met the `natural’ criteria.”
“Are you saying our last natural blonde on the planet is 69?”
“Yeah.”
“If she’s 69, her hair’s white, isn’t it?”
“She dyes it blonde.” Yvonne brushed her own un-dyed blonde hair behind an ear, her light brown skin a harsh contrast to the ultra-pale face in the photo.
“So there are no natural blondes, then. Kill the contest. Say no one won.”
“It’s not really true. We found natural blondes--"
“They carry the genes for it, but they aren’t blonde anymore without hair dye. So there are no more natural blondes. Say no one won and kill the contest.”
“Our winner won per the contract. She gets the Chi-guna modeling contract, per the contract she signed to enter the contest. We never stated you couldn’t have gone naturally gray.”
“You mean we’re going to put an old lady in designer clothes and promote her as the last natural beauty? I can’t do that to Chi-guna. Their clothes are hip and fresh -”
“Can we redesign the clothes to suit an older demographic?” Yvonne grasped.
“The designer won’t redesign their clothes to suit the model. We are supposed to supply the model to suit the clothes.”
“They wanted something new--"
Lexus whipped out her electronic pad. “That model goes up once on the walkway, per contract. Then we say criteria’s met, the woman is paid, and beg the Chi-guna to say that one outfit is their `line’. We put the rest of the outfits under a new label release and put them on a new girl. And you are as much history as your vaunted `last of a kind’ ideas.”

story: The Trick

2006-01-16T14:44:00.000-06:00

The Trick
by Dee Harding

Johnny shows Jane the trick.
Standing in front of her, sleeves rolled up.
He takes the corks from the wine they've been drinking, and idly passes one through the other. Hands flowing like water.
She stops. She stares. She asks him how it's done.
Johnny shrugs, and gives her a mischievous smile.
'It's a trick', he says.
Later, on the way home, he admits to himself that he doesn't know.
That he's tried to remember how it's done, where he learnt the knack of it.
But that nothing comes.

Two weeks on, Jane shows Johnny the corks.
Awkward, a twist, a slight of the hand.
Step by stilted step, eyes narrowed with focus, she shows him the knack of it.
He smiles. He nods.
'That's it', he says.
But later, when Jane has gone home, he admits to himself, that it isn't.
Johnny takes the hands he's been staring at, and with a shrug, with a troubled smile, idly passes one through the other.
As if they were water.
Trying to remember where he learnt the trick.

- - - - -

Bio: Dee Harding is not a writer by trade, but has appeared in a number of small online flash-fiction collections and communities for fun and very little profit. Dee's favourite playmates are called 'Ambiguity', and 'Inference', and they listen to far too much Kate Bush.

submit: Mad Hatters' Review

2006-01-15T11:46:00.000-06:00

Submission Guidelines:

"The Reading Period for Issue 5 will commence on January 20th and end on February 9th, Midnight EST, USA. Submissions of writings received after that date and time will be tarred and feathered; they will NOT be considered. Please submit writings ONLY during our reading periods, which we announce here and on our homepage."

contest: First annual Flash Fiction Contest at Sideshow Collectibles (?!?)

2006-01-11T14:17:00.000-06:00

No fee flash fiction contest:

"Things to remember: keep it concise, stay on track, make every word absolutely essential to the story, don't involve too many characters, have a clear plot diagram before starting, and make sure your story stands alone!"

submit: SleepingFish : Literary Magazine of Text, Art and Text/Art.

2006-01-11T14:15:00.000-06:00

"SleepingFish is an independent print literary magazine of experimental prose, text/image, art, textual art, poetic TEXTures and general memetic nonsense, now on issue 0.75, the third installment. "

Submission guidelines here

class: flashquake Flash Fiction Classes

2006-01-05T10:21:00.000-06:00

This 4 week course costs $100.00:

"Are you intrigued by powerful and memorable short-short stories, sometimes also called flash, sudden, micro, fast, quick, furious, skinny, or postcard fiction? Have you discovered the difficulty of trying to write them? If you want to learn more about this popular and very marketable type of writing, then this is the course for you.

This action-packed four-week online course will help you understand some effective principles for writing flash fiction. You'll receive lessons and reading assignments, and you'll experiment with exercises. You'll try your hand at analyzing good short-shorts in order to discover writer techniques. You'll learn the value of careful critiquing to help your writer colleagues and yourself. You'll also learn about formatting, market strategies, and finding markets for your work."

story: Out

2006-01-02T10:04:00.000-06:00

Out
by Christopher Garlington

She was ironing. She ironed everything. She ironed all the shirts, the sheets, the pants, his work jeans, even the towels. She was passionate about creases. A collar could absorb her for twenty minutes or more as she patiently smoothed its wrinkles and its pillowed fabric down to a perfect plane.

“Always work from the middle,” and she pushes the iron away from her, “oooout. From the middle,” again the iron sails toward the edge of the board, gliding suddenly upward in a graceful practiced arc, “oooout.” That was her motto and her lesson to anyone foolish enough to ask her about ironing. Not that you had to ask, the conversation would eventually get there all by itself.

This morning she walked into the ironing room after her husband had left. She had her cup of coffee. She clicked on the little TV and turned it to CNN. She turned on her iron and stripped off her blouse.

The new Cuban shirt her husband’s brother had sent him had a collar as wide and as clear as a sail and she spread it out on the ironing board to flatten it. She touched the tip of the iron to check the heat. She sprayed some starch and went to work. After a minute or two, she had one side perfect. Then she pressed the edge of the iron against her skin, just under her right breast.

The pain was quick. It drove through her like a spear. She shook her hair and said “hmmph,” and finished the collar out. The next one was a pale blue ruffled skirt for her niece. It had 37 pleats. She laid it out across the board and touched the edge of the iron to her skin just a little off from the first burn. She shook her hair again, like she’d just done a shot of Jack in a roadside bar.

She was absorbed in the pleats when the screen door opened up and her sister walked right in. She whirled around with the iron in her hand, tits bouncing.

“Rhonda what the fuck are you doing?!”

She automatically crossed her arms over her tits and sunk the edge of the iron into her shoulder. She stared right at her sister as it burned. Her sister took a step toward her to grab the iron and stopped with her hand stretched out. Her sister could see the steam ports patterned like a daisy on her skin. She followed the criss-cross pattern down Rhonda’s arm to the elbow, then she saw her belly.

Starting around her navel, a floral pattern of tiny triangles was burned into her sister’s torso. They bloomed up to a hand’s width from her perfect tits. She couldn’t take her eyes off of them. She looked up at her sister.

“But you’re so pretty.”

Rhonda’s eyes welled up with delighted tears. She would never be able to explain it. She put the iron down and took her sister’s hands. She looked earnestly into her sister’s plain eyes and said

“It makes me happy.”

anotherealm Flash Fiction

2005-12-30T16:07:00.000-06:00

Lots of flash fiction stories here, organized by date.

Free Ebooks for Writers

2005-12-30T16:05:00.000-06:00

A listing of free ebooks for writers: "This page contains mostly ebooks on honing and improving your craft as a writer.
"

Word Smitten's Exclusive Interviews with Manhattan Literary Agents

2005-12-22T18:41:00.000-06:00

This flash fiction site has interviews with agents:

read these exclusive interviews with literary agents who represent some of the greatest authors currently published, including ZZ Packer (Simonoff) and Dan Duane (Finch)

book: Creating Short Fiction : The Classic Guide to Writing Short Fiction, by Damon Knight

2005-12-16T08:56:00.000-06:00

'To those who hunger to be writers I commend this book without reservation.'--Harlan Ellison

Damon Knight passed away recently --he was not only a great writer (penning such classics as the original Twilight Zone episode 'To Serve Man') but a first rate teacher. I have many writing books including Jack Bickhams 'Writing the Short Story'
and the classic 'Short Story Writing' by Thronley but THIS book by Knight beats them all. He not only covers everything from getting ideas to mixed viewpoints and compression in story action but goes into such detail you will feel you're are sitting in a serious university class on writing fiction.

As a matter of fact this book is NOT some fluff piece on 'getting in touch with the inner writer' and all that nonesense --no this author treats the reader as a serious aspiring writer. He also includes excercises which adds to what he is teaching you.
I only wish I could have met this author to shake his hand. A job very well done you will NOT be disappointed! It's about 208 pages (with index) of packed information on how to write and especially on how to get control over your story, keep that control till the end until you have a quality manuscript.
Harlan Ellison recommended this book--Harlan Ellison the guy who had enough chutzpah to jokingnly insult Asimov in person 'you're not so great!' if you know Ellison you know he would never recommend anything unless he liked it.

story: White Beard

2005-12-14T12:49:00.000-06:00

White Beard
By Surendra Mohanty -

"Hey look, that's Dumbledore!" cried out little Rachel pointing through her window at the old man, out on the lane.

"Stupid! His real name is Richard Harris. He plays Dumbledore," replied her brother, an ardent Rowling fan.

"No Gary," added Jones, the eldest sibling. "Don't you know Richard Harris is dead? That must be Michael Gambon."

The old man suppressed a chuckle. Thank God, these kids didn't recognize me, he thought. Though he had changed his guise there was nothing he could do to hide his long flowing beard. He hurried past the row of houses, sneaked into the church backyard and tiptoed into the vicar's room. Father Gillian was waiting for him.

"For Christ's sake, what took you so long?" asked the priest.

"I was watching the kids at play. Is my suit ready?"

"You've all night to watch your kids. Here, take your new suit and get going, before someone spots you. And take care, the snow is gathering fast."

The old man grabbed the parcel, winked impishly and rushed out of the backdoor.

It was getting late in the night. Groups of carol singers were already out on the streets. The old man hid his face with the parcel, as if to block the drizzling snow. He walked in the shadows and headed straight for the woods. Once there, he changed into his favourite bright red suit.

"Rudolf, Dancer, Prancer! Where are you?" he called out. "Come on, we've got a job to do."

= = = = =

Surendra Mohanty's bio: This 47-year old Indian believes he can write and even tries his hand at it. Believe it or not, some of his stories did get published. His likes change constantly, almost every year. Sometimes it's horses, sometimes collecting coins and sometimes traveling. Only thing constant with him is his family. Married for 21 years, he lives with his wife and daughter in Dubai.

Flash Fiction: Good Things Come in Small Packages

2005-12-12T17:43:00.000-06:00

Interesting article, here's an excerpt:

Some connotations of Flash are perfect for what the Flash artist should be trying to do: the sudden burst of light, fleeting illumination, sudden awareness, epiphany. Others are more indicative of what the Flash artist needs to avoid: the flash of the con man dazzling the unwary, the flash in the pan, a lack of depth that cannot last.
Flash literature at its best 'should flame out like shining from shook foil;' it should 'fall, gall' itself, 'gash gold vermilion.' It should get to the inner heart of the thing, its inscape, in the words of the poet. And it should do so without wasting a word. When you're talking about a few hundred words, you had better make sure that every word is there for a purpose.

book: Sudden Fiction International: Sixty Short-Short Stories, by Robert Shapard,James Thomas

2005-12-07T10:44:00.000-06:00

Another good collection of stories:

"this anthology presents an enticing smorgasbord of 60 short-short stories (none longer than five pages) from every continent, including work from such rarely represented countries as Botswana, Guatemala, Cyprus, and Pakistan. Although a quarter of the stories are from the United States, where the short-short form now flourishes, the catalog of international writers is impressive: Cortazar, Kawabata, Boll, Colette, Dinesen, Gordimer, Garcia Marquez, Babal, Calvino, and splendid lesser-knowns such as Krishnan Varma. Not all these exotic delights will suit every palate--the stories range from realism to absurdist fantasy, poetic lyric to political allegory--but one is always left hungry enough to try another. The collection also includes commentaries by the writers and translators and is perhaps even better than the earlier book."

website: Flash Fiction!

2005-12-07T10:29:00.000-06:00

Another flash fiction site, this one with contests where they give you the premise and you write a story. Lots of stories here, and a message board.

article: Why Write Flash Fiction? by Pamela Heffernan

2005-12-05T07:37:00.000-06:00

Good article on writing flash:

Have you ever had a fleeting moment of inspiration? A brief story that calls for you to tell it, but you feel no desire to enhance it to a longer piece of fiction? Don't blow it off as an unusable idea just because you can't see it being a longer story. Write it, feel it, grow with it. This is flash fiction.

article: Make It Easy for an Editor to Publish Your Story by Michael L. Wilson

2005-12-04T09:17:00.000-06:00

A good short article about writing flash:

"The difference between stories that are published and those that are rejected often come down to one misspelled word, one awkward line, or not following one of the explicit instructions in the publication's writer's guidelines.

These mistakes are deal breakers. Let's face it. The competition is fierce for publication. Out of more than 1400 submissions flashquake receives every year, only 120 are published. Sometimes writing is less about writing something brilliant, than it is about writing something good, following the rules, and not making mistakes.

So here are some pointers for increasing the odds of publication by decreasing the odds of rejection"

Click the link above for the full article.

story: Urges

2005-12-03T14:11:00.000-06:00

Urges
by Mary Miller - Maryulmer1@cs.com

     Carter and I sit at the bar and order drinks. I make a couple of rotations on my barstool and then throw a leg over his knee because both of us are miserable and I think this might help. Carter plays rugby. He wears his hair short. He lives off campus in a house surrounded by trees. Last night, we made out in his front yard. The lawn was patchy in spots like he'd been burning leaves or burying things. When he unbuttoned my jeans, I said, "I don't know you well enough," and he said, "No one knows anyone," and I said, "Of course they don't," and he looked at me like, so what's your point? Then he ran a hand through my hair and it got caught in a tangle. Then I buttoned my jeans and went home.
     "I'm not a virgin, but close," I say, continuing the conversation from last night.
     "Either you are or you aren't. There's no such thing as close."
     "I've only been with a couple of people, and both of them were in love with me."
     "So you need to be loved first," he says.
     "I guess."
     "Well, I can't say that yet."
     "Me either."
     "But I'm not the one who needs to hear it," he says.
     I look at him with my mouth open and he places a hand under my chin and lifts. Then he winks to soften the blow.
     I should get up and leave but I just sit there. He starts talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she supposedly had her vagina reconstructed so her lips wouldn't hang out like loose meat. I don't say anything. He holds up the peace sign to indicate two more beers and the bartender looks at me hard when he sets mine down. He watches me after this. I can tell he wants to rescue me.
     When Carter goes to the bathroom, the bartender stands in front of me and says, "That guy's an asshole," and I say, "I'm aware." I bum a cigarette off him, and I hear a sound like chicken frying when the lighter flicks and our eyes meet.
     "So what're you doing with him?"
     "He asked me out and I said yes. Now we're kind of dating," I say. He shakes his head and holds his eyes closed for longer than necessary when he blinks.
     Carter stands beside me with a hand on my arm. "Let's go," he says.
     I want to slip the bartender my number because his eyes are huge and grey and because he has a single eyebrow that runs the length of his face, but Carter takes my hand and leads me to the door, places a hand on my back and guides me through. In the car, I imagine writing my number in blue ink on his palm. I imagine us in bed, a pair of tweezers in my hand.
     "Could you just take me home, please? I'm sleepy," I say.

     I call up to the bar and the bartender answers. I feel like I'm calling one of those late-night DJs I'm afraid of, like I'm going to request a song he doesn't like or one that's already been requested fourteen times and he'll say something rude and hang up before I have the chance to say goodbye. I don't know his name, so I say, "Hey. I was up there earlier. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not gonna see that asshole anymore."
     "Oh. I'm glad," he says. And then, "Can I call you back in five seconds?"
     I hang up and finger the silky inside of my comforter and wait and it's just like I thought it would be.
     He calls back and says, "Shit. I'm sorry about that. My manager. Can you drive?"
     "Yes."
     "So come back up here."

     "I'm glad you called," he says, and the weird single eyebrow goes up and stays there. I wait for it to fall back down but it's stuck. "I know that guy. He plays rugby?" I nod. "He has a bad reputation."
     "So do I," I say.
     "Like how?"
     "I got kicked out of my sorority. I failed Finite. I date assholes."
     "That's nothing," he says.
     "It's something."
     "It's not what I'm talking about. You seem like a sweet girl."
     "Thanks," I say, and he smiles and sets his fist on the bar with a thump. Then he waits on two blond-haired girls a few seats over. They look at me and look away. He fixes them martinis. One pink, one green. The girls have straight slick hair and bangs, blue eyes. Something inside me opens up wide and shuts with a snap.
     "I'm a fisherman," the bartender says, standing in front of me again with a rag in his hand.
     "Did I miss something?"
     "No, you didn't."
     "I've never caught a fish," I say.
     "Have you tried?"
     "Sort of."
     "Well we'll have to work on that," he says, and I'm reminded of the blue cooler full of fish my father used to bring home on Saturdays. All those jelly eyes. How he would slice them clean down the middle with an electric knife as I watched.
     "I don't eat anything that has eyes."
     "Really? Nothing with eyes?" He seems concerned. The eyebrow bunches up in the middle.
     "When I was little I had this dog and it would look at me like it knew something I didn't want it to know," I say, and he nods and one of his eyes gets smaller and smaller until it just about closes. "It was like it knew my expiration date."
     "Humph."
     "You probably never get the urge to run your car into a ditch," I say, and he shakes his head no and disappears into the kitchen and this is my cue to leave but I don't take it.

= = = = =

bio: Mary Miller is published online at Barrelhouse, Arsenic Lobster, Fling Quarterly, and forthcoming at SmokeLong Quarterly.

story: Nigel and Miriam

2005-12-02T13:47:00.000-06:00

Nigel and Miriam
by Kay Poiro - keishapoiro@yahoo.com

= = = = =

“Wakey-wakey, love.”

Miriam ignored Nigel for the second time that Tuesday morning. Not because it was Tuesday, but because his insistence was never appreciated on Tuesday nor any other morning.

“Miriam, darling. There’s a delightful frost glinting off the windows and—"

Miriam tapped him lightly, savoring the brief silence. She was well aware of the snow, thank you very much. Spinning a duvet cocoon and ducking her head inside, Miriam achieved temporary escape from her dodgy flat (and even dodgier shower pipes), Lilly the Jumper Thief and the inevitable frostbite from standing in the taxi queue for a ride to the worst job in the world.

“Very near 7:00, love.”

Miriam covered her face with a warm, flat pillow in a vain attempt to block out Nigel and his whiney proclamations.

“I know it’s early, but—"
Miriam could take it no longer. Launching the pillow across the room, she stared him down.

“Really, Nigel? Is it early? Just how early is it?”

“—but you do realize you’re guaranteed hot water if you shower by 7:15?”

Miriam returned, pillowless, to the duvet cocoon.
The telephone rang, competing with Nigel’s insistence. Miriam answered and allowed Lilly into her morning.

“Miri, you aren’t still sleeping, are you?”

Grunt from Miriam.

“Well, it’s freezing out and I wanted to know if I could borrow your cashmere jumper—My God, what is that awful racket?”

“That’s just Nigel—I mean, the alarm clock.” Miriam tapped him once more. Five more minutes.

“That’s better,” Lilly sighed. “Anyway, be a sport and lend us the blue cashmere jumper. Before you say, the last few time weren’t my fault. I swear. Anyway, I’ll return this one, promise. What do you say?”

Miriam grunted and hung up, the Jumper Thief’s latest casualty. Could the day get any worse? She swung her legs over the bed and onto the chilly floor. Memories of the duvet cocoon tantalized her. Her big toe crept from the floorboard.

“No, no, Miriam! Stand up. Have a hot shower, maybe one of those banana muffins Lilly brought—”

“Cork it, Nigel.”

= = = = =

bio: Kay Poiro is a writer living in Maryland.

submit: The Hiss Quarterly || Submission Guidelines

2005-12-02T07:57:00.000-06:00

Accepting sumissions for the "Second Annual NC-17 Issue"

The submission deadline for Issue III.1 is January 1, 2006. The issue will go live on or about February 1, 2006 and runs through April 2006; so please send submissions as soon as possible.

Our theme for this issue is, once again, "NC-17", copied from the MPAA movie rating system as used in the US:

NC-17: A trademark used for a movie rating indicating that admission will not be granted to anyone under the age of 17. This could be because of excessive violence; sex scenes; an accumulation of drug, violent or sexually-oriented language, and/or other features that the Motion Picture Association of America's Classification and Rating Administration believes most American parents would feel is patently adult and that children age 17 and under should not be admitted.

The NC-17 designation does not, however, signify that the rated film is obscene or pornographic in terms of sex, language or violence.

- - - - -

In other words, if you know what "gratuitous" means, and how to avoid it, please steam up our monitor screens.

- - - - -

The Hiss Quarterly showcases emerging and established writers, cartoonists and general nonsense makers for our "Deliberate Nonsense(TM)" department. For the full 'zine, we seek short stories, flash fiction, nonfiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, essays, <100-wd Deliberate Nonsense(TM) and original *anythings*, based on what you interpret the issue's theme to be.

Be aware that Poetry is always the hardest department to crack at our 'zine (and most submitted). If you write fiction or prose of any type, your chances increase greatly.

Fiction Factor - Writing Flash Fiction

2005-12-02T07:00:00.000-06:00

Helpful article on writing flash fiction:

"Look for the smaller ideas in larger ones. To discuss the complex interrelationship of parents and children you'd need a novel. Go for a smaller piece of that complex issue. How kids feel when they aren't included in a conversation. What kids do when they are bored in the car. Middle child. Bad report card. Find a smaller topic and build on it."

book: Writing Realistic Dialogue and Flash Fiction, by Harvey Stanbrough

2005-11-28T17:23:00.000-06:00

While working on the great American novel, I have been reading many how-to books on writing fiction, but none helped me with the heart of the story - realistic dialogue. Until, that is, I came upon Mr. Stanbrough's primer at a writer's conference. I laughed. I cried. Then my writing transformed with this simple realization: you can lose your reader in narration (horrors), but even weak dialogue will invite her deeper into the story line, becoming an eavesdropper intent on turning the page to find out what tidbit will said next. (Whew, saved!) With dry wit and a gentle but insistent manner, the author takes you by the hand through such topics as 'Conveying Emotion,' 'Influencing the Mood of the Reader,' 'Writing Naked,'(Yeah, now that's a topic!) 'The subtleties of Implication,' 'Mechanics of Punctuation,' 'Action Verbs and Mental Movies'. . . and the list goes on. And the cool thing is, he makes sure you get it! This primer is filled with examples and exercises that WILL improve your dialogue writing skills. Weak dialogue? Not anymore. Using these techniques, I just had my first article published in a national publication. Buy it! It'll be the best 12 bucks you spend on your craft.

story: Reinventing Julia

2005-11-26T09:24:00.000-06:00

Reinventing Julia (Novel Excerpt)
By Jennifer Prado - JenniferPrado@yahoo.com

= = = = =
The week after my birthday, as I parted my hair in front of the bathroom mirror I found a rebellious strand of white hair that stuck straight up. It didn’t have the courtesy to come in as gray first; it went straight to white! I was also still thinking about Danilo’s baby dream. Overnight, I was desperate to be young and reckless before motherhood and middle age descended upon me.
I was also motivated by the most dangerous of fuels: revenge. Danilo was away for the next week at a film festival in Amsterdam. The night he left, I had read his E-mail. I know that’s pathetic, but so is wallowing in suspicion and I already knew his password. He had exchanged a series of messages with a Dutch woman, who sounded overly enthusiastic about his participation in the scheduled events.

"I hope we have time to disappear." That had been Danilo’s last answer to her, and I was floored by jealousy. He’s cheating on me again! But this time, instead of crying, I became determined not to stay home alone. I had five nights to go out and look for as much trouble as I could find.

There is a simple rule to going out alone. If a Girl is on her own, every guy thinks that she wants it. This time I didn’t know what I wanted. It was like I was conducting what finance people call a mark-to-market. I intended to go out on the town with my coolest clothes, my biggest attitude, and my sassiest ass to see how my goods measured up to what was available on the scene. My reasoning: I was now twenty-six and before I knew it I would be thirty. I was running out of time. My youth was escaping me and I was working too hard. That was as complex, as I could manage.

Monday Night:
I would need a different look. I opened a drawer in my dresser and put on a pair of iridescent swimming goggles. I opened my closet and pulled out a big, beige coat with yak fur, and stood in front of the mirror and pulled my hair into a spout with an elastic band.

In the lobby of our building, our doorman looked at me oddly. He didn’t recognize me. I left our building, waved, and stopped a taxi.

The taxi driver rolled down the window. “No dogs, Lady.”

“What?”

He drove away.

I chased after him, pounded on the window, and he stopped. “What are you talking about?”

“No pets,” he said through the window.

“What pet? This is my coat!”

“Sorry, Lady,” he said, when I was in the car. “Where are we going?”

“Brooklyn.”

The driver sulked. He had to take me anywhere I wanted in the five boroughs, but at this time of night he would be too afraid to pick up a passenger on his return trip. So he started on the mumble-and-grumble routine.

“Don’t be like that,” I said. “I’ll pay both ways.”

He perked up. “You want music?”

“Play it,” I shouted. He threw on Miles Davis, Some Kind of Blue. Night drivers had class! I pushed up my goggles so he could see my eyes. “I thought you were calling me a dog when you stopped,” I said.

He laughed.

“Yip.Yip.Yip,” I barked as we drove off.

When we got to the warehouse in deep Brooklyn, the taxi driver lost his nerve.

“This is where you’re getting out?” There were two tall guys at the door dressed head-to-toe in baggie sportswear. The designer had outdoorsy campers in mind, but the inner city had inhaled this look for its own use. The taxi driver drove onto the sidewalk to get me as close to the door as possible.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They know me.”

Ralphael was working the door and he opened the taxi for me.

“Where you been, girl?” I shrugged.

“Got busy doing things. How’s your music going?”

“It’s going,” he said. “You alone?”

I nodded. Ralphael had given me his demo CD during another party I had gone to with Danilo. The plastic cover had his name scrawled across it in pretty script. His mom had decided to spell it that way. It was a combination of Ralph meets Raphael. I listened to his CD at home. Ralphael’s singing voice sounded really smooth. He was one more guy with natural talent, trying to get noticed.

Within a half an hour of my arrival, I realized that I drank more vodka at the bar than I could handle and stumbled towards the dance floor to try to burn it off. I took the keep-moving to keep-from-falling-down approach. I danced by myself and with people I didn’t know. When I accidentally stumbled into someone, they lightly pushed me away. The way I looked didn’t draw any stares. We were all bizarre. But they watched me when I danced. That’s when I expressed everything I couldn’t say. Somehow, I managed to climb onto the box above the speakers and danced until my clothes were drenched in sweat. This was a place I could go to reinvent myself. When they threw the spotlight on me, I felt like a superstar.

I was so drunk when I arrived home that I ricocheted back and forth in our doorway when I first stepped over the threshold.

“I smell like cigarettes and I’m doused in enough alcohol to spontaneously combust." I dove onto our bed and passed out. Alone.
= = = = =

Bio: Jennifer Prado has a degree in Fiction Writing from the University of Wisconsin- Madison and her short fiction has appeared in numerous on-line magazines. For further information on "Reinventing Julia" and her Young Adult novel "Latina in Wonderland" please go to http://www.publishersmarketplace.com/members/JenniferPrado/.

Johnny America

2005-11-25T16:43:00.000-06:00

Johnny America is a small journal of fiction, humor, and other miscellany. It’s also a web site, updated frequently and with much affection. Johnny America #3 (Halloween, 2005) sports thread binding and glow-in-the-dark covers, and is available now from our online shop.

Their submissions page is worth a read:

Submissions will be skimmed by a junior volunteer of questionable competence who sneaks web access while at his day job. If he likes a submission he will forward it to our lazy and capricious editors, who depending on their sobriety might or might not take notice. Our junior volunteer’s attention span is limited and his taste unrefined, so here are a few ideas that will likely propel a submission past him: reviews of bars (he likes to drink), stories with explosions, obtuse film reviews that he’ll misidentify as Clever, stories featuring Lucy Liu or any other Asian sexpot handwashing clothes or preparing dinner, non-fiction accounts of supernatural creatures (including unicorns). Mind that brevity is rewarded by our volunteer screener, and poetry by persons other than Stephanie Wakefield and Keith Kennedy is consistently rejected. We do not know why.

Flash Memoirs

2005-11-24T18:47:00.000-06:00

The Flash Memoirs Writing Workshop is for flash fiction-length creative nonfiction (stories 1,000 words or less). Participation is required (no lurking or browsing). Members must use real names and must be at least 18 years old. The workshop will include submitting, critiquing, sharing of markets, and writing-related discussion.

Fast Fiction: Creating Fiction in Five Minutes, by Roberta Allen

2005-11-24T18:44:00.000-06:00

Gather your writing utensils, set the timer to five minutes, and write a short short story. Do not think. Do not judge. Just write. You'll be amazed with what you come up with. The rest, says Roberta Allen, is merely a matter of rewriting and refining. There's something very appealing about the short short form (defined by critic Irving Howe as 'a moment rendered in its wink of immediacy' and limited here to 1,000 words). As in poetry, every word and punctuation mark counts. Your characters' histories have to be delivered, if at all, with just a sliver of language. The form is elegant in the way a mathematical proof can be elegant--beautiful and economical--and the examples Allen uses, from the works of Anton Chekhov, Carolyn Forch�, Mark Strand, and others, are sublime. (The examples from her students are less compelling, and one does tire of trying to keep her many students straight.)
The center section of the book comprises a nice selection of exercises to get you started. One involves writing stories from photographs; another has you choose one item from a list (such as 'a broken promise,' 'something that was stolen,' 'a party,' 'something that hasn't happened yet,' 'a child,' and 'a secret') and write a story about it.
The third part of the book, in which Allen makes an argument for using her method to write a novel in five-minute bites, is shakier. Writing longer fiction generally requires some kind of flow that this method doesn't allow for. Using this method for that purpose would require that a lot of energy to be spent creating connective tissue. Even still, the five-minute method would be useful for tapping the unconscious, working through problem spots, and getting going in the morning. After all, doesn't that page look much more inviting once it has some words on it?

Flash Fiction: Very Short Stories, by James Thomas,Denise Thomas,Tom Hazuka

2005-11-23T20:20:00.000-06:00

These stories are among the best I have ever read. Each is short, but full of excellent writing.

Fandango Virtual Fiction Contest - 2005

2005-11-23T13:26:00.000-06:00

Fandango Virtual is pleased to host its third annual fiction contest. This year we are opening the contest to the combined readership of Fandango Virtual's two quarterly publications, Gator Springs Gazette and Bonfire. We are accepting short stories of 1000 to 5000 words, but we won't quibble about a few words more or less. Works must be previously unpublished in any print or online venue and may be in any genre as long as they have a literary quality. Copyright to the work must be held by the contest entrant. No sim-subs allowed. Entries will be accepted from now until midnight (GMT) on 30 November 2005 and the winners will be announced on New Year's day 2006. Winning entries will be published in the May-June-July edition of Gator Springs Gazette in 2006. Authors of other entries which meet Fandango's acceptance standards may be invited to publish in future issues of the Gazette or Bonfire.

The reading fee of $10 . . . entitles the entrant to submit one story.

Sudden Fiction - American Short-Short Stories, by Robert Shapard, James Thomas

2005-11-21T15:26:00.000-06:00

Description from Publishers Weekly:

The short fiction (each piece is one to five pages long) in this collection represents the richness and variety of American writers. A few are no longer contemporary (Hemingway, Malamud, Cheever), many are well established (Paley, Oates, Updike, Donald Barthelme, Ray Bradbury, Peter Taylor, Raymond Carver) and many are newer presences on the fiction scene. With a tiny 'frontisstory' by Robert Coover, a lighthearted introduction by Shapard and afterwords about the short-short-story form by 40 outstanding American writers, the definition of what lies between as 'sudden fiction' is well attended to. The 70 pieces themselveshighly compressed, often tantalizingdisplay a multiplicity of modes and derive from a variety of traditions. The collection presents a group of writers whose miniature stories do, indeed, as the editors suggest, 'confer form on small corners of chaos.'

Margin: Exploring Modern Magical Realism - Deep South magic for hurricane relief -- guidelines

2005-11-21T08:19:00.000-06:00

They accept fiction and poetry:

WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FOR?
Contributions to Southern Revival must capture, in some way, the magical essence of the Deep South. While our usual focus is magical realism, the editor has expanded the possibilities this time to include all imaginative literary forms. We are interested in diverse voices and ideas. Forms: free verse, flash fiction (<1000 words), creative nonfiction (<1000 words), digital artwork and prose poetics. Possible subjects: faith healing, voodoo, haints, curses, miracles, legends, fish stories, vampires, devils, preachers, black cats, owls, thunder and lightning, snake oil salesmen, black magic, mardi gras, witchcraft, planting by the moon, superstitions, ghost armies, sleepwalking, and all things haunted. From these submissions, we will select the best work to fill 24 pages.

Mytholog - Guidelines & Style Sheet

2005-11-21T08:18:00.000-06:00

Winter Issue Submissions Deadline: November 12:

We publish short fiction and poetry. We aren't hardwired to genre at all. We'll publish things that fall between the cracks and perhaps stick their claws up to horrify or tantalize us, literature on the mythskirts of a genre. We're interested in anything that is part of the modern mythos or part of the construction of myth, from the ancient and traditional to contemporary culture, whether it be dark, bright, erotic, mysterious, adventurous, dystopian, folkloric, or fantastic. We're interested in storytelling and theme. The thread of continuity for us is mythic development.

Micro Fiction: An Anthology of Really Short Stories

2005-11-20T12:38:00.000-06:00

Very short stories:

Stern provides an introduction relating short-shorts and micro-shorts to teaching tales, fables, jokes and similar short tales with ancient roots both in literary and oral cultures. In doing so, he takes the short-short out of 'current fads' and puts it into legitimate literature.
His collection is based on a limit originally of 250 words, raised to 300 - micros not just short-shorts. The collection gleaned from contests is a very mixed bag - some tales are memorable, some interesting and forgetable, a handful you wonder how they made the cut. These fall into the normal percentages that an anthology normally presents.
Memorable tales: The Poet's Husband by Mollie Giles - a wry look at listening to your spouse's confessional poetry. The Halo by Michael McFee - the difficulties (and solutions) to raising Jesus. Worry by Ron Wallace - observations on worry as a dominate family member. Painted Devils by Fred Chappell - a friendship in trench and safety.
A few of the tales strike be as character sketches not narratives; a few seem to have been squished and mangled into a contest form rather than allow the tale to dictate its form. But given all that, this is a pleasant introduction to the smallest of the small.

story: Taste Test

2005-11-20T12:30:00.000-06:00

Taste Test
By Martin Heavisides - martinheavisides@sympatico.ca

= = = = =
They blindfolded our entire section for the in-flight meal. This was annoying because I had a window seat and we were flying toward the sun, but apparently it was in the fine print of something we'd signed on boarding. They were kidding I'm sure when they said “the pressure door's that way, we have parachutes should you require them,” but you don't want to take the chance. The carrots tasted like rutabaga, which is really strange since I've never eaten rutabaga so how would I know? I'm not saying it tasted like good rutabaga anymore than the spinach tasted like good mashed potatoes or the beefsteak like good chocolate pudding. Now every time I see a chocolate pudding I think about mad cow disease. I suppose that makes sense since it's a milk-based product.

Other testers reported variable but equally subjective tastings. I don't think anybody correctly identified a single serving. Orange juice tasted like tequila, I don't know why that couldn't happen to me (especially since they were charging for drinks on the flight). On the plus side I didn't get the ravioli which tasted like earthworms still covered in gritty soil, though she didn't mind. Said it took her back to when she'd been a bird in happy transient flight once upon a time. Until she was caught and snapped dead by a hooded falcon but that's another story. She later married the falcon but that was another life.

When they removed my blindfold the clouds below our wing were awrithe with serpents and agallop with stallions. I had to wonder how even a billowing cumulus cloud could hold up so vivid and solid a tusked woolly mammoth. I remember thinking maybe that's where all the prehistoric creatures went instead of becoming extinct. It seems a more sensible choice. Through a gap in the cloud I could see the ocean below, which was on fire. Green, orange, lavender and bright blue flames. In a subsequent letter I was informed the probable reason for these visions and the wildly subjective taste impressions both was the substantive dose of lysergic acid dialethamate in our lemon iced vanilla cake. (It tasted like hominy grits, which is not my idea of dessert.) They said it altered our perceptions backward as well as forward in time because it was a new, unusually proactive variety. But how did the acid know in advance who was going to ingest it? I think personally the reason was the time zones we were passing through.

I have no idea the purpose of this study, but I for one will study the fine print in airline contracts a great deal more watchfully in future.

= = = = =

C 2005 Martin Heavisides
Bio: Martin Heavisides has published in Studies in Contemporary Satire, Canadian Forum, Jeremiad, Black Cat Review among others, online at Mad Hatter's Review, the beat, monkeybicycle, and he has a story upcoming in The Landing.

Flash Writing: How To Write, Revise And Publish Stories Less Than 1,000 Words Long, by Michael L. Wilson

2005-11-20T12:15:00.000-06:00

The description says:

Flash fiction is one of the hottest literary trends of the 21st century. Online magazines crave it, mainstream publications such as Esquire, The New Yorker, and Vanity Fair publish it, and many other markets and contests seek it.
Flash Writing is your guide to writing, revising and publishing stories fewer than 1,000 words long. Learn how to generate story ideas, create characters, develop conflict, and establish setting and point of view for flash fiction. Then discover how to research, format, and submit your work to flash fiction markets. Shorter is better, and Flash Writing helps you learn how to create entertaining, publishable flash fiction.
This book includes: *Over 400 writing exercises to get you started *Story examples to illustrate concepts *Guidelines for coming up with topics for flash fiction
AUTHOR BIO: Michael Wilson has been teaching creative writing classes and facilitating writers' groups for over 8 years and was an award-winning Contributing Editor for The Writer's Block at Suite101.com. He earned a BA (with honors) in English from Ohio University. Michael has been a featured guest speaker at the Thurber House, the Maumee Valley Writers' Conference, and the Columbus Writers' Conference. He has worked on writing projects for companies such as Lucent Technologies, Qwest Communications, American Electric Power, and Nationwide. He is also the publisher and editor of Grist for the Muse a free monthly creative writing e-newsletter.

story: What Would You Like?

2005-11-19T09:57:00.000-06:00

What Would You Like?
By Martin Heavisides - martinheavisides@sympatico.ca

=====
Arsenic? cyanide? please! those are so late Renaissance, we've made advances in poisons since then that are not to be believed (and need- less to say—since you come recommended—not to be spoken of outside the trade). Fast acting, slow acting, we like to leave that up to the client. The key feature we pride ourselves on is undetectability. (We're helped somewhat by the general indiscriminate mixing of toxins into our food, water and air. I remember a film years ago where police tracked a murder victim's movements in the 48 hours before her death by area-specific pollutants in her body. They'd have a harder time doing that now, what with generalization and overlap of toxic fields. Still forensic science is a wonderful thing. Keeps us on our toes, staying that extra little step or two ahead.)

None of my concern whether it's business or personal, but those two categories embrace most of our clientele. People think the chief means of advancement in the corporate jungle are backbiting, infighting, verbal undercutting and snide insinuation. All those have their place and so too, if you're discreet about it, does a small dose in a main rival's coffee or third martini at lunch. If you know what you're putting it in we can often match flavours between poison and comestible.

My own marriage is happy, three lovely children, discreet mistress for when the wife's too tired, but not everyone's so fortunate and I think you'll agree with me, the divorce rate's a scandal and a shame.

Something more . . . general? Ahh! I get your drift. Well if you're going that way I'd recommend chemical nerve agents and such, we do keep biological agents but don't recommend their use unless you have a well-grounded strategy for containment. Well . . . if you insist, we do have this brochure outlining our selection in viruses and bacilli. The black plague? Really sir, if you don't mind my saying, that's so 1348. This is the 21st century.
=====

C 2005 Martin Heavisides
Bio: Martin Heavisides has published in Studies in Contemporary Satire, Canadian Forum, Jeremiad, Black Cat Review among others, online at Mad Hatter's Review, the beat, monkeybicycle, and he has a story upcoming in The Landing.

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers: How to Edit Yourself Into Print: Renni Browne, Dave King

2005-11-18T13:34:00.000-06:00

One of the best guides I've found to self editing, includes some exercises to get you going. Your writing WILL improve if you read and use this book:

Both novice and seasoned fiction writers can ensure themselves greater publishing success by correcting textual problems before submitting their manuscripts to an editor. This exemplary instruction manual offers readers the wisdom of two experienced editors who focus on writing/editing techniques (the mechanics of dialog, characterization, point of view, etc.). Adhering to fiction's underlying principle of 'show and tell,' this lively text includes both good and bad examples in each lesson. At the end of every chapter is a tip checklist to match against one's own work and two or three exercises with which to practice and reinforce the chapter's topic. A superb tutorial for anyone wanting to learn from pros how to polish fiction writing with panache.
- Cathy Sabol, Northern Virginia Community Coll., Manassas

Salt Flats Annual

2005-11-18T12:27:00.000-06:00

From the "submit" page:

We consider poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.

There are no set guidelines for content or length. The quality of the work is most important to us. If you press us to be specific, we like writing that conveys a sense of place in the real or imagined landscape.

We accept email submissions September 1 to January 31.

Dark Recesses Press - Submissions

2005-11-18T08:47:00.000-06:00

Cash prize:

Haven't I read that story before? Of course not. It's just a touch of clichethat has us thinking that. We, at Dark Recesses, have not seen enough stories of serial killers, vampires, schizophrenics with imaginary friends, confused ghosts in haunted buildings or creepy countrysides, and those who sell their soul to Satan for a righteous cause. We are starving for more of these. Yes, we are sadomasochistic. We want CLICHE!
Torture us, please! This is the official Dark Recesses DejaVu Contest. There are two ways to play:
Take our prompt, set it up, and make it the most clichestory ever! Show us how cheesy clichecan be. Make it a parody of cliche. Think 'Scary Movie' and dazzle us with your skills to point out the obvious.
~Or~
Take this prompt and create a masterpiece. Make us entrench ourselves so deep, that we forget we've read this plot many, many times before.
The winner will receive $100 hard cash, a signed collector's edition book by a selected author and publication in Issue Two of Dark Recesses Press.

Other Magazine

2005-11-18T08:28:00.000-06:00

Looking for all types of writing by self proclaimed outcasts:

'Despite its national aspirations, other magazine has a distinctly San Francisco flavor: smart, do-it-yourself, full of vim and venom. It's upbeat in the face of leftist despair over the global geopolitical situation, vaguely obsessed with sex, gender and bodily functions, technologically savvy and occasionally wonky.'

From their submissions page:

At Other, we print articles and art which question the idea that your identity and tastes are as simple as checkboxes on a questionnaire. Our editorial format most closely resembles that of a general interest magazine like The New Yorker, Salon.com or Harpers, with a focus on genuinely challenging concepts and scathing social criticism.

Other seeks essays, fiction, satire, investigative journalism, cartoons, and art which reject traditional categories, both in style and content.

Possible topics might include: the trouble with target marketing, going beyond party politics, racial blurring, subversive media and technology, rebel futurism, queerness, anti-authoritarianism, non-traditional families, and pop culture. We like writing that combines critical thought with personal experience, but memoirs and personal essays don't excite us. Regular features of every issue include an anti-tourist travel column, profiles of people who are "other," as well as short write-ups of unusual news. Every issue will also include several longer essays and one piece each of micro and macro fiction.

Chick Flicks

2005-11-18T08:24:00.000-06:00

Looking for fiction of 2000 words or less:

Chick Flicks, an ezine that fills a void in publishing. We're looking for well-written stories and essays that are moody, dark, real, gritty. Stories about internal conflict juxtaposed against external demands, about real life people coming to terms--good or bad--with themselves and their choices. You don't have to be a woman to submit to Chick Flicks; your characters need not even be women. We want emotion and honesty and engaging journeys from point A to point B and beyond. Send us pieces with less-spoken, but common universal truths. Make us laugh, make us cry, make us hurt in the deepest, darkest parts of our souls, but most of all, be honest, raw, real.

flashquake Fall 2005

2005-11-18T07:41:00.000-06:00

Looking for bad weather flash fiction:

flashquake is embarking on a special three-month project to hear directly from those who have been affected by the weather that devastated the southern U. S. this year.
If you lived through these powerful storms, we'd like to hear from you.

From their About page:

flashquake is a paying online journal, dedicated to publishing the best of flash literature. "What is 'flash literature?'" I hear you asking. It's a term we coined — if it existed prior to us, we were unaware of it — to describe the material we were interested in showcasing.

Here's how we define it: Prose of under one thousand words; poetry of less than thirty-five lines. That's the physical definition — but regardless of the form, the best flash literature is much more than a word or line count. It tells a story, tells it with depth, with clarity, with an emotional and intellectual impact that leaves the reader changed in some way. In a masterful piece of flash, every word is essential.

We want work that respects the reader's intelligence. We seek work that opens the reader's mind to new experiences, to new ways of looking at situations we'd long ago dismissed as mundane.

Scribble

2005-11-18T07:37:00.000-06:00

Accepts fiction, poetry, and articles. There is a submission fee, but there are also cash prizes. Their website is quite ugly.

SCRIBBLE, the short story magazine, was launched at the beginning of 1999 and has developed into one of the UK's most popular general fiction magazines. Scribble contains a wide range of high quality fiction from new and established writers. The magazine is now being circulated world-wide. Scribble is a quarterly magazine in A5 format. Each issue contains at least 60 pages of entertaining short stories including a section for readers' letters.

LENGTH...up to 3000 words

SUBJECT...Any subject.

PAYMENT...Prizes of £75.00, £25.00, and £15.00, will be awarded for the best three stories in each issue. For other published stories, a complimentary copy will be given. Annual subscribers will also receive a credit voucher to the value of £4.00. Stories from non-subscribers are welcome but must be accompanied by the entry fee. Entry fee for the competitions is £3.00 (cheques payable to Park Publications). Free unlimited entry for subscribers.

Welcome

2005-11-17T10:00:00.000-06:00

Welcome to Flash Forward. All your flash fiction are belong to us.