Stories tagged flash-fiction

The Game

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"We're practicing," she signs, "for an earthquake."

The Trust-Funders Take Over the Loser Cafe

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It was time to go sit outside in the sunlight with the gang of trust-funders, just to see what was new in the world of high finance and falling stock prices. “So, what's happening with the economy in China?” I asked. And they just stared at me as if I had

Soldiers of Christ

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Fridays we’d scour the racks of the newsagents for the weekly comics, always trying to steal the free gifts inside the issues, watching for the shop girl to go into the back for her tea break.

Good Old Days

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That night, when Nostalgia knocked on my door just before dawn, I had just enough time to catch her coat as she slipped it off and staggered into my apartment.

The Thump of Wing

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Perhaps, teetering on the edge of the garage, I might take flight myself over the treetops?

A Character

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There once was a man who wanted to be a character in a story.

Galway: fog-shrouded mountain.

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Unseen creatures squirm and mingle beneath the soft loamy earth. The flat of the mountain is fog-shrouded.

The Man with a Steak Nose

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There once was a man whose nose was made of steak. It was a T-bone steak, this man’s nose—a big, red, raw T-bone steak. In all other respects he was completely normal.

my ac

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i hated the machine

Down-n-Out in Beverly Hills

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Wicked are the men who dispense enlightenment from the side of the pool, clad only in aquamarine skivvies.

Instructions for Opening a Document Found in a Black Cabinet

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When the black cloth falls on you all food tastes like airline food. Every song sounds like Barry Manilow. Every poem sounds like Rod McKuen. It’s all just noise to you now.

The Man Who Got Away With It

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There once was a man who robbed a bank and got away with it.

The Man Who Lived in a Shoe

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There once was a man who lived in a shoe. He didn’t have any children. He didn’t have a wife either.

Buck Moy

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Then he told us tales of skulls and planks, galleons and parrots, silver and gold on crystal Jamaican seas under deep ruby skies.

The Prospect of Being Eaten

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One of the old fellows was buying a quart of whiskey, already peeling the brown bag away from the neck of the bottle, when he said to the shopkeeper, “Lives down the swampy end of town. Grotesque. Swear it’s two eyes travel in different directions.”