Stories tagged flash-fiction

Language

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this reaching, this striving to love like it's there becoming something we need.

November Is The Month Of Dying

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Two weeks after All Souls’ Day, he trudges through the overgrown pasture behind the farmhouse, his head bent, intent on his footing, a shovel his walking stick.

Herd

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We may think about so many things and thoughts about rain. We may think about where it is going, where it comes from.

Sold Out Shade

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We begged him to sell us some shade. Just enough for half an hour, until our bus would pick us up and drive us to our next destination, continuing what was turning out to be a purgatory tour of forgotten Mediterranean towns.

A Vignette on Fathers

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On 3rd when you looked at your 389th happy New Year greeting, you autotyped “same to you”. No one on whatsapp knew. At week 17 of IVF therapy when you and your new bride could do no more; doctor Mehdi said neither could he. At 5 minutes left, you mi

Boil

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Boil (n.)––1. Pus-filled pustule inflammation of the skin, usually painful. 2. Slang boiled pus, bucket of (n. phrase)“Your asshole brain is a bucket of boiled pus.” (see also pus, SCOTTISH derogatory term for face.

Alone

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It's not loneliness I'm afraid of. It's how I would be happy to be alone too much.

The Karaoke Girls

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The Karaoke Girls are not appreciated. Not nearly enough and not often enough.

Skull of a Sheep: Revisited

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You are in a car speeding through Dublin towards the West year after year the journey uncoils past the same landmarks Kilmainham Jail strapped to a chair bullet to the brain on by the Rowntree Mackintosh factory where the black and…

Paper Horse

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The trouble with paper horses was not how flimsy they were when you were flying them, reigns in hand, high enough above the treetops that falling would mean more than a bruised knee.

Sleepwalker

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I may as well have been sleepwalking. Either way, I had no opportunity to admire the moonlight flooding into the long corridors, illuminating the stag heads and painted cheeks of long-dead ancestors.

She Kept A Lookout

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Many years later, as the smell of charring straw filled the basket she was standing in, high above faces turned upwards to watch her fly, she remembered the night her fingertips brushed snow off the Alps.

Eggman

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The last one I tipped over the edge was just like all the others: fragile, pale, humming to himself as he sat on the ledge overlooking the gardens.

Papa's Parrot

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He wasn’t there for the beginning or the end. In the beginning, he was still a wild thing. Nothing more than a voice in the chorus of the Dark Continent, back when it was a thing of terrible beauty and attracted people like the old man; people who breathe

Night Flight

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He didn’t even have the energy to tell me to tie her up when he got home.