Stories tagged flash-fiction

A Conversation Between Bacon and Eggs

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In a hot splattering we were born

The Serious Writer and His First Novel

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The serious writer is working on his first novel.


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It's Halloween again, the season when my mother died.

Hoo Haa and Haa Hoo

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As I remember it, Hoo Haa was the stupid one, and had pale, pale skin like an albino. Haa Hoo was something like a genius and was as dark as a moonless night.


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My sister counted out the m&m's and I just know she always gave herself a few more than she gave me. Particularly the red ones, which we licked and used to paint our lips like grown up women.

Saint Fred Rogers

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I am remembering this day for all days. Remembering. All days. Always. This is the day you threw the TV out the upstairs window. I'm remembering. Always. This is the day that started with you shaking the toaster over me so all the crumbs fell out.…

Help the woman get back to her feet

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A cement mattress can’t console a hungry woman, one huddling under a tattered blanket in thin socks and filth. A street corner is a cold place to kneel.

The Belt

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In the morning, stiff kleenex litter the floor around her bed. She plucks them up daintily, careful to only contaminate her fingertips, though she knows the damage, if there is any, has already long been done. She takes HIV tests the wa

Observations from an Evening Walk

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He tells me that my bed is infused and full of chem­i­cals, that I’ve already spent twenty years sleep­ing in them, breath­ing them in.

north of paris

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Hopefully I will have a boy, and I will name him James.

Telling Maybelline Jones

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Maybelline Jones is my sister, my friend, and I try to tell her the right way to be.


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On my twenty-third Wednesday meeting with the psychologist I told her that when I was about ten years old I'd set fire to the woods up by the reservoir and blamed Tommy Cotton.

Finite Automatons in Winter Quarter

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To my right, blank stares interchange with closed eyelids on an unkempt face. The minutes drip into the endless sea of night outside the window, each time creating a deeper blackness.

The Readers on Car 103

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Thrumming fingers on page 103, he drank in The Reader reading.


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Naming her baby Pretty had turned out to be less than prophetic.