Stories tagged flash

Wreath

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“Sneakers”, she hissed. “You wear sneakers to my best friend’s funeral?”

Very Short Stories And Pictures Of Ducks

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...the loving and very painful hurt of our daily sustenance

Gateway to the Continent

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I got to Victoria station at quarter to eleven on a Friday with nothing but a small leather bag and the vague idea of getting out of London.

Icehouse

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It was noon and cloudless when I pulled over next to the icehouse, wedged in the X formed by two dirt roads.

Moth Man

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The first time it happened I was waiting for the local in one of those underground stations that lets a few rays of battered moonlight through the grates on cloudless nights.

Baby Carrot

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In my choppings, I come across a tiny carrot amidst the baby carrots. The runt if you will.

Gyrle (n.) - Boy or girl

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Is it better to have a boy or a girl? That's not a rhetorical question. I'm really asking. When I was four, I used to wedge myself in between the wall and refrigerator and yell out, “Help! I'm stuck!” It was my mom's least favorite game. Meanwhile, half a

Submission, Rejection, Wonder

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I wish I could remember what I sent to these magazines. They tell me how much they enjoyed reading my pieces. They always do, and using the exact same words too. It’s quite amazing. Though they never accept anything. Just cannot remember what I se

Old Dog, Hard Road

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Panic, the caul of the firstborn burned in the fire, lace napkins bunched into threadbare bags, along with a few faded photographs of the ancestors.

Wallflower

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It was one of those weekday mornings in early spring when Marjorie and I could wander from chapel to chapter house with only security guards for company.

Sitting Shiva

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Mornings, cod liver oil on a spoon. The St. Brigid’s cross beside the front door, tacked to the Holy Water font. The bit of sponge in the well of the font yellowed and crusted, never changed in the years we've lived in the house.

A Bum-note Baritone

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Quite a figure he cut in his Jockey y-fronts, the Johnson’s Baby talcum powder billowing everywhere, the old-fashioned bottle of Old Spice shaken and slapped on both palms and then both cheeks.

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.

Every Kid

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Glaucoma can be a wonderful ally. Aziz-un-nisa saddled her steel chair in yards of pashmina wool, wickered navy and brown, waiting for him to step into the room. Goodbyes rehearsed, she sensed it was showtime. Glaucoma wouldn’t lose this afternoon.

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.