After the regime has fallen, and the reek of burning documents been aired from the grim offices of Internal Security, still no one ventures down to the basement. On its shelves, thousands of jars, thousands upon thousands. Their tops have grown gritty with dust, and their labels—pasted on so carefully—curl up like dying leaves.
Flash Fiction by Gerri Brightwell
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Remember what you were told about the proper greeting. You must not look him directly in the eye. You must not speak unless you are asked a direct question. You must do what you are told. This is very important. Sometimes your mind wanders and you say what you are thinking. You know this is true. Listen. You must do what you are told.
Flash Fiction by Sean Keck
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I practice the front crawl. I push. I breathe. I sturdy myself. I blow out when my head’s in. See and hear the gurgle. In order to keep myself aligned.
Flash Fiction by Kim Chinquee
I had been just as surprised as one might expect when, at the age of ten, while making breakfast one morning, I cracked open what I thought was a normal chicken egg and found, covered in egg white, a tiny naked man—full head of hair, a Roman nose, strong tightly-muscled arms. So statuesque, lying prone in my mixing bowl.
Fiction by Michael Mau
I walked into the kitchen and peered through the sliding door. Brad stood on the deck. The night had sucked him into a time machine that spit him back out looking more worn and tired than ever before. He rubbed his face and held a jack knife in his right hand. The kind my father used to carry when he hunted. The blade faced the outside of his thigh and he blinked wildly.
Fiction by Sarah Walker