Flash Fiction

Leaving by Greig Parker

She was leaving him, leaving Henry and his spiteful remarks, leaving him for good. The decision was final, there was no going back. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and kept her eyes fixed on the dark lane ahead, which was slick from the winter rainstorm.

Short Story

Green Tea by Bryan Oliver

Abel was waiting. Soon there would be a knock on the door and she would be home. He would scold her for being late, but she would know he didn’t really mean it and that he was just happy to see her. He always was. It didn’t matter when she came so he always waited, even though it was hard sometimes, for Abel was getting on in years.

Poetry

Shadows, War, Cliffs by Rachel Hawes

Today, in the classroom, I taught seventh graders about the importance of reading on their brain development. I said they should read a book for an hour for every hour they are online playing video games or using social media. Amid rolled eyes and low groans a student struggling to satisfy substratal standards for reading and writing said “But that would mean seven hours of reading a day”.
I know that the young brain has higher plasticity than an older brain and that teaching a mind to think critically and to love literature might help insulate it against the threats of depression or nihilistic nationalistic thinking. A mind engaged with violent video games is only engaged with death.
Nelson Mandela once said “Education is the most powerful weapon you can use to change the world.” But a habit is a regular practice and reading habits are disappearing under the dark shadow thrown by their online lives.

Flash Fiction

Ashes to Ashes by Gregory Meece

As the friends advanced into the stream, they carefully navigated submerged stones, stepping gingerly on their algae-coated surfaces. Monk supported Angela’s elbow, not because she was a woman but because of what she held between her hands—the remains of her late husband’s body.

Poetry

Dancing Crows by Garth Upshaw

Last night I dressed as a crow and
Went dancing at the Coffin Club (in Portland, Oregon)
Crows are smarter than you might think
And can solve puzzles with sticks and strings
But have no equity in their homes
So will be in bad shape
Come the crash

Short Story

Notorious Flirts by Anita Bushell

Looking at her watch she saw it was 4:45. His plane would have landed in San Francisco, and he’d be at the apartment by 5:30. She went to the kitchen and found a vase in the cabinet above the stove. Of all the tulips at the market she chose earth red. The color would please him, she thought. She unwrapped the flowers, filled the vase with cool water, and carefully arranged them so they were welcoming and full. She opened the cabinet once more and found gin, vermouth, and Martini glasses.

Flash Fiction

True Love in the Funny Pages by Louis Kummerer

”Get wise to yourself, sister. The guy’s a bum.”

Mabel, Gladys’s co-worker at the five-and-dime lunch counter, was at it again about Danny, Gladys’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Mostly off again, because Danny was already married to Sandra.

“Cripes, you’re seventeen,” Mabel groused, “He’s twenty-five, two kids. He’s never going to leave his wife.”

But what did Mabel know? Mid-thirties, two marriages, two divorces. If Mabel ever knew anything about true love, she’d forgotten it long ago.

Poetry

Poetry by Stephen Grant

The haphazard is hazardous enough, as the chaos of light mocks our
conceit that god is on our side. She isn’t and never was. It’s a myth.
There is always more to do than time to do it, a nuclear stockpile of deeds
awaiting annihilation, but really of no moment. Love is in the doing,

Short Story

Lorena’s Revenge by George C. Glasser

I was meeting a client at a financial district restaurant in Frisco. He failed to mention it was one of those exclusive dimly lit oak-panelled joints where the New Montgomery Street movers and shakers discussed business over bland meals, puffing contraband cigars, and sipping twenty-year-old single malt scotch. The maitre d informed me that there was a dress code, flagged a waiter over, and condescendingly said, “Jacket and tie for the gentleman.” 

Flash Fiction

Emmerich Runs Down His Mojo by George C. Glasser

Standing outside on a stifling Summer afternoon, he watched a stocky Black guy move his belongings out of the building. The man walked up to him and said. “You should play the bass guitar.” Emmerich stood there as the man rushed up the stairs, came back with a bass guitar, handed it to him…no case… just the guitar, and said, “Now you gotta run down your mojo.” He stepped into a battered pickup truck and drove off without another word.

Short Story

Dunnottar by Rob McClure

A blueberries-and-cream sky speckled with wheeling white seabirds. Herring gulls and fulmars and puffins and kittiwakes rising from sheer cliffs on three sides. The men had followed the refugee coordinator from the car park down the slope onto the peninsula and then up the long steep walk through the ravine called St. Ninian’s Den. Walls of rock soaring above and white sirens squawking warnings from on high.

Poetry

Poetry: MIDWAY by John RC Potter

It was peace and it was war;
you were an angel, you were a whore.
It was heaven and it was hell;
I was not fallen, but I had fell.
You were a crazed kamikaze pilot,
and I a battleship on the ocean blue;
you wanted to sink me where I lay,
for I was too close to the truth of you.
It was a battle and it was a truce;
you were too tight, you were too loose.
It was very hot and it was very cold;
I was not selling, but I was sold.

Short Story

Short Story: LAISSEZ LES BON TEMPSROULER (Let The Good Times Roll) by George C. Glasser

Somehow, it didn’t surprise Mat that Marcel would make his final exit when he was on top of the game and said, “I still have all those photos and recordings I did when he took me on that trip to the North Mississippi Hill Country to visit those old Bluesmen he knew. I was just thinking about producing an album. I was going to contact him about it, and wouldn’t you just know it, he up and died on me.”

Short Story

Short Story: HANK & BETH by A.R. Bender

The racetrack bugle call blaring out the intercom speakers jolted him out of his reverie, followed by the sight of horses galloping from the paddock to the track. He checked the odds on the Tote Board, scrubbed his stubbly gray goatee, and tried to figure out if he wanted to bet on it. Finally, he decided to pass because he was already forty bucks down and fifty was his limit. He’d handicapped a promising 8-1 shot on the morning line coming up later in the card, and a $10 win ticket on it might put him even or better for the day.

Short Story

Short Story: HITTING HER MARK by Russell Thayer

Patting her pale stomach and the dark pile of hair where her long legs met for pleasure, Vivian calculated it must be her sixth visit to Tully’s private getaway cave, with its bare walls, dark-stained Venetian blinds, and wide, comfortable bed. An assistant director at Paramount, Tully had money. He always tipped her a sawbuck just for showing up, and he treated her swell during the hours they spent together. When he called the agency, Tully always asked for their prettiest girl.

Bristol Noir, Short Story, Top Story

Short Story: HEARTSTRINGS by M.E. Proctor

They clapped, whistled, and hooted. The guitar player had a hold on the audience. His songs were all right, the banter between them was better. Max leaned against the back wall. He was tempted to go to the well-appointed bar in the foyer to get a drink, but he had a job to do. Most of the people around him held glasses and plastic cups that they put down on the floor when the urge to applaud came over them. It was a civilized venue, not one of these roadside watering holes where bottles and fists were likely to take flight and crash. The urbane, and urban, nature of the converted cinema presented difficulties.

Bristol Noir, Short Story

Short Story: TRUE STORY by Angi Plant

I should feel relieved that you’re finally going. And I am. Except I don’t really believe it, yet. From first being honest enough to say the words that I want you to leave and go back to your place, there’s been a barrage of bloody everything. Texts from you. Your sister. People accosting me in the street. Outside the church. For fucks sake you’re a grown man. Accept it and leave me the fuck alone.