I’m sorry, the agent wrote back, but fiction is a business. I read over my work again, trying to find which words meant money.
David Massengill has more flash fiction and short stories at www.davidmassengillfiction.com.
Basho, abashed, wrote two lines of a haiku before erasing it; that it was written in blood on stone, made him miss dinner.
Jimmy Chen (@jimmychenchen) lives in California with his wife and their temporary cat.
Her blouse was sheer and she was bra-less. We stared and she smiled. “For once,” she said, “I want people to notice me, not my wheelchair.”
Bruce Harris enjoys relaxing with a Marxman.
My dad turned into a dinosaur on aisle five. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. I cried among the broken pickle jars as he stomped away.
Evan R. Hanson is writer and law student.
She mourned for butterflies, condemned to perch and fly again. When she grew wings, she mourned her feet, never again content to walk.
Rebecca McNulty (@rlmcnulty) is a student living in New Jersey. One day, she hopes to satisfy the childhood desire of living in a library.
Turns out Pluto’s not a planet. Everyone laughed, in third grade, when I said there were only 8 planets. I should have been an astronaut.
Alex Odom has been published by Boston Literary Magazine, Foundling Review, Six Sentences, Flashquake, and Camroc Press Review.
Every night the mail is on the table beside a covered dish. Sometimes a note: “Do you love me?” If I did, I’d have changed the locks by now.
R. Gatwood is concise.
When I said I wanted to stretch her out like a kite, she proclaimed my right cheek the lightning capital of the world.
J. Bradley is the author of Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009). He lives at iheartfailure.net.
“It’s 2010! Where’s my flying car! Meal in a pill! Who’s suppressing the teleporter?” The Teamsters’ President shifted uneasily in his seat.
Mike Donoghue likes mice, most movie, the muppets, malbec and moist macaroons.
“Whatcha think?” Moonlight soaked the splatter cast. A cicada tittered sagely, purveying some fleck of vapid insight. I sighed, “Dead poet.”
Joseph A. W. Quintela writes. Poems. Prose. On Post-its. Walls. Envelopes. Cocktail napkins. Twitter. Anything, really. But, whatever.