Flash Fiction - Issue 1
Gazpacho For John
2 pounds tomatoes
1 medium red bell pepper
1⁄2 medium cucumber
1 thinly sliced self-image
1⁄3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1⁄3 cup almonds
One 1⁄2-inch slice white bread
5 pounds humiliation
1⁄2 red onion
3 tablespoons sherry vinegar
1 medium fresh jalapeño
2 garlic cloves
4 cups hate
Salt and black pepper
1 avocado
A pinch of botulinum toxin
1 medium red bell pepper
1⁄2 medium cucumber
1 thinly sliced self-image
1⁄3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1⁄3 cup almonds
One 1⁄2-inch slice white bread
5 pounds humiliation
1⁄2 red onion
3 tablespoons sherry vinegar
1 medium fresh jalapeño
2 garlic cloves
4 cups hate
Salt and black pepper
1 avocado
A pinch of botulinum toxin
Bart Van Goethem Father. Copywriter. Drummer. Facetious if necessary. National Flash Fiction Day Anthology 2013 & 2015. Follow him @bartvangoethem.
Umnath
The whiteness of bone hides beneath his fingers, but Umnath scratches his shins oblivious to what is inside. He rubs for so long that his skin becomes tomato red. His chin rests on brown-paper knees. The matchbox abrasions of his breath belie the uncertainly of diseased lungs, though his lungs function better than his brain. The rattle of his breathing is a reminder of the impermanence of life. But it is
the rattling of loose thoughts in moments of lucidity that tell Umnath he has lived too long.
The running. There was always the running. It was long ago. The memory
heightens the redundancy of his limbs.
Running. Running under the reddened sky. The sky is decimated by a blast-furnace glow. The relentless bloom of flies, the screams of children, throats tight with hunger. The kathakali dance of cicadas locked in ritual encounters. The scent of a hundred year's incense from the Gita Mandir, where dream-gods march next to sleeping ancestors. The tambour of beggar boys with bellies like drums. The disappointment of rice without meat.
Metallic fumes shorten the air. The juxtaposition of love and decay in roadside shanties. A screeching baby at its mother's breast, shocked by the enormity of its existence. Shit floating in a slow turning river. The mechanical beat of October's heat that refuses to die after nightfall. Umnath runs through all of this. It happened so long ago, and yet it is happening to him now. He runs until something tears inside his chest, and he can run no more. He stops by a stall selling aubergines and leather handbags.
Umnath catalogues his thoughts in jumbled disorder.
He runs to a new life. The improbability of escape becomes probable. A scholarship, long years of study, the accountability of dreams.
The transference of ambition to his guileless children. They know nothing about struggle. They know nothing about running. They hold his hand, and talk to him like he is stupid. And all he can do is stare back at them like somebody stupid. Because that is what this disease has done to Umnath. It has made him stupid.
His son says "good day", to the man in the bed opposite. The man is a creature with yellow skin, the tallow hue of death. He runs to a different history. The beat of his memory takes a different path.
Though he has been there for five weeks, Umnath has never spoken to the man.
He never will.
the rattling of loose thoughts in moments of lucidity that tell Umnath he has lived too long.
The running. There was always the running. It was long ago. The memory
heightens the redundancy of his limbs.
Running. Running under the reddened sky. The sky is decimated by a blast-furnace glow. The relentless bloom of flies, the screams of children, throats tight with hunger. The kathakali dance of cicadas locked in ritual encounters. The scent of a hundred year's incense from the Gita Mandir, where dream-gods march next to sleeping ancestors. The tambour of beggar boys with bellies like drums. The disappointment of rice without meat.
Metallic fumes shorten the air. The juxtaposition of love and decay in roadside shanties. A screeching baby at its mother's breast, shocked by the enormity of its existence. Shit floating in a slow turning river. The mechanical beat of October's heat that refuses to die after nightfall. Umnath runs through all of this. It happened so long ago, and yet it is happening to him now. He runs until something tears inside his chest, and he can run no more. He stops by a stall selling aubergines and leather handbags.
Umnath catalogues his thoughts in jumbled disorder.
He runs to a new life. The improbability of escape becomes probable. A scholarship, long years of study, the accountability of dreams.
The transference of ambition to his guileless children. They know nothing about struggle. They know nothing about running. They hold his hand, and talk to him like he is stupid. And all he can do is stare back at them like somebody stupid. Because that is what this disease has done to Umnath. It has made him stupid.
His son says "good day", to the man in the bed opposite. The man is a creature with yellow skin, the tallow hue of death. He runs to a different history. The beat of his memory takes a different path.
Though he has been there for five weeks, Umnath has never spoken to the man.
He never will.
Quince Jelly
Mother is making quince jelly. She drives her knife through the fruit's tough coat, her voice strained with effort.
"Don't touch," she says when my finger comes close to the knife blade. "Keep your fingers away."
"What are they?" My voice is silk.
"They're called quinces," she says. "I collected them from Aunt Esperanza's garden."
Quinces like princess, I play with the new word and shape it into something familiar.
Another chop. Mother's blade sinks into the wooden grain of her board. She could
be wielding a machete, piercing skulls.
I am a shadow, inches from Mother's side. She blends butter-yellow cubes of fruit with lemon and water, and then weighs seven-hundred-and-fifty grams of sugar.
She uses a spoon to scoop the extra back into the bag.
I steal two pieces of quince from the pan as she returns the sugar to the pantry. I give one to Herman. My brother is painting lines on sheets of newspaper, his overall splattered green and red. He scribbles circles with fat crayons, tearing holes in paint-soaked paper. His simian features are contorted in concentration. The sliver of fruit slips in and out of his mouth like a yo-yo. He says nothing as the
yellow cube bounces past his knee onto the floor. Herman doesn't understand everything, but he knows the illicit nature of stolen fruit.
I bite my piece. The astringent nothingness of it makes me want to spit. How can quince jelly be good when the fruit tastes foul? I plop blue paint onto my paper, and force the quince down my gullet, trying not to think about sick.
Herman and I sit like two silent monkeys.
Mother sings one of her old songs from the time before Father left. She stirs the pan with a long spoon. All her kindness goes into the quince jelly. I wish she'd save some for Herman and me. My brother works on his newspaper squares, drooling in concentration.
Mother's been making the quince jelly for hours when the telephone rings. Dark tones contrast with the frivolity of her gingham-topped jars.
"Hmmm," she says, and "oh dear." The aromatic air caramelises into something sinister. It must be bad news. The shrillness of her voice makes me think the call is from far away. She talks about dates and flights. "I'll have to leave the children with Esperanza", she says, and a trill of fear makes me stand on my toes to hear more. Herman dips his brush into blue, though it holds the browned remnants of every other colour.
I picture Mother on an aeroplane. The world is segmented like an orange, crisscrossed by flight paths, branching like the wrinkles of Aunt Esperanza's face.
Mother drapes her apron over the back of a chair, intent and oblivious. The molten jelly bubbles and creeps over the side of the pan, beckons like a signal. I push my finger on its mottled surface, and lick away the fierce heat with my tongue, swallowing my scream.
"Don't touch," she says when my finger comes close to the knife blade. "Keep your fingers away."
"What are they?" My voice is silk.
"They're called quinces," she says. "I collected them from Aunt Esperanza's garden."
Quinces like princess, I play with the new word and shape it into something familiar.
Another chop. Mother's blade sinks into the wooden grain of her board. She could
be wielding a machete, piercing skulls.
I am a shadow, inches from Mother's side. She blends butter-yellow cubes of fruit with lemon and water, and then weighs seven-hundred-and-fifty grams of sugar.
She uses a spoon to scoop the extra back into the bag.
I steal two pieces of quince from the pan as she returns the sugar to the pantry. I give one to Herman. My brother is painting lines on sheets of newspaper, his overall splattered green and red. He scribbles circles with fat crayons, tearing holes in paint-soaked paper. His simian features are contorted in concentration. The sliver of fruit slips in and out of his mouth like a yo-yo. He says nothing as the
yellow cube bounces past his knee onto the floor. Herman doesn't understand everything, but he knows the illicit nature of stolen fruit.
I bite my piece. The astringent nothingness of it makes me want to spit. How can quince jelly be good when the fruit tastes foul? I plop blue paint onto my paper, and force the quince down my gullet, trying not to think about sick.
Herman and I sit like two silent monkeys.
Mother sings one of her old songs from the time before Father left. She stirs the pan with a long spoon. All her kindness goes into the quince jelly. I wish she'd save some for Herman and me. My brother works on his newspaper squares, drooling in concentration.
Mother's been making the quince jelly for hours when the telephone rings. Dark tones contrast with the frivolity of her gingham-topped jars.
"Hmmm," she says, and "oh dear." The aromatic air caramelises into something sinister. It must be bad news. The shrillness of her voice makes me think the call is from far away. She talks about dates and flights. "I'll have to leave the children with Esperanza", she says, and a trill of fear makes me stand on my toes to hear more. Herman dips his brush into blue, though it holds the browned remnants of every other colour.
I picture Mother on an aeroplane. The world is segmented like an orange, crisscrossed by flight paths, branching like the wrinkles of Aunt Esperanza's face.
Mother drapes her apron over the back of a chair, intent and oblivious. The molten jelly bubbles and creeps over the side of the pan, beckons like a signal. I push my finger on its mottled surface, and lick away the fierce heat with my tongue, swallowing my scream.
Nod Ghosh lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, a beautiful crumbling city where elves are not hard to find. Nod's writing has been accepted for Penduline Press, TheGayUK, The Citron Review, Flash Frontier, JAAM and Takahe. Further details: http://www.nodghosh.com/
Stranger at a House Fire
He stood and watched as the flames gathered momentum, each of them licking at the sky which was black with smoke. Tommy ran some of his belongings through his mind. His record player, his bed, his television, imagining them in a charred form, a semblance of their former selves.
- Yours?
- Yeah.
- Fire Brigade?
- On their way.
- Good.
The stranger was calm. He did not try to comfort Tommy. There were no hugs or blankets offered. They just stood, the two of them and watched the blaze. The pebble dash facade of the house looked about as strong as eggshells.
- Insured?
- No.
- I see.
He wore a brown jacket that had elbow pads. His dark hair was messy and unbrushed. Tommy wanted him to offer to run in and get his things but he was no have-a-go hero. Instead he lit a cigarette and started to smoke. Didn’t offer Tommy one.
- I didn’t have any pets.
- That’s good.
The man inhaled deeply and blew out his own smoke, pale by comparison to the stuff pouring from the roof.
- Neighbours?
- Not home.
- Have you called them?
- I was hoping the fire brigade would get here first.
- Because it’s looking like they might be involved.
Tommy nodded.
- They usually get home at 7.
The smoke was billowing. Dark black plumes issuing from the windows and doorframes. Everything would be gone. He imagined what he would usually be doing at this time. Watching a quiz show, or reading a book, he thought. Such basics seemed a distant dream right now.
- I would offer you a bed if I had one.
- Don’t worry yourself.
- Something will happen.
- Sure.
He offered no reassurance at all. Crossed his arms and blinked slowly at the sight. He was unshaven.
- Do you live around here?
- I’m just passing through the neighbourhood, actually.
- I hope I haven’t disrupted your day.
The stranger didn’t reply.
Another small group of people accumulated and watched the fire from the road slightly further away than Tommy and the man. None of them spoke to him. He didn’t really know them and he felt foolish being the one with the burning house. He found some solace in the fact that he was with someone, despite it being the stranger.
- Anyway, I can’t hang around all day. I have things to be doing.
- Sure.
- I might come back. Another day.
- I don’t think I’ll be here.
- Sure.
The two of them shook hands in what was an awkward departure. Just as the man left, a fire engine arrived at the end of the road.
- Yours?
- Yeah.
- Fire Brigade?
- On their way.
- Good.
The stranger was calm. He did not try to comfort Tommy. There were no hugs or blankets offered. They just stood, the two of them and watched the blaze. The pebble dash facade of the house looked about as strong as eggshells.
- Insured?
- No.
- I see.
He wore a brown jacket that had elbow pads. His dark hair was messy and unbrushed. Tommy wanted him to offer to run in and get his things but he was no have-a-go hero. Instead he lit a cigarette and started to smoke. Didn’t offer Tommy one.
- I didn’t have any pets.
- That’s good.
The man inhaled deeply and blew out his own smoke, pale by comparison to the stuff pouring from the roof.
- Neighbours?
- Not home.
- Have you called them?
- I was hoping the fire brigade would get here first.
- Because it’s looking like they might be involved.
Tommy nodded.
- They usually get home at 7.
The smoke was billowing. Dark black plumes issuing from the windows and doorframes. Everything would be gone. He imagined what he would usually be doing at this time. Watching a quiz show, or reading a book, he thought. Such basics seemed a distant dream right now.
- I would offer you a bed if I had one.
- Don’t worry yourself.
- Something will happen.
- Sure.
He offered no reassurance at all. Crossed his arms and blinked slowly at the sight. He was unshaven.
- Do you live around here?
- I’m just passing through the neighbourhood, actually.
- I hope I haven’t disrupted your day.
The stranger didn’t reply.
Another small group of people accumulated and watched the fire from the road slightly further away than Tommy and the man. None of them spoke to him. He didn’t really know them and he felt foolish being the one with the burning house. He found some solace in the fact that he was with someone, despite it being the stranger.
- Anyway, I can’t hang around all day. I have things to be doing.
- Sure.
- I might come back. Another day.
- I don’t think I’ll be here.
- Sure.
The two of them shook hands in what was an awkward departure. Just as the man left, a fire engine arrived at the end of the road.
Jon Green is published at Rollick Magazine, Literally Stories and The Fake Press. To read more of Jonathan's work visit themapofantarctica.wordpress.com or follow him on twitter: @Jon_D_Green.
Cultural Confusions
Drunk in Thailand, James wanted a tattoo. “The Pride of Scotland” and a thistle,
he requested. The tattooist looked blank. You know, the thistle: the spikey plant.
Ah yes, the tattooist said, nodding. James passed out, waking later to admire “The Pride of Scotland” on his arm.
Beneath a pineapple.
he requested. The tattooist looked blank. You know, the thistle: the spikey plant.
Ah yes, the tattooist said, nodding. James passed out, waking later to admire “The Pride of Scotland” on his arm.
Beneath a pineapple.
Nick Dunster By day, Nick Dunster runs a small, independent fostering service. By night, he writes very small stories for his “fiftywordsdaily” blog and other flash fiction.
Caged
Her suggestion this. Typical quirky girl shit but it's a first date so he lets it go.
There's something about the concrete swoops at the entrance but it's not until the turnstile takes them in two clunking gulps that he remembers.
How could he have not? A cage door swung open in invitation. Harris' grin as he pocketed the key. The backs of the rest, shambling up the hill to see the star attraction, a whale named 'Cuddles'. His shouts drowned by barks, bleats and growls.
A September night that drew in quick. A quiet boy. Unmissed by school friends,
teachers, even his father – working late as usual. Finally forcing the lock to freedom. And home to only a glance from the study.
But today the sun is shining. All is well. He pushes back on the metal bar but it holds fast. There is nothing to do but unfold the ticket in his fist and walk towards her smile.
There's something about the concrete swoops at the entrance but it's not until the turnstile takes them in two clunking gulps that he remembers.
How could he have not? A cage door swung open in invitation. Harris' grin as he pocketed the key. The backs of the rest, shambling up the hill to see the star attraction, a whale named 'Cuddles'. His shouts drowned by barks, bleats and growls.
A September night that drew in quick. A quiet boy. Unmissed by school friends,
teachers, even his father – working late as usual. Finally forcing the lock to freedom. And home to only a glance from the study.
But today the sun is shining. All is well. He pushes back on the metal bar but it holds fast. There is nothing to do but unfold the ticket in his fist and walk towards her smile.
Amanda Quinn is a writer based in Newcastle upon Tyne. She writes short fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in the National Flash Fiction Day anthologies Scraps and Landmarks and in print and online magazines including Butcher’s Dog, Alliterati, After the Pause, and Paper Swans. Her poem Cast Away came second in the 2014 Black Country Living Museum Poetry Competition. You can follow her on Twitter @amandaqwriter.
The Ant Farm
“So where exactly are you off to?” he asked.
“Can you ask me without the tone?”
“When did it become okay for you to talk to your father this way?”
“Dad, don’t start.”
“I suppose it’s too much to ask—“
“Oh, God, not again about the farm.”
“Well, I just thought that—“
“Dad, nobody does this anymore. You’re the only one that sees the point.”
“The point?”
“Yes, the point. It’s boring.”
“Boring.”
“Dad, it’s the same thing every day. You stand watch over them. You make sure
they get enough water and light. You watch them chew and crap and mate
and fight.”
“Well, there’s a little more to it than that.”
“What? The whole divine father thing?”
“They need guidance.”
“They don’t. There’re seven billion of them. They do their own thing. They make a mess; they clean it up. So it goes. You’re the only one that believes there’s more to it than that.”
They sat for a moment and watched ‘Ole Blue’s gentle rotation.
“So what are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Not this.”
The father nodded slightly.
“You okay for money?” he asked.
“Well, if you’re offering.”
“Can you ask me without the tone?”
“When did it become okay for you to talk to your father this way?”
“Dad, don’t start.”
“I suppose it’s too much to ask—“
“Oh, God, not again about the farm.”
“Well, I just thought that—“
“Dad, nobody does this anymore. You’re the only one that sees the point.”
“The point?”
“Yes, the point. It’s boring.”
“Boring.”
“Dad, it’s the same thing every day. You stand watch over them. You make sure
they get enough water and light. You watch them chew and crap and mate
and fight.”
“Well, there’s a little more to it than that.”
“What? The whole divine father thing?”
“They need guidance.”
“They don’t. There’re seven billion of them. They do their own thing. They make a mess; they clean it up. So it goes. You’re the only one that believes there’s more to it than that.”
They sat for a moment and watched ‘Ole Blue’s gentle rotation.
“So what are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Not this.”
The father nodded slightly.
“You okay for money?” he asked.
“Well, if you’re offering.”
C.P Blackburn Chris is a fussy New Yorker, who has lived and worked in Madagascar, Hungary, Belarus, and Turkey. He is currently working in Istanbul, delighting in Turkish hospitality and cuisine. When he is not grading papers or fussing with his stories, you can find him fussing-about on his paddleboard. He has previously been published in the Flash Dogs anthology. Pay him a visit at @CP_Blackburn
She Was the Ocean
She was the ocean. Endlessly crashing onto his beach and receding to come back even harder than before. Crash. They folded into each other with every wave. His hands ran up and down her curves and she wrapped him in her world.
He poured himself into the ocean and the ocean swept him under the waves.
Lights danced on their shapes. He tripped and fell into her hair and led straight into her depths. He didn’t open his eyes, he couldn’t. But he felt her. He felt her breath, her weight and her warmth keeping him and guarding him against the angry winds. The chills that were sent sneaking down his spine were slain by the ocean’s warm summer waters. He poured himself into her and she swept him off his feet. He fell for her and sank deep into her waters.
The winds roared off above while he slept deep under the dancing lights.
She was his ocean. Waves crashed on him and withered away the rotting flesh from his bones. Crash. They folded into each other with each touch. He ran his hands through the water and it rose to surround him in her world. He poured himself into the ocean and was swept under the tide.
Lights danced on the rippled water. They scattered, tripping through to fall upon his face. He couldn’t open his eyes but he felt the weight and breath of her. He was guarded from the ripping winds above. Her arms wrapped him in her warm embrace.
The winds roared their tantrums above him as he slept deep under the dancing lights.
She was the sea. The tide slipped up to his knees keeping the cold at bay with her warm caress. The sea suds fizzled against his clammy skin. He saw her limitless universe and saw his reflection in her eyes. Her vast Everythings dwarfed his rough Nothings.
He looked into her eyes and saw the corners of the world.
The seas of Earth all wrapped up around the tiniest pebble.
He poured himself into the ocean and the ocean swept him under the waves.
Lights danced on their shapes. He tripped and fell into her hair and led straight into her depths. He didn’t open his eyes, he couldn’t. But he felt her. He felt her breath, her weight and her warmth keeping him and guarding him against the angry winds. The chills that were sent sneaking down his spine were slain by the ocean’s warm summer waters. He poured himself into her and she swept him off his feet. He fell for her and sank deep into her waters.
The winds roared off above while he slept deep under the dancing lights.
She was his ocean. Waves crashed on him and withered away the rotting flesh from his bones. Crash. They folded into each other with each touch. He ran his hands through the water and it rose to surround him in her world. He poured himself into the ocean and was swept under the tide.
Lights danced on the rippled water. They scattered, tripping through to fall upon his face. He couldn’t open his eyes but he felt the weight and breath of her. He was guarded from the ripping winds above. Her arms wrapped him in her warm embrace.
The winds roared their tantrums above him as he slept deep under the dancing lights.
She was the sea. The tide slipped up to his knees keeping the cold at bay with her warm caress. The sea suds fizzled against his clammy skin. He saw her limitless universe and saw his reflection in her eyes. Her vast Everythings dwarfed his rough Nothings.
He looked into her eyes and saw the corners of the world.
The seas of Earth all wrapped up around the tiniest pebble.