Still in graduation cap and gown, Johnny gawked as a parade of robots entered the convention center, carrying colorful paintings and sculptures, sturdy keyboards and drums, even elegant, fashionable garments.
Several carried banners: “Inaugural Synthetic Art Festival.”
Disgusted, Johnny pitched his art school diploma in the trash and slouched off.
Gordon Sun is a surgeon, scientist, and consultant who lives in California and has published numerous peer-reviewed articles in the New England Journal of Medicine, JAMA, and other medical journals. His literary writings can be found in Ars Medica and Hektoen International.
I visit him in the nursing home every week. He’s in the lunchroom now, his food untouched, diligently filling in coloring book outlines with crayons. He no longer recognizes me.
“Are you here to eat or to color?” he asks.
“To color,” I say as I sit close beside him.
Alex thinks that most nursing homes are simply repositories for human flotsam.
She had always enjoyed cosmetics. The colors, varieties, the subtle application and oh, she was good at it! She knew her color palette, chose just the right pigments: peaches, chestnuts, the occasional burst of orange. Wonderful!
Who knew the progression of her canvas would so overtly dictate her artistic endeavors?
F.M. Johnson is a writer from Richmond, VA. Her book, Tales of the Supernatural, is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble Book Stores, and her website, fmjohnson.com.
That summer the churches stopped selling religion.
You had to know a guy who knew a guy.
I was living by the ocean with a sea captain’s daughter.
He brought home boxes of the stuff.
We shared holy communion. We wept through miracles.
Her and me. Us and the sea.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
No one knows why color disappeared. Leaves browned. Flowers faded. Clothing looked washed-out. Even blood turned beige.
My son’s never seen a sunset, only gray skies.
The last green shoot attracted longer lines than the Mona Lisa. When I took my son to see it, he scrunched his nose. “Gross.”
Hannah Whiteoak is a freelance writer and poet from Sheffield, UK. Follow her at @hannahwhiteoak.
Late in life, she traded piano for painting. It was so refreshing. She’d only ever played keys when she’d had a husband to join onstage.
They’d joke about it when he appeared to her. She tried painting him in his present form, but she could never get the eyes right.
Lucas Kwong is a professor of English at New York City College of Technology. When he isn’t grading papers, he’s making music with his garage rock band THE BROTHER K MELEE, or writing for his band’s official microfiction Twitter account, THE NOT OK MELEE (@notokmelee).
It’s where his best stories arrived without fail, in the shower with warm water running down his back.
Later, pencil sharp, notebook open, squeaky clean, he’d chew on the pink eraser and try to remember. The muse just laughed.
That’s how he learned the best stories never make the page.
Guy’s work has appeared in 43 literary journals including Carve, dacunha, and Exposition Review, where twice, he was a flash 405 winner. Third Wednesday ran his story, The Most Shoplifted Poet, as both flash fiction and poem of the week. Guy teaches low-fat fiction, lives on a houseboat, and walks the planks daily. He prefers to write on ATM slips with low balances while waiting for traffic lights to change.
I drizzle honey over yoghurt and imagine that I am Jackson Pollock.
Yesterday’s dessert was a masterpiece, worthy of MoMA, but this looks amateur. I need precision. I need clean lines.
But it’s freezing and my honey has crystallised into thick, sticky globules.
I bet Jackson Pollock could afford heating.
Danny Beusch started writing flash fiction in 2017. Find him on Twitter: @OhDannyBoyShhh.
The painter painted the world black. Black trees, black grass, black clouds, black tomatoes. Van Gogh-like brush-strokes, thick with sorrow, melted around us. Even little girls smiled with teeth black as watermelon seeds. Everything so biblical we ran to the river to wash away our sins in dark, inviting waters.
Jim Doss lives with his wife and three children in Sykesville, Maryland, and earns his living as a software engineer. He has previously published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again, and What Remains. In partnership with Werner Schmitt, he also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.
Picasso owned a cat who controlled the weather in Paris. When he painted the cat yellow, it was sunny. Purple, and lightning broke out.
People gathered outside Picasso’s door at sunrise and waited for him to put out the cat. “Darn, more rain,” they said during the cat’s blue period.
Jay Gershwin lives in New York. You can get a free copy of his novel, Poor Man’s Autumn, through Amazon.