Rage thrust brush through canvas.
A puncture through three days’ work: portrait of she who had gathered her stuff while he slept. Gone… yet she persisted like thallium poisoning.
Almost serenely he deposited the brush – loaded with the colour of his crappy life – beside the open tube of Prussian Blue.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
He saw himself laid out on the table, his heart in one place, his backbone and manhood in various containers.
It was hard to get a word in edgewise as his two ex-girlfriends kept dissecting him into little pieces.
Now he finally understood what “We can still be friends” meant!
Connell continues to be upbeat about writing his biography even if others keep refusing to do it for him. However, he knows someone will eventually take up the mantle which will then free him somewhat to concentrate on getting someone to write his 50-word stories as well.
This table, the wine, bread and cheese—that’s nonfiction; calling it “dinner” is, perhaps, a fiction.
Your silence, my tears, these trembling hands: nonfiction. Our last meal together: fiction.
Your attraction to someone else—OK, we’ll call that nonfiction. But the idea you no longer love me… must be fiction.
Nathan Alling Long lives in Philadelphia and can be found at blogs.stockton.edu/longn. His collection of fifty flash fictions, The Origin of Doubt, was published by Press 53 in March 2018.
Iris knew she had made the right choice, because after two weeks she didn’t miss him. It felt better to stretch out in bed, and she didn’t have to watch sports anymore.
The only thing that bothered her was the photos he had taken and the secrets that he knew.
Dan Shushko wrote this story.
“It’s good to see you.”
“I hoped we could talk.”
Wished we didn’t have to.
“It’s been too long.”
Not long enough.
Leaning against the air-hockey table, shoes white against the slushy stain, she replies:
“It’s been two days, Tyler. And I only came to get my backpack.”
Kerry teaches English with the comfortable assuredness that he is almost often not wrong about it.
“Goodbye Patrick.” Cindy moved in for a half-hug and cheek-peck, but he held her until she pulled away.
Patrick fit bulging duffel bags into her rusty Mazda, shut the hatchback, then stepped away as she reversed and turned.
The car crunched down the gravel driveway, red taillights glowing in accusation.
Susan Wackerbarth is enjoying her foray into flash fiction so much that she may never go back to writing novels.
Our red eyes
Have a glass of wine
I love you…
words without conviction
Trace the floor
Of our room
My plea fails you
Our relationship fades
Our bond snaps
The door closes
Tossed between empty sheets
Why part 5?
With the kind of longing that only comes with the fog of time, he began missing her today.
All the animosity gave way to bittersweet memories.
That’s when he realized that it had been neither love nor hate that killed their relationship. It was indifference.
He eyed his phone, briefly.
Maninder Chana is a critically acclaimed, award-winning writer and director based out of Toronto. He is also the author of a short story collection, Gunga Din Lite & Other Delights (of Lust and Comedy)
Her scars run deep. Invisible.
A stab in the heart here, a slap in the face there.
She plans her escape with precision, as far as her meagre funds will allow. Relief.
She forces herself to stop thinking about her past pain, her ex-husband and, with a pang, her ex-dog.
Jean lives in a village near Bath in the UK. She has an ex-husband and an ex-dog.