Hans watched from the observation deck as the ground fell away.
In his mind he imagined the look on Dieter’s face when he checked their company bank account and found it empty. He grinned with spiteful delight as the Hindenburg rose and began its fateful journey across the Atlantic Ocean.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. His parents were time-travellers from the 22nd Century and he knows the result of every single significant sporting event for the next hundred years. Watch out for Soviet Union II winning the 2046 World Cup.
I turn off the news, hands shaking.
Park two doors down, then shoulder through a chaos of cordons and police and media imps to reach home.
Place is in shambles, ransacked by people wearing disposable shoe covers.
Master closet door’s ajar—Swallow fire—the lockbox cracked open—Breathe ash—empty.
Tim Boiteau writes and lives near Detroit with his wife and son.
Stare all you want, I think. It’s not happening.
I walk past without looking. I am young, beautiful, entering the ceramics shop. He is invisible.
Leaving, I am struck
by the sound of a vase smashing, by blood at my temple.
“I need a description,” says the officer.
Natasha de Carvalho, a British writer, is a newbie to flash fiction, a genre discovered at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. This is her first published piece, but hopefully not her last.
Alana was great with numbers. They called her “hypotenuse” behind her back. She was across everything in the office and her colleagues hated her for it.
She wondered how long it would take them to realise she was taking the company’s money. Alana knew she’d disappear before they ever knew.
Mark Konik is from Newcastle, Australia. He writes short stories and plays.
As the sun sets, a teenage boy gathers coal from the side of a railway track. He’d climbed onto one of the trucks of a slow-moving freight train and opened its side door, spilling its precious payload.
He might get caught, but he doesn’t care; he will be warm tonight.
Coal theft is not uncommon among the poor areas of Poland’s Upper Silesia region, where Daniel teaches English as a foreign language.
His aunt didn’t see him watching her put in the wall safe’s code.
She didn’t see him hiding in the cellar the morning she left for her three week cruise.
He couldn’t see her pull out and bolt the sliding metal door she had recently installed at the cellar entrance.
Diane de Anda has published fiction, poetry, and essays in Rosebud, Straylight, Storyteller, Pacific Review, Bilingual Review, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Bottle Rockets, Presence, and others; satire in Humor Times; eight children’s books; and a collection of 40 flash fiction stories.
Robert lived for the thrill of breaking into a house—the cool strength of the pry bar, the snap of a lock, the tinkle of busted glass, the adrenaline high, the solitary trespass through another’s intimate space, the absolute power of looking and touching and taking and—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Gary Wadley lives in Louisville with his lovely wife and beautiful children. He does creative stuff; he can’t help it.
Grinning, Earl invaded Gomper Hall, sporting a fuchsia waistcoat with orange-striped breeches, a feathered fez. His belt had bells!
Earl slapped distinguished backs, strutted past mouths agape, open as though for fishhooks. Gentlemen fanned woozy ladies.
Earl was removed.
(Nobody expected that heist. We’re still taking inventory of the loot!)
C.B. Auder might someday dream of a life jam-packed with flexi-twill cuffs and apricot capes.
“How did you sprain your ankle, young man?”
“I was running from the shotgun.”
“Oh, a sports injury; you were playing football, right?”
“In that case you won’t be covered by your school insurance. How do you plan to pay for your medical treatment?”
“Will you accept watermelons?”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Gumshoe Review, Liquid Imagination, MicroHorror and elsewhere.
“This looks too easy,” he thought as he descended to the display on a rope.
It was easy. The glass lid had no trigger. There were no laser trip wires, not even a lock.
He snatched the gem, ascended to the window, and escaped.
Too bad it was a fake.
Sean Quigley also goes by “Posh Platypus.” Follow him on Twitter: @PoshPlatypus.