by Jan Stinchcomb | Oct 19, 2020 | flash fiction
Goth Nanny
The baby sees black eyeliner circling dead eyes that teach skepticism, or something more sinister, a desire to detach from society. The buggy is covered in black satin. Goth Nanny likes to hang out by the cliffs, along the sharp stone edge, in view of the murderous sea. She communicates with the baby using a sign language of her own design, one heavy with menacing gestures. A smirk drags down the blood red corners of her mouth as she reads pavement-thick Ann Radcliffe novels. Later they will go to the graveyard, the only place where Goth Nanny smiles wide. In the meantime the baby sits up and shakes the nanny’s thermos of espresso, enjoying the sloshing sound it makes, and noticing (because this baby will be an audio engineer), the distinct difference between the crashing waves below and the secret splash inside the cold metal cylinder.
Ladybug Nanny
The baby lives with the awareness of impending flight. Early on this baby has learned that cuteness does not equal goodness. Fly away home, the nursery rhyme goes, introducing the baby to images of fire and missing children. Sometimes Ladybug Nanny arrives home in triumph, looking like a chubby red sportscar, carrying diapers and ice cream and Prosecco, but the baby is not fooled. This nanny was hired to stay, not leave, and there is no reason to praise her return. Fortunately the baby is an entrepreneur who uses everything life throws at her. “Fly Away Home” will launch the realty business that grows into a brokerage, then into a construction firm, and finally into a village of minimalist red buildings on stilts that address urban density while gently persuading people to fear flood over fire.
Spider Nanny
The baby is in love, just as the mother predicted, though the mother’s friends are horrified. Social workers are called in but disappear with a chilling consistency. Everyone admits that the spider silk layette is beautiful, and even the judgmental neighbor leaves her linens to be mended by Spider Nanny. How can you beat eight eyes?, the mother asks, determined to shame all those who dare criticize her. I hired a nanny who would help my girl for life, one who would show her how to handle men. The friends look around without speaking. Nobody knows who the baby’s father is. Nobody ever mentions him, not at birthdays, not even at the big graduation party, after the baby has completed her fancy fashion degree on a weaving scholarship.
Octopus Nanny
The baby never wants for anything. Each arm of Octopus Nanny holds something different: a bottle, a hammer, a plush heart toy, a thermometer, an astrolabe, a pacifier, a cell phone, a baby. They spend half the day at the city aquarium, the rest on the teal loveseat. The parents feel unneeded, unwanted. Sometimes, in the dark, they wince at the sensation of tentacles kissing their skin while strong arms anchor them to the bed, forcing their union. Often the mother wakes, screaming, then runs to the nursery, where the baby is neither drowning nor suffocating. He sleeps the sleep of babies while Octopus Nanny lurks in the temperate nursery aquarium. Does she ever sleep? The mother struggles with jealousy and resentment until the day she realizes, while listening to Jacques Cousteau, that the octopus had no choice but to become a nanny. Motherhood would have killed her. The mother races to the nursery to apologize and finds the baby playing with eight different piles of toys, turning effortlessly from one to another, never losing his place. Someone has been teaching him to multitask, preparing him for his life as a construction manager and single dad.
Punk Nanny
The baby likes to gum Punk Nanny’s stiff lavender mohawk. The baby takes a biscuit and dips it into the mug of milky tea that seems always to be cradled in Punk Nanny’s right hand. She hangs from the chains on his black leather jacket. Punk Nanny is patient. His clients always speak early, in polite sentences, though he himself says little. It’s all in his smile, his mother explains, when she drops by with carnation bouquets and strawberry tarts. He was born to be a nanny, like all the men of our family. Punk Nanny’s mother flicks her wrist so that her many diamonds catch the sunlight. She is about to leave for the airport. She and the baby’s mother shake hands, smiling and nodding, but something unpleasant hovers between them. Is it competition? Distrust? Perhaps it is merely the yearning to stay with one’s own child, which neither woman is able to do. The baby senses something is wrong, but instead of crying, she rises on two sturdy legs and walks for the pure joy of it, refusing to choose a career path.
by Shingai Kagunda | Oct 15, 2020 | flash fiction
Planting Season
“But what if?” Woman leaves the unfinished question hanging in the air, touching her swelling stomach. Man already knows what she is asking. “We will find a way to make it work. We always find a way.”
Heavy Rains Season
The baby smiles and she coos and they know she is one of them. There is a rumour that those born during the rains tend to carry that memory in them. The parents do not want to know but they know.
Harvest Season
“She said her first word at Kresh today.”
Man responds. “Hmmm, yes? What did she say?”
“Tomorrow”
A word that is banned. Man inhales sharply. “Where did she hear that? Woman?”
Woman’s gaze wanders on the ground. “We always knew, didn’t we? But we didn’t want to voice it.”
Man shakes his head furiously. “No, no, no. Someone must have said it within her hearing. The instructors?”
Woman throws her hands in the air. “Man listen, we knew there was a chance she would be… but… we took the chance anyway.
This is on us.”
Dry Season
It is decreed that the revolting word ‘yesterday’ shall also be removed from all speech. History only serves as a distraction. Anyone found speaking of anything other than today; other than now, deals with the full hand of the law.
Hunting Season (A lesson in silence.)
“And I must never…” Woman stops speaking, waiting for daughter to finish the chant they practice together on several occasions.
Daughter sighs. “…Say anything that was, or anything that could be; only everything that is.”
Woman touches hand to daughter’s chest.
Daughter fidgets impatiently. “Can I go now?”
Woman drags finger until it is settled on left breast, touching skin, feeling the little heartbeat drumming steadily underneath. “Hear me and hear me good. I say this once.”
She drums the little chest pacing it to daughter’s heartbeat.
“Tuh.Tuh.Tuh.
This is.” She draws out the words. “This is and I cannot imagi- think of a time where it will cease to be. Protect that it is at all costs. If you must speak…
“I know, I know.” Daughter responds quietly. “Only speak of now.”
Planting Season
Daughter is older now. Multilingual in the languages of imitation, amnesia, and silence. Daughter still hears voices. “Remember… Imagine… Yesterday… Tomorrow”. Daughter ignores voices.
There are screams sometimes. The hunted who speak in memory and imagination. There are rumours that there is a chamber where they are tortured, burned, little bits of their skin erased, over and over and over again.
Daughter will not be like them.
Stupid daughter.
Has never been like them.
No, get it right.
Is not like them, is not like them, is not like them.
Heavy Rains Season
Man is dead and woman cries. They say she cannot remember out loud but at night she dreams and daughter hears. Woman has had a lifetime of practice taming memory and possibility but the subconscious has a way of undoing all practice.
“I have loved you. I will love you.”
Harvest Season
And when it rains the voices get louder.
“I was your grandmother.”
“And I your great.”
“Do you let them forget me, child? As if I wasn’t part of the militia needed for this country’s freedom. Now the nation, independent, lets our memories rot. Treat our histories like the dirt on which you tread.”
“Hush sister you are overwhelming the girl.”
“There is someone you should hear girl.”
Man’s voice takes up the space left by the women. Softly at first. “Daughter?” a little louder.
“Hello?”
She does not respond, tries to ignore—thinks of woman breaking down— breaks down, it cannot be, it is not. It is not.
Dry Season
…
Hunting Season
And they say woman is going mad. She talks when she is awake as if she is asleep. They say it is that memory blood she carries, passed down by her mother. Tainted blood, a pity that it is showing up only now. They are watching her, watching her closely.
And whenever daughter is with woman, daughter whispers, “And I must never?”
And they finish it together, slowly, softly. “Say anything that was, or anything that could be; only everything that is.”
by Nancy Stohlman | Oct 14, 2020 | news
Flash Myth #1: Smaller Is Easier
Let’s debunk Myth #1.
Housed in the Chicago Institute of Art are the Thorne Miniature Rooms, tiny replicas of actual historic rooms painstakingly crafted on a scale of one inch: one foot. You press your face up to each of the 68 windows and gaze at the fully formed world inside— complete with exotic woods, fabrics, chandeliers and intricate, hand-woven rugs. The attention to detail in each room would be impressive even at life size, but the true fascination is the fact that they are just so damn tiny!
One of the reasons people love flash fiction is because, like the Thorne Rooms, there is something awe-inspiring about entering a perfectly formed tiny world. When done correctly, tiny is part of the art: the Mona Lisa on a grain of rice, a sculpture of Charlie Chaplin balanced on an eyelash. And it often requires more skill from the writer, not the other way around. Creating something tiny takes a different level of expertise and precision.
Sometimes when people discover flash fiction they assume: oh, it’s cute, it’s small, it’s easy. But to fully appreciate flash we must assume mastery: the story is small because the author has decided to tell it this way.
Flash Myth #2: Readers Have Short Attention Spans
This is probably the most common flash myth. But readers aren’t enamored with flash fiction because they have short attention spans—that’s like saying the sculptor of the bonsai tree didn’t have the attention for a full-grown tree, or that people who eat sliders don’t have the attention for a quarter-pound hamburger. Maybe, just maybe, they like sliders and bonsai trees?
In the same way, readers love flash fiction because it’s complex and breathtaking and accomplishes so much in such a tiny space.
In fact, flash fiction requires a more sophisticated reader. The story demands the reader to “pay close attention”—every sentence, every word takes on a new significance, if only for the limited number of them. The reader must jump the gaps, fill in the blanks, follow the breadcrumbs, and inhabit the purposeful spaces left by the writer. Which means that flash fiction is cultivating a new symbiosis between writer and readers, on and off the page.
As readers, we’ve gotten used to sitting in the audience and being entertained. But it’s nearly impossible to passively consume flash fiction. Leaving things unsaid and undigested requires effort and interpretation; the reader steps out of the role of voyeur and becomes an active participant in the story. It’s this act of interpretation that keeps art vital—no longer just watching from a darkened audience, flash fiction invites the reader up on the stage, hands them a tambourine, and tells them to keep up.
Flash Myth #3: Bigger Is Better
“Important” literary works are big. Therefore, some people still dismiss flash fiction as trivial. How could anything important be accomplished in such a small space? Flash fiction is good for barroom bets, not for serious literature.
The implication here is the more we have of something, the better it is. War and Peace is “important”: it’s long, it’s hard, it’s complex, it’s 1,200 pages. But Old Man and the Sea is only 120 pages and won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Should we assume that Tolstoy worked 10x harder than Hemingway or that his work is 10x more important?
The truth is they can’t really be compared. Flash fiction should be judged on its own terms. It’s meant to be digested in one sitting—it encourages speed, not languishing. Longer literature is meant to be enjoyed over time. But flash fiction doesn’t look for sweeping vistas. Flash fiction is not the epic saga. Flash fiction is that guy on the beach with the metal detector. We don’t need to know his history, we don’t need to know what he looks like. Just tell us what he finds.
by Amorak Huey | Oct 12, 2020 | micro
I’m scratching my name in the pew with my car key. I’m daydreaming about what it would be like to have a robot arm. Or a robot heart. I’m sitting while the believers line up for communion. I’m not invited, which is fine. The only flesh I want in my mouth is yours. I am a visitor in every room I’ve ever entered. I keep waiting for the pastor to say something about how we should treat each other, but all he ever talks about is how important it is to believe. To accept. To submit. It seems heavy-handed to say the next thing that happens is the passing of the collection plate but it is the next thing that happens. It’s too easy to be cynical. It feels like a trap. You consume the body and blood of Christ and return to your seat. I can’t remember whether you think this is literal or metaphor. I’m afraid to ask. I have never said aloud that I don’t believe in your resurrected savior or the magical land in the sky with gold streets and floating souls. I can get behind the love thy neighbors and the shall not kills and so forth, but not so much a magical man picking winners or losers based on how they spend Sunday mornings. The robot heart would be great, honestly. Unbreakable, resilient. I already know how this is going to end. You and me, that is. It’s going to hurt. Imagine, though. All those steel gears and steampunk valves, churning along, keeping the body alive without a murmur.
by Melissa Goode | Oct 9, 2020 | flash fiction
The kitchen lightbulb shatters above our heads. The filament burns red and fizzles to nothing. It is an explosion from light to black. We breathe hard in the aftermath, check each other for broken glass and he says to me, I can’t be here anymore.
#
Chicago-Read is still another five minutes away. I drive. In the passenger seat, his eyes are closed. The orange lit streets dissolve into the November night.
The radio plays, “With Or Without You”, his secret favorite song. It pulses in my fingertips. He says, don’t turn it off, and Bono sings that he can’t live.
I close my hand on his thigh and squeeze. Even through his jeans, he sears me.
#
The polished hospital floor reflects the fluorescent tubes and my headache throbs. It smells here of antiseptic and humanness.
At the front counter, I give his name, date of birth, psychiatrist. He stands beside me, carries his overnight bag. We could be checking into a hotel.
“I know it’s late,” I say to the nurse.
“Makes no difference here,” she says.
“24/7 service, right ma’am?” he says.
The nurse eyes him. “Right.”
A vent above us gushes arctic, stale air. He shivers inside his coat.
#
He is Every Man. His voice used for radio and television ads about male impotence, alcoholism, testicular cancer, bankruptcy, depression, suicide. He told his agent he needed two weeks off and had to battle for the time.
#
In his hospital ward, I kiss his lips and they are dry. He is already a patient. He says, go now please go, and shuffles to the bathroom, decades older.
In the parking lot, I cannot find our car. If he were here, he’d remember where we left it. The top level is empty. I move to the edge and before me the city shimmers and fizzes golden, silver, endless. The metal balustrade is perfectly scalable. I whisper-sing “Amazing Grace” and snag on wretch.
A plane roars overhead, low. It approaches O’Hare, certain, with calculated speed and angle of descent. Landing lights shine bright white. Wheels unfold from its belly.
#
Sunday morning. The tulips he bought are now overblown. Their violet petals fade, wilt and fall to our kitchen table, until only the gold-black stamens remain. Violet is the color of remembering him years after he’s gone. A petal drops and it is loud.
#
From the hospital, he phones, says, there is too much light here.
I say, it’s alright it’s alright it’s alright.
And it isn’t, I know.
#
Sunday afternoon, four p.m. The bleak-desperate-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life hour. I visit Barnes & Noble, sip full sugar Coke. My footsteps sound the word, dis-con-so-late. My high school students walk like this, weighed, shackled. Ir-re-deem-a-ble.
I spin the display of postcards and here is, “The Threatened Swan”, dated 1650, by Jan Asselijn. The swan’s wings are outstretched, luminous. It defends its nest of eggs against a stealthy black dog. The swan’s neck is arched, its beak open on a hiss. Feathers fly from its wings.
I buy the postcard, pin it to our fridge.
#
He calls me, says, I cannot hear my voice.
I say, I can hear you, honey.
#
Over radio and television, he tells me where to find help. He provides phone numbers, websites, tells me I am not alone.
#
We swim in green water in my dream, inside a deep cold pond. Gray wavy shadows fall on us. We are wholly submerged, suspended.
I wake and decide we were not underwater, instead we float on the surface. We are buoyant! We cannot sink!
#
For the first time since he was admitted, he agrees to see me. I bring him many of everything—Snickers, Twix, Doritos, Rolling Stone, underwear, socks, T-shirts—they could be things for a teenage boy.
I bring him the red blanket from our bed. His fingers trace the wide-white stitching around the edge.
He barely looks at me.
I regret it as I say it: “I traveled for miles in an aggressive Uber and the traffic is abysmal.”
Now he looks at me and I see the boy.
#
We watch television, slumped in his hospital bed. Our heads rest on his pillow, the red blanket pulled to our chins. I press my face into his neck, say, I should have brought you flowers. His skin is chilled, chemicals leach. I need to take him home, to a near-scalding bath, scrub us clean, make us taste of lavender, oranges, of Italy in the sun.
#
I want him to give me a show, his show. The slow one. I don’t care which way it goes, whether he starts clothed or naked.
#
A swan in Ireland stopped traffic as it hugged warm car hoods, mourning the loss of its mate.
He says, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Okay. No more fucking stories about swans.”
“Jesus. We’re not swans.”
I take his hand. “Why do you get to choose the metaphor?”
Here is his first smile in three weeks.
#
Here is my apology for this life—two million germs on the bathroom floor under my knees. His fingertips touch my hair and I don’t know whether he wants more or wants me to stop.
#
The television scientists have nothing good to say about the world’s population or the planet.
He says, “We’re all fucked.”
“It will get better.”
“Will it?”
He drops his heavy head to my shoulder. His living brain right here, cerebral circulation delivering oxygen and nutrients.
#
He sleeps beside me. The nurses have not yet kicked me out. The television plays a black and white movie—The Philadelphia Story. Katharine Hepburn and James Stewart dance together in the dark garden, drunk. He holds her close, his hand spread across her shoulder blades. Their steps are nimble, graceful, as they dance slowly around the rim of the pond and they do not fall in.
by Matthew McHugh | Oct 5, 2020 | flash fiction
Sometimes the name they give you is all wrong.
It’s really just meant to be a simple, two-word phrase to let people talk about a particular shade. “Honey, do you prefer Autumn Sand or Copper Slate?” or “Can I get two gallons of Alpine Storm?” “Is Harbor Mist available in semi-gloss?” We all have numbers, but you can’t use those in conversation. “I’m going to do the walls in 0973-016, the trim in 0975-732, and the wainscoting in 0984-283.” No, names are better. The marketing people figured that out long ago, and they were right. But they don’t always get it right with each one of us.
“Carrion Clay.” That’s my name.
I know.
We’re not even named by a person. Nobody looks at 3948-032 and says, “Hmm… this will be Desert Almond.” 0783-971. “And this, I’ll say is… Tropical Shadow.” It’s all done by computer. A word from Column A and a word from Column B. Gradations of orange are Tangerine Sunset, Florida Citrus, Honey Sherbet, and so on. Reds are Crimson Veil, Summer Valentine, Cherry Carnation, etc. Everyone seems happy with it. Everyone but me. Carrion freakin’ Clay.
I’d rather be just 0920-734, but I can’t choose how people perceive me. They pick up my swatch and make jokes. “World’s worst boxer!” “Name something you find at a preschool for vultures.” “Ooh, let’s do the door with this and the frame in Zombie Golem.” I’ve heard them all.
I am a microscopic shade off Sierra Amber and Twilight Sandstone, yet no one will ever let me near their baby’s room. No lowly office drone will hand-sponge me in their bathroom to create a faux marble effect, the one stroke of creativity that keeps their soul alive. I will never be the ambient hue a family subconsciously associates with the concept: home. Brushed Chestnut may. Even Mocha Gravel stands a chance. Not me.
Once… once, a woman browsing through a sample binder stopped on my page. She traced the edge of my eggshell latex finish with her fingertip and lingered on me. Her eyes took on the unfocused drift of one lost in imagination, and I knew she was picturing me in her hallway or bedroom. And, in that moment—that beautiful, accurséd moment—I dared to hope.
I dared to wish for that instant of consummation when she would step back, roller still in hand, and survey with satisfaction my final coating, a smudge of me just below the bandana on her forehead. And I would have served her for years (10 True-Guaranteed™), witness to her private joys and sufferings, until we both began to gray, old friends bound together deeper than any promise by countless hours in one another’s company.
This, and immeasurably more, I would have given her, had she but chosen me instead of Arizona Dusk.
Now, I simply wait. The third quarter sales figures will have reached corporate headquarters by now, and I am surely earmarked for discontinuation. I welcome it. Honestly, I do. Not everything that exists is promised a meaningful existence. I will pass away, literally, not having left a single mark upon this world.
If there is anything more, if there is anything beyond the misbegotten life I have known, let me be wiped clean and arrive fresh in that new place, my name forgotten, my number filed and lost, where I hope only to have the chance to shine.
by Amy Barnes | Oct 1, 2020 | interview, news
I’ve always thought of flash fiction as conversations where each exchange reveals or obscures, builds layers, introduces intimacy, teaches, grows curiosity. “The Bitter Kind” authors Tara Lynn Masih and James Claffey take that conversational flash level to a more expansive place in their novella-in-flash. Each individual flash connects with the next, chats with the reader through contrasting characters through time. The two main characters Stela and Brandy share their individual dreams and burdens; the flash novella format acts as a perfect setting for the seemingly improbable — a ship captain’s daughter and Chippewa orphan revealed through flashes about family secrets and ghost wolf hauntings. Through the skillful word and character creation of Masih and Claffey, readers converse with identifiable, yet unique characters. To learn more about the inspiration and process behind the novella, I interviewed Masih.
What is the significance of the title? Speak to the process of choosing it.
I’m glad you asked this, as we love the title. I pulled it out from James’s section. We don’t want to give too much away, but the bitter kind refers to a type of lemon. It fit so well with the lives of our two characters, their constant “battle” for love and the bitterness of what they face throughout their lives. I love titling books and often look to the manuscript itself for lines that resonate. I can’t recall the other choices, but this one we both loved the most.
How did you decide the length/novelette-in-flash form?
We began the project in flash form. We collaborated on a flash story (“Eighteen Crosses, One Madonna”) that combined two characters from our short story collections published by Press 53. When we decided to expand it, we knew we could come up with more material but did not want to make a commitment to a full novel. He was writing his debut novel at the time, and I was working on multiple book projects. So it made sense to write a novella. Well, it became a mighty short novella, and near the end, I stumbled on the term novelette, which fit our page count much better. We like the sound of it better, too!
What is the significance of the cover photo/design? How did you choose the artist to create it?
I’d rather the reader decide the significance of the cover photo, but we do want to recognize Ashley Inguanta, the photographer. We’re both big fans of her work. I’ve tried in the past to get her work on a cover and for one reason or another it didn’t work out, so we’re super grateful to Gloria Mindock at Cervena Barva Press for approving this image. We all just think it’s stunning. Dark and erotic and sensual and it draws you in. Makes you wonder.
There is so much encapsulated in this novelette that it feels like we get an entire novel. How did you determine the formatting? The date markers as “chapters”?
We had no idea how people would react to our little fun project. We really just followed the format we’d chosen for the flash story, which was to write alternate sections back and forth. We knew we’d use our flash skills, which often means lots of white space and big gaps in time. We had to ground the reader in the era it began in, so hence the use of dates. And we wanted to call attention to the most significant date of all, the one where they meet up, so that became Part 2.
There is something seamless as the reader moves between the two storylines. At the outset, the characters themselves seem disparate but you manage to connect them and focus on their personal stories. How did you find the balance and juxtaposition between the characters/the alternating between the two main characters?
It’s one part work and one part creative magic. We kept going on this project because we worked well together and these two characters just seemed to need more attention. And they worked well together on their own, but not completely. We each did many edits to make sure it felt authentic and that all details were accurate. As for the balancing act, it was pretty instinctive, though we both pointed out now and then when the other one had too much of a gap in the writing or when something didn’t make sense or was from the wrong time period.
A collaborator is a built-in, trusted, objective editor.
What research did you do to add authenticity to the stories?
I can only speak for myself on this one, but I did a lot of research on the Landless Indians in Montana (who I’m happy to report as of the beginning of 2020 are no longer landless) and Frontier Town, where Brandy works for a time. I have been to Montana and to the ghost town where Brandy also works, so it was easy to write about that setting. For Frontier Town, I was lucky to find an abundance of online history and images.
Ending on “for how long?” is such a poignant and yet, open-ended closure. How did you decide to end the stories at that point?
That’s a good question, as the original story actually ends differently. Again without giving away the ending, I’ll just say that sometimes as you are writing, you just know you’ve gotten to the last line, that everything that comes before that line has prepared you to write that last line. It doesn’t always happen that way, but when it does, it’s a mystical feeling. I had that when I wrote the final line. And luckily James felt it was the final line, too. He opens the book, I end it. Or, rather, Stela opens, Brandy concludes.
How long did you work on the novelette?
From beginning to end it was 8 years. We had to take breaks to attend to other projects. Hard to believe, but these kinds of books can take a long time to find a home. We tried the contest route first, which took over a year (we were lucky to place as a semifinalist in Conium Press’s chapbook contest), and as it wasn’t picked up, we began the general submission process, which again took well over a year, and we continually edited even into pages
Any other details to share?
I’d like to let fans of audiobooks know that Blackstone Audio will be coming out with an audio version, read by Siiri Scott, who does an amazing job. She knew just how to read our prose. We’re grateful Blackstone took this on as it’s an experiment for them, to publish something this short. And we are super grateful to Cervena Barva for the gorgeous paperback. And thank you to Fractured Lit for your interest. You guys are off to a great start!
BIOS:
Tara Lynn Masih is a National Jewish Book Award Finalist and winner of the Julia Ward Howe Award for Young Readers for her debut novel My Real Name Is Hanna. Her anthologies include The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction and The Chalk Circle: Intercultural Prizewinning Essays. Where the Dog Star Never Glows is her collection of long and very short stories, and she’s published multiple chapbooks with the Feral Press that are archived in universities such as Yale and NYU. She founded the Intercultural Essay Prize in 2006 and The Best Small Fictions series in 2015.
Masih received a finalist fiction grant from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, an Inspirational Woman in Literature Award from AITL Media, and several national book awards including an IBPA Benjamin Franklin Award for her role as an editor.
James Claffey grew up in Dublin, Ireland, and currently lives in California. His collection of short fiction, Blood a Cold Blue, is published by Press 53. He is currently putting the finishing edits to a novel set in 1980s Dublin. His short fiction piece “Skull of a Sheep,” which first appeared in the New Orleans Review, is in W.W. Norton’s Flash Fiction International. His flash fiction “Kingmaker,” which first appeared in Five Points: A Journal of Literature and Art, also features in W.W. Norton’s New Micro: Exceptionally Short Fiction. “The Third Time My Father Tried to Kill Me” was published in The Best Small Fictions 2015, and he was a finalist in The Best Small Fictions 2016. His work has appeared in numerous journals and magazines, and when not writing he teaches high school English in Santa Barbara.
by David James Poissant | Sep 28, 2020 | flash fiction
That morning, Ted began buffering. One minute, he was Ted, coffee cup in hand, talking animatedly about this thing he’d just heard on NPR. The next minute, he was a rainbow-colored pinwheel, spinning. I’d never taken Ted for a Mac guy, so I found that part odd. If anything, he should have been that Window’s ring of circles. But, nope: a spinning wait cursor. That’s what he was. But only for a minute. Then, Ted was back, picking up where he’d left off, still talking animatedly about incarceration rates, or interest rates, some kind of rate of which he was very much against. Or for. To be honest, in the full minute Ted was a spinning, 2-D beach ball, I kind of lost the conversation’s thread.
If what I saw happen had, in fact, happened, Ted hadn’t noticed. We enjoyed our coffee and conversation, the way we do each morning, then rose and headed to our separate jobs. I went about my day bundling cellphone plans for small and midsize corporations, and, at five, I went home, kissed my wife, Allison, ate dinner, watched Game of Thrones, asked Allison to make love to me, settled for a hand job, and went to bed.
The next morning, Ted was back to buffering, and things were getting worse. Now, Ted started and stopped with great frequency, lurching in and out of sentences. I worried he’d spill coffee, burn himself, but, as with the day before, the pauses didn’t faze him. He emerged from each transformation gracefully, as though nothing had happened. And maybe nothing had. Around us, no one screamed. No one called 911. Ted smiled and talked, his mustache neat and trimmed, his wire-rimmed glasses as wire-rimmed as ever.
Still, I was unsettled. That afternoon, I left the office not having met my quota, a first in my two years with the company. At home, I couldn’t even watch Game of Thrones, and, when Allison resignedly offered a hand job, I said no. This thing with Ted, it was wrecking my days. So, I resolved to do something about it.
“Ted,” I said the next morning as we drank our coffee at our favorite small, independent coffeehouse—a coffeehouse whose name does not matter because it is a variation on the name of all small, independent coffeehouses, which is to say that its name is a play on words, like The Daily Grind or Thanks a Latte or Brewed Awakenings, none of which is the name of our coffeehouse but of which there must be several insufferable hundred in the continental United States—“Ted,” I said, “are you aware that, every so often—”
“Let me stop you right there,” Ted said.
“You know?” I said.
“The podiatrist says it’s not uncommon and that, if I keep wearing the medicated insoles, the odor will go away.”
“That’s very interesting,” I said. I waited while Ted turned into a pinwheel, then back to Ted, before I continued. “But are you aware that, every so often, you turn into a large Apple operating system spinning wait cursor?”
“Oh, that,” Ted said. “Yeah, must be a glitch in the Matrix.”
For a moment, I didn’t speak. I wanted to rise, to run.
Then, Ted laughed. “Naw,” he said, “I’m just fucking with you. My podiatrist says that’ll go away too. I’m on a couple of medications. Can’t seem to find the best dosage. Fucking HMOs, am I right?”
The next week, I saw more of them, the spinning pinwheels. At stoplights. At the office. Shopping for new blue jeans at the mall. Once, in a crosswalk, the woman ahead of me turned into one, and we collided. The feeling was roughly the equivalent of bumping into a very large marshmallow: soft, but springy, and with that ever-so-slight powdery feel left afterward on the fingers. I fell, picked myself up, and ran. When I reached the sidewalk, I looked back. The light changed. Patiently, cars drove around the woman while she buffered, and, once she changed back, the woman waited for the WALK signal, then crossed the street like nothing was amiss.
In these days, I found it hard to get work done. Even the hand jobs were difficult to appreciate. They weren’t like the hand jobs of our youth, when, dating, afraid to go all the way, we’d started with hands before working our way up to the deed. No, these hand jobs were passionless, as was my wife. Where had she gone, the girl I’d married, the Allison I loved? Days, we went to work. Nights, we watched TV. Weekends, we visited her parents or mine, or else we argued about money or sex, or about whether to have kids. In this, we were wholly unoriginal, which is to say we were wholly American. Which isn’t to say we didn’t have rich inner lives, that we didn’t want more, that we didn’t know that this, all of it, this American labyrinth of cancer and divorce and school shootings and guns and lottery tickets and guns and economic disparity and guns and soul-killing cubicles in the offices of large, soulless monopolizing corporations and guns was and is and always will be shit. We knew the maze, knew we were in it. We just didn’t know our way out.
And, so, we moved through the days, afraid, pretending not to be, and, in this way, we were very much American as well.
And there was so much to be afraid of! After all, what if I turned into one of those spinning things? What if I had already and didn’t know? Would someone tell me the way that I’d told Ted? Or was it a rule—unspoken, but firm—that one was not to go around acknowledging such things?
Another week passed, a week of breakfasts with Ted, a week of bad days not meeting my quota, a week of new blue jeans I’d thought would loosen with their wearing but turned out to be too tight, a week, hand job-less, of new and ever-worsening seasons of Game of Thrones (for, now, even the cast was turning into pinwheels, everyone waiting for Peter Dinklage, spinning, to say his lines).
And then it happened. The day came.
It was a quiet day. The morning had been good, Ted buffering only twice (a record for that week). After months of not commissioning out, I met my day’s quota of cellphone sales. Even the walk home from work was pinwheel-free. People walked the walk of happy people. Pigeons flocked in happy pigeon flocks. All, for a moment, seemed right with the world. And maybe it would be, I thought. Maybe this whole thing had been one short hiccup in an otherwise long and, hopefully, happy life. Maybe the pinwheel thing was going away and we, all of us, could go about our business like none of this had ever happened.
I was thinking this when I returned home to find Allison a large, buffering pinwheel in the entryway. Because of course things weren’t getting better, weren’t going away, because, of course, the problem had never been out there, had never gone beyond this very door.
I ran to Allison, grabbed her, bounced away. Where I’d run into her, the shapes of my hands and face were indents in the spinning disc. As I watched, the shapes pushed back, popped out, like a dented fender hammered into shape.
I cried. On the floor, head in my hands, I wept, and, when I looked up, Allison stood over me.
She didn’t say a word, but took my hand and led me to the bedroom. And we did not watch Game of Thrones. We did not turn on the TV. We went to bed. We made real love. And, for the first time in a long time, there was, as, once, there had so often been, not me and her, but us, a one, a we.
On a computer, the solution for the spinning wheel is called Force Quit. Command, option, escape: a trinity of keys that, clicked, dismiss an application from the world.
With people, it’s easier. You don’t need three keys, don’t even need a word to cut a person from your life. People quit on marriage all the time, step outside and shut the door on love.
Allison, I thought I’d lost you. And, maybe a few months there, I had. But some things are worth waiting for, which isn’t to say worth fighting for. Some things you can’t fight, can’t force. Some things you just wait out.
You sit at your desk. You hope. You squint.
You shut your eyes, praying that, when you open them, the thing you want, the person you love, will quit spinning, will reappear, and love you back.
Originally published in The Mississippi Review
by Francine Witte | Sep 25, 2020 | micro
in her bedroom like a secret, only we can hear it through the door. My big brother, Lou, took off with Ernesto, the boy with the neck tattoo of skull and bones, who picks up my brother in his Cadillac car, and they both will be gone for a week.
I scatter the little brothers and sisters outside. I tell them quick! it’s the ice cream man, can’t you hear him? Then I sizzle up a breakfast of hash and scrambled eggs, Mommy’s favorite. I crack open her door. She tells me go away, but I know she doesn’t mean it.
She is leaning herself over the beauty table. Midnight in Paris and red heart lipstick from the times she made herself up to look pretty for Daddy. That was before Daddy leaned himself over the dining room table and never sat back up.
That was when Mommy started crying and never stopped. For Daddy. For how are we gonna pay all these bills. And now for my brother, Lou. Who comes in, surprise! later that afternoon and not in a week like we were all thinking. He looks crushed and torn, his leather jacket ripped, a blue punch still on his cheek. He doesn’t explain, just goes over to Mommy and gives her the biggest hug. The both of them crying now.
That’s when my friend, Ceci who knows everything, calls me on the phone, tells me shush but she’s got a secret and I gotta swear I’m not gonna tell. She tells me Lou and Ernesto got into a fight on River Street. Ernesto got killed, and now they are looking for my brother.
That’s when my little sisters and brothers fly in, smacking closed the screen door that Lou keeps promising to fix. They chatter and giggle and pile into Mommy’s room when they see that Lou is home. He scoops them all up and squeezes them close. Mommy sits back and watches. A smile on her face for once.
Later tonight Lou will be gone forever. Running for the rest of his life. Maybe in time, a postcard, I’m okay, it will say, but I can’t tell you where. Wherever it comes from, Lou will be five days away. I will have to explain this to Mommy again and again as I sit there with her at her beauty table, as I try to draw her a lipstick smile, hoping that this time the tears don’t wash it away.
Originally published in Rougarou 2018
by Fractured Lit | Sep 23, 2020 | interview, news
What are your favorite things to write about? Those topics or items you can’t stop thinking about!
Hmmm. Tough question. Animals, musicians, and skaters tend to show up pretty often. I suspect all three get at some kind of expression that’s external to words and rooted in bodies. It’s funny though—there are the things you know you’re obsessed with and there are things that are surprising. I realized the other day that I write a lot about wallpaper, and while I do love old houses with funky décor, it never would have occurred to me that wallpaper was one of my things. I’ve never hung a strip of wallpaper in my life, and I’ve removed and/or painted over plenty. The subconscious has its own obsessions.
What’s your favorite point of view? Why are you drawn to this particular voice/perspective?
I don’t know that I have one. I’ve written in first (singular and plural), second, and third person. Honestly, I think the story has to determine its point of view. Each opens some possibilities and closes off others, and I really enjoy exploring those limits.
What’s your favorite craft element to focus on when writing flash? Is there an element you wish you could avoid?
I feel like flash, like poetry, relies on imagery and language. The fiction needs to have a kind of movement to it, but that movement isn’t always related to plot in a traditional sense. It can be a little more subtle—but, at the same time, I don’t want to avoid the idea of plot. I think it’s important to keep those traditional fictional elements in mind, even as the writers bend and play with those elements towards this genre.
How you know when a story is done or at least ready to test the submission waters?
I once heard Caitlin Horrocks say that a story is finished when the writer had given to it all she had to give and taken from it all it had to teach. She was quoting someone, but I have forgotten whom. That answer feels deeply right to me. I think too that I tend to feel excited about a story when it’s done and ready to share it with others. If I can have a few people read it before I send it out, that invariably helps. I take the feedback of trusted readers very seriously, even if I don’t always follow the advice they give. (At the end of the day, we’re still the writers and have to trust our instincts.)
When looking for places to submit your flash, what are your priorities for finding a good home for your work?
I try to read a lot of journals so that I have a sense of what they do. This helps me make sure that I send pieces to places that work in that vein. And I only send to journals I love. I would rather let a piece remain unpublished than have it in a journal I don’t respect. The good news is that there are now a ton of fantastic flash venues now.
What do you know now about writing flash or other forms that you wished you had known from the beginning?
Pam Houston visited our campus a few years back, and she said that, in flash, the conflict need not resolve but the image must resolve. It immediately struck me as true even though I had no idea when it meant, and so I started looking for the resolution of the image. I realized that in the flash I’d written that had been successful, the central image came to mean more or mean differently than it had when it was first introduced. Something about it had shifted in a way that made the story feel whole, in spite of its brevity.
What resource (a book, essay, story, person, literary journal) has helped you develop your flash fiction writing?
My first introduction to flash was in graduate school twenty years ago. Judith Cofer, my mentor, was a huge proponent, and she had us read Jerome Stern’s Microfiction: An Anthology of Really Short Stories. I still turn back to that book, but reading more contemporary work is also really important. There’s so much amazing work online now, and I love seeing writers experimenting with the form and trying different things. It’s a very pliable form, and even with its rigid word limits.
What’s your favorite way to interact with the writing community? Do you have any advice for writers trying to add to their own writing communities?
My very favorite is Writer Camp because there’s nothing better than talking with writers around a campfire, especially if you’re talking about anything and everything besides writing. But since Writer Camp is only a now and again treat for me, Twitter really helps me stay in touch with people and have that social space to joke around and play and encourage. I find a lot of new, cool work to read by following recommendations my friend’s post, and I’ve made so many friendships there that mean a lot to me. Oddly, I think the key to making Twitter work is not trying to make it work. If an account feels like marketing, I think a lot of people stay away. If it feels like a genuine person who is interested in other actual people, then Twitter can be really warm and welcoming.
BIO: Siân Griffiths lives in Ogden, Utah, where she teaches creative writing at Weber State University. Her work has appeared in The Georgia Review, Prairie Schooner, Cincinnati Review, and Booth among other publications. She is the author of the novels Borrowed Horses and Scrapple and the short fiction chapbook The Heart Keeps Faulty Time. Currently, she reads fiction as part of the editorial teams at Barrelhouse and American Short Fiction. For more information, please visit sbgriffiths.com
Siân’s new books:
Scrapple (novel):
The Heart Keeps Faulty Time (short fiction chapbook):
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