Nov 132014

The cresting wave tattoo was a replica of an image from his favorite porn star. He said it reminded him of the feel of water on his skin during rainstorms.  We stood in front of the Chagall stained glass for a long time, and I thought, in the reflection of the blue glass, I could see his fluid nature.  When the wave crashed, I apologized for not being able to ride the surf.

Erica Knight is a student and artist living in Chicago, IL.  She writes about the intersection of art and love.

Nov 072014

by Kevin Moriarity

Empty. I had never seen it empty. For 30 years it had contained more or less the same furniture, paintings and knick knacks. Dad said he wouldn’t replace anything until that damn dog died. The mongrel lived 19 years and after my parents put him down they didn’t care anymore.

We had a firm come in and do an estate sale last week; none of us wanted to watch our family home picked apart by garage-sale vultures. The closing was today;we chose not to attend, letting the attorneys earn their money. Continue reading »

Nov 012014

One of the many unique things about the flash fiction genre is the stories can often leave us scratching our heads wondering exactly what it is the writer is trying to convey. publishes a number of those types of stories on its website.

We recently read on the site and found it to be a perfect piece of head scratching fiction.

Care to venture a guess about what’s going on in this story?

Oct 172014

by Kerry White

I drove on a cool autumn afternoon down an empty two-lane road enjoying the aging cornfields and farm houses of rural Illinois.

In the middle of the road lay a child’s lone shoe, standing upright, heel to the right and toe to the left. The leather slip-on seemed in good shape. I know this because I slowed down to look at it closely, my window rolled all the way down. The road here was surrounded by farm fields, devoid of human life except for me … and a child’s solitary shoe.

I began to wonder what combination of serendipity or malice might have ended in such a forlorn figure on the grey and black asphalt. Was it a kidnapping, a signal to others I’m here, help me … flung out the widow after a furious struggle? Or perhaps a car was loaded to the extreme with treasured possessions traveling to a new home and hit a rut, the shoe catapulted into the air to land askew on the yellow dotted line. Continue reading »

Oct 102014

by Eileen Herbert-Goodall

As a student of science, I’ve never really been a believer, but I hedge my bets and talk to God anyway, figuring prayer can’t hurt. I’m a desperate man, held hostage by my inability to turn back time.
I watch Kate’s breathing, transfixed. Somewhere nearby, a clock counts the seconds. Surveying my insides, I search for the habitual ache, and discover I have become numb.

A light bears down on me, closing in at tremendous speed. I wrench the wheel to one side, then the other, as panic grips my throat. There’s an explosion of sound: metal grinds and squeals, glass shatters, and my bones reverberate with the shock of an impact I can’t quite comprehend. Someone screams and the car tumbles, rolls, twirls. Kate, I think. Jesus, Kate. I try to catch sight of her, but my vision is swamped by a swirl of jolting, bewildering movement. Continue reading »

Sep 292014

We have been reading Oblong – an online literary journal much like FewerThan500 — for some time now and enjoying the writing we find there. Originally started in London, Oblong also publishes a print journal of flash fiction of less than 1,000 words.

The most recent piece is a uniquely packaged collection called “Novellas.” If you like flash fiction for the bizarre, this one will surely tickle your fancy.

If the emotion of art is more your style, check out “Finger Painter” as well.