Apr 092015
 

By Thomas Clark

As the train pulled up to Ipswich, stopping before it continued in the opposite direction, Oliver noticed a little girl sitting on her mother’s lap. Her mother wrapped a comforting arm round the little girl’s shoulders. Normal girl, he thought, normal girl, normal clothes. What was striking to Oliver, however, were the large burn marks and contorted flesh that traced the outside of her mouth.

He could see the accident played out now, the child would have seen her mother filling up coffee cups from the kettle- the cool water gushing into the hole from the tap- before waddling over to the counter; trying to guzzle the boiling liquid straight from the nozzle. He could see the blood-screams. He could see the child sitting and waiting for her mother to come home from work, the sticky flesh embarrassingly red on her face. Continue reading »

Apr 012015
 

By Paul LaTour

Sarah’s text came as a shock to me. I stared at my phone in disbelief as my mind shuffled through the myriad consequences that could result from this one 21-word message.

“It’s happening. Greg agreed to the divorce. We’re seeing an attorney tomorrow. Soon I’ll be free and we can be together.” Continue reading »

Mar 172015
 

By Santino Prinzi

Gary shuffled on the spot in front of a shop with opaque windows. In his pocket was the list of things his wife had asked him to pick up. He fumbled it with timid determination. She gave him this list last night. He expected to pick up ingredients to make another cake.

“Pick these up on your lunch break,” she said, “when you finish work we’ll put them to good use.”

Standing outside, he didn’t know what half the things were or what they did, but he liked the sound of them. He looked right, then left. He pushed the door open, and as it closed behind him, he glanced over the list once more. Air was thick and heavy in his lungs. When the assistant returned with the first item from the list, the heat in Gary’s groin intensified. They shared a wry smile. What difference will a day make, he asked himself, and decided he’d wait until tomorrow to tell her he wants a divorce.


Santino Prinzi is a ginger Italian residing in Bath, UK, who has had his flash fiction stories published online and in print. He enjoys reading European literature, food, flash fiction, poetry, food, female-fronted metal bands, and food.

Mar 062015
 

By Chad Greene

Feelers first – that’s the way the honeysuckle vines grew over the chain link, groping blindly for something to cling to.

Feelers first – that’s the way they grew. And that’s the way she cut them down.

The multicolored beads of rubber on her white work gloves looked like sprinkles on frosting, but there was no sweetness in the way the hands they covered ripped the vines away from the fence and then severed them with pink-handled scissors. We hadn’t lived in the craftsman bungalow long enough to have acquired authentic garden shears. Continue reading »

Feb 172015
 

By Lisa Diven

The first time it happened, every corner looked like a welcoming friend. She’d walk into a room, look at the nooks and fight the urge to place herself there, to curl into a tight ball and sob. Maybe five minutes would pass … or less and then she’d think about “it” again.

Be strong, Liz, told herself, but for the most part she just fought back a crying jag. Continue reading »

Feb 022015
 

By Dolores Whitt Becker

Blood glistens on bare wood. Neither the body that was wounded nor the one that caused the wound remains in the spare, rough-timbered room, lit only by the moon and stars. The blood is fresh, still wet; if it were not winter it would still be warm. The floorboards have only just begun to take it in.

Just outside the open door, a woman sprawls face-down in the snow, coughing out her last breaths. She feels very little, but that little is mostly satisfaction. Her final act is defiant – she lived too long in that cabin; she is not going to die in it. Continue reading »

Jan 222015
 

By Ric Waters

The door to the Study flew open before Detective Inspector Ronald Grey entered with a cadre of constables.

“Arrest them all!”

The mustachioed Joshua Mustard stepped away from the hearth. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Simple, Colonel: You all are suspects in the murder of Doctor Emile Black, just found dead outside this mansion.” Turning to one of the constables, Grey said, “You’ll find that Colonel Mustard’s revolver has recently been fired.” Continue reading »