Jul 062015

By Joe Giordano

Sawnie paced his office. He stopped at the wooden wall plaque he’d hand-crafted and read the diploma for the millionth time.

Sawnie Aldredge, Jr.

Doctor of Neurological Surgery

A memory popped into Sawnie’s head. His mother attended his Vanderbilt graduation. She said in her cranky voice, “Your father was good with his hands, too. Lot of good it did me.”

Sawnie said, “Mother, brain surgery is a little different than carpentry.” Continue reading »

Jul 022015

Through July 15, FewerThan500 editors are seeking flash fiction submissions specifically on the topic of independence.
Editors will consider all original unpublished works that tie specifically (or loosely) to the theme.
Please send your stories to us directly via our website or via e-mail to stories@fewerthan500.com.

Jun 302015

By Santino Prinzi

The election campaign’s been lost in the snap of a camera. An anonymous source. One picture, retweeted, shared; one’s enough. My husband sits by my side, head banging against the table, his hands covering his face in frustration. What can I do but pretend that it’s not all that bad?

I still don’t feel guilty about sending that photo.

Santino Prinzi is an undergraduate student at Bath Spa University studying English Literature with Creative Writing. His flash fiction has been published both online and in print, including the 2014 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology, FlashFlood Journal, and Short Story Sunday. Check him out at www.tinoprinzi.wordpress.com.

Jun 232015

By Frank Rutledge

Lightning struck the wooden lamp post outside the condo. Inside, all the electronics went black. Startled by the explosive sound and sudden darkness, Quinn searched for light. Using only his hands and his memory, he hunted down a flashlight going dim, a candle and a book of matches.

It was time again. Quinn hurried. Like a Buddhist monk preparing for detachment, he positioned himself on the living room carpet. Continue reading »

May 112015

By Srividya Srinivasan

Shaku Bai hunched over, her face twisted in pain. Her feet caught the edge of her saree as she leant over nearer to the fire, rocking herself gently. The ache in her stomach was killing her, stabbing at her in little darts, grinding away with no mercy. The warmth from the stove was rather comforting and it was the only comfort she could draw on. The beads of sweat from her face poured down the sides and ran down her neck to blend with her brown skin and faded blouse and disappeared into the recesses of her body. Continue reading »

May 062015

By Keith P. Hornaday

Her impeccably tailored wool suit was welcome in the cold, damp room.

She was the Iron Lady, the intractable Gertrude Smyth. It was said she didn’t blink. Whether negotiating with terrorists or smoothing the ruffled feathers of a foreign potentate, she was the go-to woman, the logical choice for the most important meeting in human history. There would be no second impression. She had prepped, of course, taking into account every scenario possible, or at least she hoped so. In the back of her mind was that stupid fortune cookie, “expect the unexpected,” it said. She sighed. Thankfully there was no time left to dwell on it. Continue reading »

Apr 222015

By Frank Rutledge

Under a blanket of night the full length mirror watches my twitchy, sleeping body. Through the window a summer full moon’s glow gets swallowed by the silvery glass. Cold, smooth whispers emanate from objects reflected like prisoners begging release.

My slippers wait like worshipers for the return of my cold feet. A novel open wide and face down in the bed. A glass of water on the nightstand hatches bubbles as it warms to room temperature. Continue reading »