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CategoryFiction

XYZ

Some day. It’s what we all want really, to believe that that kind of love is more than a campfire story. Sometimes, we want to believe in ghosts.

The Club

Jeffery Higgs
How much fish can a river hold? How many could it expel? With their dull gray pallor, frozen unseeing eyes and shredded spider web fins, they covered the entire shoreline. It was impossible to set down a foot without crushing innards that squirted out a putrid odor of death.

What He Lived For

Stephen O’Connor
“It was my last trip of that summer that I recall most vividly. I locked my bike to the sidewalk side of a guard rail on Route 126. After a ten-minute hike through the woods, I arrived at the site of Thoreau’s cabin, where I paid my homage and meditated for a while in silent reverence.”

Country Man

Terry Barr
“He had to be 70 if he was a day, but then I learned long ago that older Southern people often hide their aging, or have already aged beyond their years. Somewhere in there.”

Meditating

By Z.Z. Boone

Except for the blood pressure, Parisi is a healthy seventy-five-year-old. He swims at the Y four mornings a week, his spine is straight, he maintains the 34-inch waist he carried through college. His mind is sharp; he reads historical novels and sees an occasional play, and he can still knock out the Sunday Times crossword without having to wait a week for the solution.

Aluminum and Gold

By Elizabeth Kane

[This story is the official winner of the Fall 2017 Flash Fiction contest, “200 in 2 Weeks”]

She would’ve gone anywhere. Her tap shoes scraped the pebbly sidewalk, the tulle on her skirt fluffing in the cool wind. The light from her dance studio blinked out down the street as her teacher locked the door.

Transparencies

By M.J. Iuppa

[This story is a runner up in the Fall 2017 flash fiction contest, “200 in 2 Weeks”]
No one suspected that she’s the one who said, so long. Until
someone called—the sudden blast of the cell phone, ringing
like Paul Revere, like Chicken Little fearing the sky’s falling.

Cap’n, I Can

By Peter D’Antonio

Orn’s hands burnt as the weight of the anchor slid its chain hard against his calloused palms. He cleared his throat, letting out what could easily be misinterpreted as a grunt of pain.
            “You’re sure you’ve got it under control?” came a voice from the other end of the vessel.
            No answer.
            “Orn?”
            No answer.