The Time at the Hill
Alexandra lulls us back into flash fiction.
All posts filed under: Flash Fiction
Trip
Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke By the age of sixteen I had a will that could’ve sprung only from the conception of a particularly well-traveled child. I wasn’t actually well traveled—most every airplane ride of my youth was between some state and Massachusetts—but my father raised me in an America balanced somewhere between a tray table and a pack of salted peanuts. It was June and hot and Trip and I were on a flight home from Minnesota, our last one together. “Got anymore snacks?” Trip said. “Pretzels?” I said. “Just not raisins.” “Whatta you have against raisins?” Trip sipped his ginger ale, “I’ve seen more raisins then Sloane Colby.” “That the girl whose father—” “Yeah, manufactures ‘em or something,” he said. He wore a particularly unattractive green sweater and close-mouthed amusement. “Races on?” Trip shoved three pretzels in his mouth, “Belmont at four and—” “You betting today?” “Yeah,” he said. “You see the McAlister’s? Racing family, you know. Spent six mill last year on breeding. There to the left. And not Arden. Kick myself …
slice of life // flash fiction
Mass seemed more abstract that Sunday. Hymns weren’t as lyrical, caught in the roar of the fierce summer winds.
To Make Windows
Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke The word “yard sale” draws, to most, an image of dust bottomed glassware; to the soft of mind it conjures prospect of silverware to reveal, with lye and metal wool, the initials of a president’s cousin or another man of once-removed significance. To John Brady, the worth of whose brain had been estimated—by a small, but by all means reputable newspaper—at the sum of four million and seventy five thousand dollars, it meant a particularly green afternoon in Poughkeepsie, New York. Karen’s was a good house with a wide lawn, a brick exterior and a tennis court made of imported clay. She had a folding table open on the cement of the front walk up; over her face sat the effect of hastened dissipation. “Brady,” she said, when he approached the lawn, “The million dollar brain.” Brady stopped at the table. His nephew stood at Karen’s legs with his six year old palms tight to her jean-clad calves. “Hey Bumby.” Bumby clung tighter. “Say hi, Bumby.” “Where’s Dad?” said Bumby. …
SI DIOS ME QUITA LA VIDA
Jasminne Morataya’s short story: “‘I know. It’s just that I think you need me,’ and it is in that moment that Ramiro becomes impossibly old.”
But Hate is What Gives Us Our Strength
(A Love Story) Words by Jasminne Morataya Images by Brandon Yung She (the giant loser) possessed dumb vindictive horse eyes. They were incredibly round and emitted a faint, possibly supernatural light. In life she (the pathetic child nihilist) was vivacious and bright like a fresh cabbage and always quite hopeful. This woman (this stunted brainless goblin) did not realize that she (the worst person to ever live) was condemned to lose forever and ever in a series of increasingly painful circumstances, a fact made more merciless because it was all the result of a single decision that could have easily been avoided. Each loss compounded the subterranean self-hatred in her bloodless beating heart, a feeling she (the shit smeared on the walls of a poorly maintained high school restroom) would never be able to express in any sort of language except the secret vestigial one where she (a flaccid micropenis) went to the grocery store and cried automatically every single time the misting system cooled the produce. At the end of the day it didn’t even …
Little kisses from his oris
Poetry and prose by Macy Punzalan. Photography by Mira Pusateri. The Anatomy of Him My head rests on his thorax as his lungs breathe slowly in and out little kisses from his oris dot my buccal & his mentis finds rest on the tippy top of my parietal I took his hand to mold with mine Asking for his digits our phalanges soon interlocked And were perfectly intertwined my otic heard the sweet hymns from his larynx and a dizzy spell cast over me my heart was stirred & his heart did hold like his own hands did. I could feel it pulse (lub dub, lub dub) Safely caged beneath his 5th intercostal space Beneath his mid-clavicular line I looked to him. his zygomatic bones a blessing to behold but what I loved most Blue irises aside were the 26 muscles which transformed his face So I thanked the good Lord & the stars above for the anatomy of him. THE WAREHOUSE Momma whispered to me as the violins began to sing. She wanted a …
Sorrow is my own yard
The dead, she tells herself, are dead. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. She drinks a glass of brandy.
This is the kind of sorrow that you drown in.
A Light in the Dark
Words by Lilli Hertel “C’mon Bender, just do it!” He could see the faintest light fall on Tom and Carry’s faces from inside the dingy movie set. It was after baseball practice and Tom filled them in about his newest hide out. “Tom, I don’t think this was one of your best ideas.” Bender stood outside the set and watched the other two standing impatiently inside. “Maybe not, but it could be cool. We could find some old movie props, or ghosts.” Tom waved his hand, gesturing for Bender to join them. So he did. As Bender climbed through the jagged hole, the smell of feces and dead raccoon filled his lungs. Bender gagged, “Tom! This is disgusting! I can’t breathe in here.” The more he tried to suck in fresh air the worse the stench got. “Yeah, you’ll get used to it.” Tom shrugged him off. They started walking further into the darkened set. Bender kept his mouth covered with his baseball rag and followed close behind Carry. Tom led them further into the building, looking around himself every so often. …
human nature is ground meal // flash fiction
Three flash fiction pieces, written in English by Arabic-speaking students. Film photography by staff photographer Hana Tyszka. The Center by Reem Hatem Badr: the perilous journey of six children, as they try to escape from a mysterious land called “The Center.” A story of escape and adventure, that doubles as a metaphor about the power of words. Reem Badr, daughter, friend, established reader, aspiring writer, aimless wanderer, and lover of poetry. She is currently a student at The American University in Cairo. Fascination by Jana Tabet: an experimental flash fiction piece about the rush of life you get when you’re crashing into love with someone else. A poignant and concise piece that captures the experience of a consuming relationship. Jana Tabet is a 17-year-old girl from Lebanon. This upcoming year, she will be a senior in high school. She prefers going to a party over completing her homework, yet you’ll find her up until 5 a.m. finishing a story she had accidentally started reading before going to bed. She finds people beautiful and as much as she doesn’t like …
Tunnel Magazine 