:: Flash Fiction archive ( 2000-2005, click for articles pre-2006)

Lone Ranger Ain’t No Stranger published 08/03/2012

loneranger2Mescaline, mescaline, that’s my tipple of toxin.

Bit pretentious, mine’s an Amaretto on the rocks.

A book will give you all you need simpers the tiny reader on the aperitif woman’s head.

Bite hard on a porcupine, crumple it up and squeeeze out its poison onto your lips booms the Lion.

I like a concertina when it sings, steams the anvil man behind his mask of glass.

By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.

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Between Saint Roch and Music: three flash fictions published 06/03/2012

utahnatag21“Mother! Mother! Mother!” The lead singer shouted it over and over again. I was glad I had always called mine Mama, and that my little boy did the same with me.

The guitar screamed, the singer/player’s fretting hand shooting up and down like it was turbo powered and chicken fat greased. The bass player had the bass face, mostly, keeping a line on digging. The drummer kept his eyes closed and sticks flying. All that sound, it was hard to believe it was really only three people.

There was no definite anger in the Mother mantra. It was difficult to figure. Could have been homage, could have been fear, or rage, or respect. Could have been anything. At the end, the singer fell to his knees, went prostrate, forehead on floor. That, for me at least, clarified.

By Utahna Faith.

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Tantrums published 21/02/2012

ewahlstromThere were others. There was Amy. There was Kate. There was a different girl named Kristen, this one with black hair and hipster bangs and a thing for Johnny Cash. There was my high school ex girlfriend Carrie, who I somehow found myself in a near-threesome with downtown before she got too drunk, puked, and needed to be driven home. I went back to the other girl’s apartment feeling unfulfilled and lonely.

There was the aborted foursome at the house party on Minnesota, where I tried dip for the first time and a Brazilian boy named Paulo sat by the bed trying to carry on a conversation about the Strokes while his girlfriend undressed and started making out with a girl I’d met the week before.

“I didn’t love them at first, but once I saw them live, I became a fan,” said Paulo.

“Make sure her boyfriend fulfills his nakedness,” slurred his girlfriend.

By Erik Wahlstrom.

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Kicker Girl published 09/12/2011

kickergirlNow lookee here, girl, what do you call that mess on the wall?


It’s a scribble, isn’t it? And a scribble don’t belong on the wall, it belongs on paper. Am I right or am I wrong?

Yep, s’pose so.

Right or wrong I asked, girl.


Right, thank you.

Granddad Pete was always shooting off about something and his granddaughter, Sophie, was normally in his firing line. She peered out from her lofty vantage point and endured it all with the cold stare of teenage oblivion.

By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.

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The Maid published 19/10/2011

christianaspens1Might as well enjoy the perks of being a victim while I can, I think to myself, as I get into the car. After today there will be no more free cabs, pity drinks, or polite condolences. There will be no more questions, no more talk. The real silence will set in and nobody will want to know, because in many ways, this never happened. This cab ride home is the end of it being a reality to anyone but me. I can sense all this — the months ahead — as the car pulls away. I can sense that this feeling of fear — fear of sitting alone in a cab, sitting alone anywhere — is here to stay. I can sense that I don’t own my own thoughts anymore, as we leave Manhattan.

By Christiana Spens.

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The Final Sentence published 14/10/2011

julietjacquesSat in the hospital bed, I examined the flesh wound below my right shoulder. Passing out had saved me. Rather than shooting me again, believing me dead, Austin Rayner tried to flee: tripping over my body, with typical gracelessness, had cost him vital seconds. Seeing people coming up the stairs, he took the lift. There were two elderly ladies inside, who asked him about the blood on his shirt. He raised his gun, but too late: as soon as he reached the ground floor, he was arrested. A neighbour had heard him destroy my computer and called the police.

By Juliet Jacques.

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A Sleep published 26/09/2011

asleepAw, no women no flesh through talk and walk in looming fancy, all the dogs are gnaw and howlers and moonish prancy, so gripe and groan and rid asunder the leprechaun who mumble us under, and when is goggle and when is ogle and when is boggle, is when stars dip so cacti curl and cats cattle, the railing and the lamppost rattle, and we walk and talk and darkness dreams enough said enough, and we cut up rough and bluff our way to sleep, asleep.

By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.

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The Wisdom of Solomon published 18/08/2011

wisdomofsolomonSolomon King lay on the hem of the ocean, the sea tickling his toes. He watched his father with his giant flask of popcorn, his wife with her billowing cornetto hair, and his children, Posy, Mabel, Greta and Sidney paddling in the shallows and he wondered to himself how he got here and where he was going. The moon turned and the waves pulled back to reveal a little man in a pink wetsuit burrowing into the sand. ‘He must have been here all the time’, thought Solomon. ‘I need to ask him what he wants.’

By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.

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Hinterland Superfecta published 08/08/2011

alexcruse I’m positive the winner will be a progeny of the Southwest. A glistening blood machine, her tendons, taut with adrenaline, shudder underneath the blow of the riding crop. I internally wince each time. An ambulance paces her, elevating death from the status of mere romantic metaphor.

After the race her muscles seem to twitch with electrified agony.

She’s just a casualty of our conflation of man’s talent with beast’s; she experiences all the terror of failure and performs all the labor of the sport, carrying an abusive dwarf and getting only a pun for a name.

By Alex Cruse.

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Night Swimming published 14/07/2011

nightswimmingEach summer’s night Beatrice and Marie Von Sudenfed arrived for a skinny dip (though Beatrice would keep her pants on) under the lustrous silky moon. They skipped amongst the pond flowers on the bank that led into the water. The air swooned with perfumed flowers and the light warm scent of the young women’s skin. Suddenly a puff of pheromone escaped the lively, watery earth like pollen from a flower sac and rose and swirled and blossomed into the form of a proboscis-quiffed teddy-boy-flower.

By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.

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