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Flash Fiction

The Red Thread by Stephanie Parent

My Ariadne can see the future.

(My Ariadne. This is my version of the story.)

She spins her red thread, and it twists into shapes before her eyes, hearts and nooses. It tells her that Theseus turns out to be an asshole.

Seven young men and seven maidens arrive on the island, and Theseus outshines them all. His eyes are the sky blue of someone who believes he cannot fail, who believes he has no darkness within him. Those eyes make Ariadne dream of flight.

Theseus wonders how such a creature as the minotaur, half-beast, half-man, could be allowed to exist. Ariadne doesn’t tell him the last of the halves: the monster is her half-brother. In the evening she dreams of blue eyes, but her hands twist and turn the red thread. At midnight she dreams of mazes like arteries and veins, running red and blue.

Ariadne gives Theseus a coiled ball of thread the size of a heart. She tells him the thread will guide him out of the labyrinth.

Continue reading “The Red Thread by Stephanie Parent”

La Brea by Sarah Neilson

You and I, we should go to the tar pits. Let’s stare at what was once life. We’ll inch closer together, becoming one creature, an unconscious attempt to metastasize in the face of ancient grandeur. I’ll wonder if they – the mastodons – ever thought about the end of the world. You and I do, all the time, but alone. Doomsday would take on the lure of a sunset if we endured it together, I’m convinced.

A conversation I sometimes imagine begins:

I’m so glad you take care of yourself. My father died when he was younger than you.

More staring at life.

I’m so sorry, you’ll say. Doesn’t everyone start there? But you’ll mean it, understand it, because,

You know my mother – you’ll begin.

I know, I’ll say, her death unspoken. Continue reading “La Brea by Sarah Neilson”

Intinction by Amy Barnes

“Father, there are no palm branches.”

“How did you let that happen? Never mind, bring me the ashes.”

The deacon dutifully brought the marble jar before scurrying away to hide behind the altar’s red velvet throne. Father Orson pulled off the heavy lid to survey the contents before tucking the jar under his arm like a slaughter hog.
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Ten Simple Instructions for Complex Acts by William Cordeiro

after the FLUXUS Performance Workbook

1. All performers conduct a different hygiene routine: floss, clip toenails, wash hands, put on deodorant, shave, pluck eyebrows, etc. They may trade routines in a fugue-like pattern if they wish. Their tempo should correspond to the movements of a symphony.

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Please Note: This Sleep Clinic is Fragrance Free by Tamara Sellman

TECH NOTES:
Room 2 – 6.17.2015
EMR #1421 – DOB 12.25.1981
JASMINE “JAZZ” ABRAHAM

PATIENT at lab tonight for a nocturnal polysomnographic assessment (NPSG) following complaints of excessive daytime sleepiness. Ordering physician will review data before ordering nap tests to rule out sleep disordered breathing as primary diagnosis.

PATIENT arrives noticeably sleepy. During 10/20 procedure, conversation lulls are induced by frequent microsleeps, but PATIENT is easily aroused.

Continue reading “Please Note: This Sleep Clinic is Fragrance Free by Tamara Sellman”

how did we get here -A Flash Fiction by Stephanie C. Odili

how did we get here

Content Warning – Childhood Sexual Abuse

Continue reading “how did we get here -A Flash Fiction by Stephanie C. Odili”

Flash fiction by Tim Agaba Baroraho

Continue reading “Flash fiction by Tim Agaba Baroraho”

Circles: 4 Prose Fragments by Mapule Mohulatsi

(“North-east Jo’burg at night”by marco sees things is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

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The Budgies of Broadway by K Dulai

(Image by Werlley Meira Pexels free to use licence)

My grandmother’s neighbor came over crying and yelling about how she couldn’t find one of her budgies and she was afraid the worst had happened to it.  She lived in the studio next door and I went in not knowing what to expect. I had been in an old lady’s home before, my grandma’s for instance, but I got the sense that once you hit a certain age (and grandma wasn’t there yet) you lose track of things. Things like order, and dustpans.

Continue reading “The Budgies of Broadway by K Dulai”

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