Aug 7, 2016
The ground is sinking quicker now, quicker than ever before, and all the people know it. Some leave, drive cars down river-roads, tires spinning without moving forward. Quickly, they abandon cars and steer boats, row or motor until the bow hits dry land somewhere else. But others stay, drink cheap beer, laugh as the water rises past their calves, knees, tickles their swamp-sweaty thighs. Their houses are set on stilts, but the water rises so high they must climb stairs to the second floor, to the attic. The water does not surprise them, but that doesn’t make it any more believable.
The water can’t hurt us, the parents say, as it fills their mouths.
Three girls stand on the roof of the house where their parents drink in the attic and watch the water rise, swallow fences, chicken coops, windows. Dogs try to keep their muzzles above water, but the girls do not try to save them—the fences, the dogs, the dollhouse in the first floor bedroom below—everyone has already drowned. The doll’s paper bodies disintegrate in the kitchen. Their paper molecules absorb into the water.
Do you think it’ll ever end, one girl asks. Probably not, the other two answer. Once the land begins to sink, it has nowhere to go but down. The water teases the shingles, cold on the toes of the girls, and like eels they slide in. They swim away from what was once their town, south toward the open ocean. They keep their heads above water, their eyes shut against the bodies buried below—the dogs, the dolls, the parents—it is enough to feel the molecules of them, dissolved, brush against their legs like seaweed.
In fairy tales, girls may undergo transformation. Here, they might become speckled trout or redfish or oysters. But in some stories, other stories, they do not.
About the Author:
Debbie Vance’s fiction has appeared most recently in Flyway, The Boiler, and Alligator Juniper. She is a 2015 Pushcart Prize nominee and an MFA candidate at Colorado State University, where she teaches composition and research.
Image Credit: © cherryka – stock.adobe.com
Aug 4, 2016
NewPages has a new review posted of Souvenirs and Other Stories, by Matt Tompkins.
The reviewer, Katy Haas, spends much of her review talking about character development. She notes the plain and calm demeanor of Matt’s narrators as they grapple with the surreal, as if each is hoping “to just make it through the life they’re given.” Katy closes her review by saying “In Souvenirs & Other Stories, Tompkins shoves the door wide open and welcomes the surreal into reality. With characters and situations that are relatable despite their oddities, readers are sure to connect with this pocket-sized collection of flash souvenirs.” We couldn’t agree more!
Take a look at the entire review here, and purchase your own copy of Souvenirs here.
Jul 29, 2016
Hillary Leftwich has a new piece of flash fiction published at Spelk. Read “Secrets of the Playground” here.
Hillary is The Conium Review‘s Associate Editor, and her work has appeared in Hobart, Smokelong Quarterly’s “Why Flash Fiction” essay series, Matter Press, WhiskeyPaper, NANO Fiction, decomP MagazinE, Monkeybicycle, Dogzplot, Cease, Cows, Pure Slush, Flashfiction.net, Gone Lawn, The Airgonaut, FlashFlood, and other publications. You can find her at hillaryleftwich.contently.com or follow her on Twitter @HillaryLeftwich.
Jul 2, 2016
I plunged a spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth with one hand and cupped my hipbone with the other.
Prior to, my mother locked her hands around my arms. Her middle finger and thumb met with a keratin click. She sighed. I promised not to fall backwards.
Prior to, I towed my body down two miles of asphalt to the apartment stairwell.
Prior to, at mile eight, my left knee surrendered with a snap. A red Toyota swerved onto the leafy median with a rubber yelp.
Prior to, I imagined solar liposuction, melting adipose, how it’d smell like burnt oil, maybe sweeter, maybe more sour, if it’d dissolve my inner thighs first, or the pouch in my lower belly. I adjusted the mile goal on my app from eight to ten.
Prior to, the number 115 flashed scarlet on the screen. I glued a new piece of Velcro to my armband but it still slid to my elbow.
Prior to, I triple-knotted my shoes. The sun and the neighborhood and my mother hid their eyes under warm blankets.
About the Author:
Kellie Karbach is a highly-caffeinated writer and amateur photographer based in Southwest Florida. She curates and edits a travel and lifestyle website entitled Venturing East. Her work has appeared in Little Patuxent Review and Iron Gall Press. In the past, she has served as a freelance contributor to West & Grand, and as a baseball beat writer for The Claw Digest and MiracleBaseball.com.
Image Credit: © Akhilesh Sharma – stock.adobe.com
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