James R. Gapinski has a new flash fiction, “The Devil’s Mark,” published in the Winter 2017 issue of Psychopomp Magazine. You can read it here.
James is the managing editor of The Conium Review and associate faculty at Ashford University. His work has also appeared in The Collapsar, NANO Fiction, Word Riot, and other places.
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.
Last year’s flash contest was judged by Laura Ellen Joyce, and she chose Caitlin Scarano as the winner. We’re looking forward to unveiling the micro-chap for Caitlin Scarano’s winning story, “Pitcher of Cream,” at the upcoming AWP Conference in Los Angeles.
So we don’t want to completely steal Caitlin’s glory here, but we’ve be aching to tell you that Leesa Cross-Smith will be the 2016 Flash Fiction Contest judge!
Leesa is the author of Every Kiss a War, and she’s co-editor of WhiskeyPaper. Her work has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Little Fiction, Hobart, NANO Fiction, Monkeybicycle, Juked, Word Riot, Sundog Lit, The Rumpus, and tons of other places. Check out Leesa’s website for more information on her work.
The Conium Review 2016 Flash Fiction Contest is open for submissions from October 1st to December 1st. The winner receives $300, online publication, publication as a broadside or micro-chap, and a copy of the judge’s book. Full guidelines are already available here.
We’re glad to have Leesa Cross-Smith as the judge, and we hope you’ll submit some fantastic flash to this contest. If you want to stay informed about this and other opportunities at The Conium Review, you can sign up for our e-mail newsletter here (we don’t spam you; just one e-mail per month with an easy unsubscribe link at the bottom).
First of the month, sirens startle and scare. Even though he says, one of them drills, that’s all, her eyes go black with worry. Then the wailing. That old familiar dread. He runs for the hatchet. Sturdy, sure where wood dips into blade. He hacks and hacks until the plywood comes free. Look, baby, nothing but bluesky.
How long has it been? The rescue teams have cleared out. All manner of debris sorted and carried off. Signs for free counseling folded and stowed away.
Still, she’s on her hands and knees. Shaking. Shivering. Crawling to the closet.
Matches in her mouth.
Down at the diner, talk’s turned to runningbacks. Linemen. A different kind of safety.
He stands in the drive, squinting. Downright mesmerizing, how the sun sparks up the roof. That terrible tarp gone. He pushes the door, ears still screaming, thinking on new beginnings. Of everything hammered down.
And there she is. Ghost of the girl he gave his heart to. In the kitchen floor. Nails bitten to bleeding. Wrapped in that blue plastic nightmare.
Somewhere the grass greens. Birds chirp. Spiders knit webs lopsided and mean.
But here, days stretch and bend, motheaten with memory. Not even a dog left to yap.
A full day put down, he lays out for bbq he don’t even like. But he does his part. He tries.
Inside smells like sadness. Like sawdust. Like everything else. The walls hurried into place. Makeshift and bald.
Grayhair at the counter, her hand over his trying to melt calluses, asks, Shug, how you holding up?
He stares at the sack. Hard to talk on holes that don’t show.
In the night, an empty rut on her side of bed. He trips over boots. Fumbles, room to room, flipping all the lights.
Finds her pressed in the shallow of the bathtub, under a mess of dirty clothes, clinging to sleep.
He watches, missing her heat. The way their hands would meet in the dark. Seeking. The pulse of that memory nearly dead.
That wind been going all damn day. Pushing everything about. Impossible to work.
Huddled on barstools, everyone inside thankful for thick smoke and woodpaneling. No windows to be scraped by limbs. To be blown out. To remind him to get home. To her. Where she’ll be crouched in some corner. Crying into the hem of her dress. Waiting for sheetrock to pull away.
He orders another beer. Ready to drain the day.
Dark creeps earlier and earlier. A day’s work slipped between.
His headlights sweep the yard. A flash of silver where she stabs her shovel. Clots of red dirt at her feet. Finally had her fill of that neighbor dog.
He slides from the truck, slow to remember how that dog’s been gone. How everything is.
Leaves, brown and wet, stick to the shovel. Like skin.
April’s coming, she says, smudges on her cheeks. Hair all a tangle. Frantic for a stormshelter.
Across the street, pitch black. Nothing but mud anyhow. Far as the wind goes.
Thinking on that trailer out at the county line, he scares up the courage to call his cousin.
He snorts. Says, That old thing. Some tweakers blew it straight to Jesus. Everybody wanting to get sideways, I reckon. Why you asking?
Thought you was stronger than all that.
That damn sky darkens, colored with smite. Her eyes feral at the tumble of thunder.
All the world ready to rage.
Girl, don’t you do it, he says, sweeping behind, pinning her arms. A terrible noise deep in her gut. Barking. Bucking, going for his shins, trying to yank away, until her shirt rips. He clamps tighter and tighter, a snake around dinner.
Raindrops fat as eggs against the roof. Slide down the window. Witness.
He kicks the door open, slinging them both onto the porch.
Beyond the mangled treeline, lightning opens the sky like a shiv.
Drops fall on their bare feet. Cold as nails. Nails ripped from floorboards. Nails licked by the first frost. Snowed upon. Left to rust.
He hauls her down the steps, into the yard, to that spot where grass is afraid to grow.
Look. See. He lifts her chin to the sky. That weird light they both know. Growing greener.
Still here. We’re still here. His voice slick with wanting.
The rain runs down, onto their skin, trying to wash them both clean.
About the Author:
Marsha McSpadden’s flash fictions have previously appeared in Shenandoah, matchbook, SmokeLong, and NANO Fiction.
This story was a finalist in The Conium Review‘s 2015 Flash Fiction Contest, judged by Laura Ellen Joyce.
Image Credit: ©
/ Dollar Photo Club