Flash Fiction

Arguing with Moshe

“I appreciate Eretz Yisroel,” she said, “but not Medinat Yisroel.” He raised his eyebrows over the black glasses frames. Aside from the tan, he looked exactly as he had in Brooklyn. “A difference you see? Please,” he said, beckoning. “Enlighten me.” She saw she had offended him, but this was a cherished opinion, a debate

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After Babylon

“If it was a war,” Susan argues, “Then where are the bodies?” “Perhaps they were eaten. Maybe they rotted. I don’t know.” Dr. Thrang stays out of it, busying himself taking samples and looking at them through his spectrometer. “I think it was something else,” she says, folding her arms. “Nuclear war would have destroyed everything.”

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Hael Waters

Algar worked his shoulder. The wound was painful, but the bleeding had slowed.  With some difficulty  he shucked off his woolen jerkin. He took a deep breath, uttered a prayer and waded into the haelwaters. The cold was stunning, but he braced himself and went to the center of the pool.  The boil of the falls fell fierce

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Take Out

Her hands shook as she fumbled out her keys, the pizza box wedged between her arm and the doorframe. Once inside, she set down the box, and locked the deadbolt and chain,  checked the windows. She grabbed the leftover wine she’d brought home from Saturday’s disastrous blind date and drank straight from the bottle. She opened the

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Malarky’s

He had one of them names with Zs and Ys that sound different than it’s spelled. Folks called him Malarky.  Mama said he run that store since she was a girl, and probably before that. She never went in there except in greatest emergency. Said his prices was too high. Said he looked at her funny, told

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The Cure

Any regular reader of the tabloid press will tell you that it’s not a matter of money. It’s not a matter of success. Last year I was paid three million an episode, plus residuals. I had a loft in Tribeca, a stilt-house on Maui and a recently-acquired chateau in the Basque Pyrenees. I had a stack of scripts

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Serpiente Oculta

The only reason he agreed to meet me, he said, was that his life was over. Estoy muerto pero no me acuesto, was how he put it. I am dead but I won’t lie down. I sat on a  bench in the Bosque de Chapultepec, just outside the castle, the location  texted to my phone an hour

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A Breezer’s Yarn

Me and Red tramped all over. The Apple Butter Route to the big G, the BN down south to the Bitter Biscuit line. Couple of boxcar Willies such as you’d see about anywheres. I met him when I was just sixteen, run away from the Oklahoma dirt farm where Pap would take out his meanness on whatever was

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Beannachd Dia Dhuit

Thomas. Aye, Thomas, never Tommy or Tom. Thomas would take insult from anything. A raised eyebrow, a sloshed pint that wet his sleeve, an ill-timed cough. Once he started to fight, there was naught anyone could do. Thomas would not stop, no matter how many times he was knocked down, and that was many. Though wiry, he was

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Overtime

I’m sure you saw the newsreels. The whole damn country watched ’em. Hundred-foot tall ape climbs the Empire State clutching a dame in his sweaty mitt, swatting down the Army’s planes like they was flies. Oh, they got him all right, and then come the intellectuals from the college wanting to study him, the reporters looking for a

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