Fiction | Page 3 |
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“My father is flying, my father is flying,” Rachel chants as they rush around the house in a panic, moving their mattress down to the tatami room and making their bedroom ready for the visit. 

The boy is walking about forty feet behind his mother. The two of them, the mother and the boy, are walking in the snow on the shoulder of a straight highway on a gray windless day.

Cora Gutierrez distrusted good news. So on the Friday when she learned her temporary lectureship in Environmental Studies at Cal State Long Beach was renewed for another year, her future snarled like an angry Doberman.

Willy presses the glowing doorbell and waits, hops from left to right on the thick, jute mat, balls his fingers into fists inside his gloves, trying to stay warm.

There’s a body at the bottom of the lake. Probably many. The way you react depends on your definition of the word natural. Probably also on your moral compass, but I can’t just start with bodies. Life is about having stories.

My girlfriend Elena doesn’t sleep at night anymore. It’s been twenty-three days.

The day her children went over the cliff on the hiking trail at Eagle Crest, Regina Mayer was in the park gift shop, idly fingering a pair of sunglasses that she knew she wasn’t going to buy, that she didn’t even like the look of but had removed f

When I tell people what I do, the question I am most commonly asked right after “What do you write?” is, “What is flash fiction?” This usually leaves me wondering how I might summarize this easily enough so I don’t confound their question

"I want a fresco," Michel's mother Mireille announced one autumn afternoon. She had just emerged from a three-day migraine, and her face was flushed, her eyes burning and glittery, her little hands pale as candles.

Nobody could figure out why the Colonel's wife tried to beat the train.

When Dad came home that night he said it was a terrible waste of a '55 Chevy Bel Air, and, even with a V-8 engine, she should have known better.

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