ISSUE 29: MARCH 2021

Footprints in Fine White Ash59E0909D-8009-4509-8B86-474243594FAF
By Michael Kozart

The day Darlene pulled up to Jack’s, she was facing a night in a shelter or the car. She had searched the county for an affordable room. Rents were soaring. This was the last resort.

It was a ranch home, with crumbling chimney and faded pink aluminum siding, out of place on a rural road with vineyards and mansions. Darlene knocked on the screen door. “Jack Elmer? We spoke on the phone.”

There was cursing and he appeared: sweat stains, stubbled jowls, a clump of masking-tape around the angle of his glasses. He looked her up and down.

“Is the room still open?” she asked.

Jack opened the door. Inside, there was the strong smell of cannabis and pork fat. Down a dim hall with dusky carpet, he gestured to a room. “Thousand, first of the month. Take or leave.” Continue reading “ISSUE 29: MARCH 2021”

ISSUE 28: JANUARY 2021

25738A04-8F04-4C01-9DE9-FF506728FC0FTRANSFERENCE
By Ravibala Shenoy

When my baby sister was a few days old, my grandmother showed me the soft spot on her head, how we had to be careful not to hurt her there. She said, my mother was going to be busy with the baby, and I should not mind because I was four-and-a-half years old, the big sister.

My mother’s thirteen-year-old brother tormented me with stories of Ghooghooms who he said roamed my grandmother’s house and garden. When night came, he‘d put a flashlight in his mouth and cover himself with a bedsheet and he’d go thump, thump, through the house making sounds like an owl, and I’d run away shrieking. It was no use telling my mother because she lay limp in bed with the baby.

One day, when my sister was sleeping, I brought from the kitchen the brass pestle that my grandmother used to grind peppercorns. My sister lay in a winnowing basket swaddled in a blanket. Her chest rose and fell with her breath and her round face and shiny hair looked as peaceful as a lake. Just as I was about to hit with the pestle the soft spot my grandmother had told me about, she ran in breathless and grabbing the pestle from my hand, pushed me away. Continue reading “ISSUE 28: JANUARY 2021”

KICKSTARTER SUCCESS

It’s done! We raised $1,575 to finance our 2021 print anthology, thanks to the 39 heroic backers of our month-long Kickstarter project. THANK YOU ALL. Watch this website for further anthology developments. (If you subscribe to Brilliant Flash Fiction, you will receive automatic email updates.)

Brilliant Flash Fiction will celebrate a happy Christmas this year, and we wish the same to our generous supporters.

On-the-Spot Writing Contest Winner

Thanks also go out to the brave participants of our virtual on-the-spot writing challenge. These writers were given one hour in which to write a story based on the prompt “Race,” created by First Reader Kari Redmond, who hosted a Zoom session attended by an international audience.

We received 30 entries at the end of an hour, and the winner is Hannah Whiteoak. Her story, After the Race, will appear in our January 31 issue and she will be paid the standard $20 fee for publication. Congratulations, Hannah!

Continue reading “KICKSTARTER SUCCESS”

ISSUE 27: SEPTEMBER 2020

1D978D0B-B853-46E3-86A3-3BEB2D4ADDCBIAN IN GLASGOW
By Madalyn Aslan

We’re all in the little guy’s car on Belswain’s Lane when Ian tells me his dad is in Broadmoor, prison for the criminally insane. I tell him I was born a bastard and we are poor. Ian counters, “But you’re rich in looks.” And I am like, man!

So we fall in love. He’s thirteen like me and looks like an angel and is going to be a playwright when he grows up. I love his hands. In the pub he talks about books with my mother. We discuss, seriously, names to give our future children. His mother Mae is a joyful drunk, fat and sexy in a tight flower dress, always coughing and laughing. She and my mother light up cigarettes with great animal sighs. My mother says she is from Scotland. So Ian is, too. After the little guy breaks it off with Mae, that’s where she and Ian disappear back to. Continue reading “ISSUE 27: SEPTEMBER 2020”

ART PROMPT- WRITING CONTEST RESULTS

Many thanks to the 180 writers who entered our contest and to Judge Adam Kluger who created the art prompt and volunteered his time to select three prizewinners.

Adam Kluger Judge
Adam Kluger

First Prize: The Lion’s Tooth by Nell Jenda

Second Prize: A Night With Old Friends by Chris Espenshade

Third Prize: Infinite Morning by Alyson HilbourneJudge:


Judge’s Comments:

A quick note to thank you so much for participating in the Art Prompt Writing Contest. It is such an honor to have so many talented writers participate.

In my opinion there are 180 winners. Each entry I’ve had the pleasure to read is making its own very strong argument for recognition. But contests being what they are, only three of you will win prizes.

So what was actually going on in the painting? In case you are curious—the painting shows a writer sitting by himself in deep thought at a diner (The New Amity Diner in NYC) with a red-nosed waiter named Frankie stationed behind him. The painting was rendered in charcoal pencil with pastels and some water-color mixed in to create a grainy feel. On the ceiling is a old fashioned fan emitting some yellow light. That’s it.

Thank you, Brilliant Flash Fiction! Continue reading “ART PROMPT- WRITING CONTEST RESULTS”

ISSUE 2: JUNE 2014

IMG_7032You
By Madhumita Roy

My monologue is directed at You.

Because You sit on the other side of the desk with a smirk on your face, which makes You resemble my cat, Ludo, when she smiles. New research claims that animals can smile and, therefore, I believe both You and Ludo are capable of smiling.

On rare occasions your smirk evolves into a wide grin.

These occasions are as follows: when rain-forests burn; or tsunamis wreak havoc in Asian countries; or when two hundred girls are abducted and threatened with rape.

Your face is extremely annoying.

Although there is a halo around your enormously big head, I think it is an illusion you have masterfully created to cut an impressive figure for a credulous crowd. You are not God, Godhead, Godfather, Godly, God-like, or any goddess. Continue reading “ISSUE 2: JUNE 2014”