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Go back (flash fiction)

He encouraged the man to go back. Just go back.

“She’ll be there,” he said. “Go back.”

“I don’t think so,” the man said.

His blue jeans were nearly black with slime. His flannel shirt was a cold film of sponge around his body.

“I can’t.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?”


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the use of a couch (flash fiction)

For whatever reason, he couldn’t talk about it. That is, he couldn’t talk about it very well. He could try, and he did.

“It’s in my stomach,” he said.


“Something, uh.”

“Is it pain?”

“Not really.”


“Maybe a little. But not really.”

“Then what!”

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t tell

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the quickest way in and out (flash fiction)

It pulled him in both directions. Like taffy. Like bad earbuds. It was the story of his life.

If he used the backdoor, he could get a little walk. A little exercise around the building. And stop at the bathroom for a pee.

If he used the front, he could get in there

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a name (flash fiction)

It was just an email.

He was watching a video on YouTube, one suggested for him by the algorithm. It was something he would like, according to his usage. And he did. It was a pretty girl trying on hats while talking about a snowstorm in Canada and why she never learned the

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breakfast (flash fiction)

Something was different. They looked like eggs. They tasted like eggs. The bowl of grits looked like an ordinary bowl of grits. The toast was plain toast like many other pieces of plain toast.

And yet, after the fork touched the food, before reaching the mouth, the color of breakfast shifted, like the

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rough, very rough, draft of almost nothing

He walks down the road thinking this foot hits that crack just below the toe but this foot hits that ice just above the heel and then he does it all over again, wondering if the cold against his face will get worse around the next bend because it’s just plain cold outside

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