Bean’s Story – By Baruc Avrim
Flash Fiction / November 21, 2010

Bean, a nickname which has stuck longer than its origin, sits in front of a small black laptop lying on the kitchen table. An empty bottle of Gilbey’s gin lies on its side in the window sill, aimed at a silhouetted spider plant. The spider plant shoots stems and leaves relentlessly at the hapless bottle. Past the glib Gilbey’s bottle and beyond the window pane, sits an empty football stadium. Bean stares blindly at the computer screen and then at the empty stadium. “Whatcha doin?” Nance steps gingerly down the steps into the kitchen. Her long straight brown hair meets the middle of her back and contrasts with his curly black mop. His hair is long too, but it stays high up on his head, wild and unruly. “Writing a story.” An edge of defensiveness skitters from his voice enveloping the response. She opens the avocado green fridge and pulls out a yogurt, stripping the aluminum top off with the noise of tape peeled off wet skin. Then she bumps the avocado green door shut with her ample butt. “What’s this one about?” “It’s about a guy who can’t write a story.” “That’s a great idea.” The words ooze from…

Apartment Mom – By Margaret Eaton
Flash Fiction / November 10, 2010

Lorna didn’t want to be an apartment mom. Not in Birch Point. Tommy, her ex, started this whole thing. There was a woman they would see around town that he started calling Apartment Mom. They both thought of her as a bit of a fuck-up. Although they knew nothing about her, except somehow Tommy knew she lived in an apartment, a rarity in Birch Point.   After the divorce Tommy confided reluctant lust for Apartment Mom. His not so reluctant lust was the chief cause of their split, now Lorna lived on the other side of their small mindedness, the side that bruised. On the night of their daughter Chloe’s Open House she got slammed good, mid-torso. It was a self-inflicted blow, provoked by the sight of her lowered social status on a public document. There it was on the second grade parent list, next to her name. It read like a warning label, Apt. 4A. A bit disoriented, trying to pinpoint precisely when she had fully acclimated to the town’s caste system, Lorna drifted into the throng of chattering parents headed out of the building. The throng stalled on the steps outside. Scouting an exit strategy she saw Apartment Mom…