Once, You Were Asked to Count the Hummingbirds by Joel Hans
And now you should say goodbye to the ones you love. Loop a pair of clouded binoculars around your neck. Pack a peanut butter sandwich and a rusty apple and a bottomless bottle of water.
And now you should say goodbye to the ones you love. Loop a pair of clouded binoculars around your neck. Pack a peanut butter sandwich and a rusty apple and a bottomless bottle of water.
In this installment of State of the Art, New Flash Fiction Review editors and recent contributors—those winning and commended in this year’s contest—share insights on their writing lives and processes.
Issue 30 features work by Shane Larkin, Fiona McKay, Donna Obeid, Jennifer Lai, Richard Holinger, Melissa Llanes Brownlee, Kathleen Latham, Lynn Powers, Elizabeth Fletcher, and JP Relph.
We make stops on the way to our bog plot to look at the little skeletons. Dad tells me about them. Curlews and skylarks in dancing poses. Tiny skulls.
By the fourth motel, I knew to hold my breath for the exhale of mildew when mom unlocked the door. In the shadows of the blackout curtains, we spied the coin box between the two doubles.