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.
The man who is unable to love has left his girl again, vanished like a feral feline. ‘I hate the way that Pancake stares,’ he said before he left, complaining about how the cat would glare at him with unblinking eyes.
Frosty was the perfect husband. He never spoke and hid his feelings well, but he was nothing before he met me.
Late last night Barney pinged me, a man I barely knew but liked, a bearded farmer I'd snogged once at a wedding.
When I am 14, we skive school and go for chips, which we drown in vinegar and nosh on the swings overlooking the sea. A squally wind is blowing right in our faces but we keep eating the chips till they're gone.
I buy a cat for Christmas. So I now live on the top floor of a thirty two storey apartment block with a balcony, a spindly palm tree and a cat.
A little boy is blowing bubbles. They whorl and drift and swirl and he reaches his arm into the air to catch one. Pop! His blonde sister giggles and shoots some more, while an elderly lady staggers up, hand on hip to watch.
