A ceramic square plate slides across my front with steak barely touched—maimed faintly by a blunt knife. Or a bad knifeman. Waiter mumbles that customer wants it "more on the rare side" and could I "please attend to the mouth-feel." Mouth-feel. Through the pass, I watch customer butter his bread roll with a fish knife that my regulars use to dismember their branzino. His date—a green Lagos girl who adjusts her dress straps every second—is entranced by the performance. I...
The house is burnt pink and deep in the canyon. Phil and I have sex on the shag carpeting while a lizard watches from a fogged tank. This is the first time I’ve seen the house. It’s also the first time he’s felt my breasts. Phil is a documentarian—more of one than me, who’s only trying. He has a long brown ponytail. He likes lizards and alien things other people consider weird. I wonder, while he’s in me, if I’m...
Pittsfield’s children chased insecticide trucks like ice-cream vans. We laughed, mouths open, fogging our tongues with DDT like communion. Summer turned our throats metallic. We ran behind the tailgate as if wonder came in a white plume; it did—Pavlovian joy, a bell for dogs and boys. Later, the town twitched—tiny lightning in wrists and eyelids—shuffle-footed ghosts practicing for a quieter world. Nights, the radio kept watch. A jazz DJ preached his midnight gospel: “Yeah, daddy… cool, daddy… uncool,” reading weather...
Cal Stone tells Jigger McGrail good night. Jigger says, Forget what I said about the old lady. I was just feeling sorry for myself. What Jigger said earlier was that his wife Noelle had gotten so fat she disgusted him. Cal pulls his Bruins knit hat over his ears and says, I didn’t hear a thing. Jigger says, Nothing good ever comes of feeling sorry for yourself. Cal taps his knuckles on the bar, zips his parka, wraps his woolen...
Their kids aren’t friends. Yet the two women talk after dropping their kids off at school. It’s not every day, because the two women aren’t close friends either. But they like the talk when it happens. Thirty minutes. An oasis of uninterrupted, non-logistical adult conversation amidst slotting playdates on the calendar, marinating chicken, music lessons, soccer practices, listening to their kindergarteners talk on and on about parakeets who escaped their cages and created a liberated colony; work smushed in between....
SmokeLong Quarterly has been dedicated to publishing the best flash narratives since 2003.
March 2026
I have so much to tell you. The last couple of months have been a whirlwind in many ways. We’ve all just come back from AWP where we didn’t get to spend enough time with 12 of our editors! Our off-site reading was devoted to celebrating them, and we had a blast. I wish we… Continue reading New Front (continue reading)
Registration Opens July 1st!
In September 2022 SmokeLong launched a workshop environment/community christened SmokeLong Fitness. This acclaimed community workshop is happening right now on our dedicated workshop site. If you choose to join us, you will work in a small group of around 15-20 participants to give and receive feedback on flash narratives.
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Now in the shop
Join the editor-in-chief of SmokeLong for a new installment of Elements of Flash. Whether you’re new to flash or an experienced flash writer, this 90-minute workshop will inspire you to (re)consider how you approach the page. We’ll explore how the flash writer thinks, drafts, and edits. And we’ll generate multiple drafts. Bring your passions. Date:… Continue reading May 30th! Elements of Flash
L.F. Graubard writes noir‑inflected fiction about memory, institutions, and the quieter forms of American strangeness. His work appears in Vol. 1 Brooklyn, The Berlin Literary Review, ExPat Press, Blood + Honey, and 50‑Word Stories, and is forthcoming in the Bath Flash Fiction Award Anthology. A former jazz musician and longtime tech consultant, he draws on the surreal textures of New England towns and Brooklyn, where memory slips easily into myth. He is at work on the novel, The Narco Farm.
