I always looked forward to it at funerals. Ambrosia. Usually green or red jello that had been pulverized and mixed with cool whip then studded with mini marshmallows and halved grapes. Halving grapes, that’s something to do. And it was always served in a fluted cut glass punchbowl and brought by some distant cousin with a very Finnish last name and a charming family story that I can’t remember now – perhaps she was older than her aunt? I think...
For my thirtieth birthday, I pay three actors to attend dinner as my family. I book an Italian restaurant for seven o'clock, prep each one separately by email, give them back stories I invented when I was fourteen. My fake little sister arrives first. I’ve written her kooky, mid-twenties, only works to fund debauched weekends. Her ex is a controlling loser, she often appears at my flat to wallow in vodka and self-pity. I hug her as she comes in,...
She calls herself by it when she thinks her resolve is slipping. Like when she struggles with a stubborn jar of pickles or when she studies the dead girl’s forensic report. “Get it together,” she grimaces as she points her gun into the dark. She breaches the basement lair, muttering her last name through clenched teeth. * In spite of her line of work, her preferred role-playing fantasy is “home invasion.” Her boyfriend breaks in through the front door while...
I can speak to the monster but my parents cannot. All day, they ask me what the monster is saying, and I tell them. There is no monster where they come from, so when we see his truck rolling by, when we smell the bottles rattling in the bed before we hear them, my parents lean towards each other like plants craning towards the sunniest window–towards the thing they need most to stay living. The monster speaks through me to...
The woman shuffled a few feet behind her toddler in the park down the street from the hospital. Only one parent was allowed in the NICU at a time, and no kids. She trudged along, blood soaking the pad between her legs, yellowish milk leaking from her breasts every time she thought of her new baby. The toddler had a small toy, a battery-operated plush hamster named Hello. Hello was an especially annoying toy that repeated everything you said, or...
SmokeLong Quarterly has been dedicated to publishing the best flash narratives since 2003.
September 2024
Art is political, and it always has been. Nothing new here but plenty to see. In the United States—as I’m sure you’ve noticed even if you live in Botswana, Belgium, or Belize— we’re in the middle of a close race for the Presidency between an intelligent, empathetic person and a narcissistic sociopath who tried to… Continue reading New Front (continue reading)
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What Flash Can Be: Restrategizing the Approach with Michael Czyzniejewski Flash fiction is fantastically flexible. The flash form allows its writers to do so many things, to do anything, but not all writers explore the possibilities. This webinar will encourage its participants to run their range, flex their flexibility, and eclect their eclecticism. — Michael… Continue reading September Webinar with Michael Czyzniejewski
Jo Withers writes short fiction and poetry for children and adults from her home in South Australia. Her work has won prizes at The Caterpillar, SmokeLong, Bath Flash Fiction Award, Reflex Press, Molotov Cocktail and Fractured Lit and has featured in Best Microfiction 2020 and Wigleaf Top 50 2021. Her first novella-in-flash, Marilyn’s Ghost, based on the death scene of Marilyn Monroe will be published by AdHoc Fiction in 2024.
