I have two horses. One lives in my bedroom, the other in the garden. They share a superimposed domesticity, both a smudged off-white, the white of a washed-out cotton cloth. I myself live a domestic life without being domestic, much like my horses. The horse in the garden can be seen through my bedroom window, and the other horse is in the room, without ever moving unless I move it. The two horses have never seen each other and live...
Last Thursday, Tilda lost her hands. It was Sunday now. It happened last Thursday. She woke up for work in the morning, she was a technician at a Valvoline, and she got dressed like she usually did, put on her underwear and her uniform and all, and she got herself a bowl of whole wheat cereal with whole milk. The whole stuff? Her mother had always told her to get herself foods that began with “whole” because you want the...
The damage begins with a parrot; not the whole bird, though. Only the tail, where a season of monsoon seepage has lifted the paint from the plaster and left a pale wound in its place. My mother discovers it the morning after Chhath and spends breakfast staring at the wall with the expression some women reserve for the faulty sarees at sale. By noon she has dragged a stool into the Kohbar room. The room is older than I am,...
TW: miscarriage I’m writing because your name showed up in my contact list and I thought I’d say hello. I’m writing from my bathroom piled high with moving boxes. After a year of trying, the pregnancy test came back positive. hello. I’m writing because my superstitious upbringing taught me sins require forgiveness from a priest and I want to fix my marriage. I drop coins into the downtown Zoltar machine, tell him I’m worried god has it out for me....
While you’ve been gone, the city has built a traffic circle near the post office, the flower shop, and the diner. I wanted to tell you when it first opened, but you were departed, no longer worried about scooting around town. I drive through the interchange almost daily in your car, the olive brown RAV-4 with the license plates that begin YME. The kids have banged up my car, the tan minivan, on all sides after each taking the vehicle...
SmokeLong Quarterly has been dedicated to publishing the best flash narratives since 2003.
September 2026
I have so much to tell you. This year has been a busy one so far. I’m not sure if you’re feeling it too? At SmokeLong we’ve just wrapped up our fifth incarnation of A SmokeLong Summer. Started in 2022, A SmokeLong Summer is always an intense time of writing for around 200-300 writers. This… Continue reading New Front (continue reading)
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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
We’re doing it again! Promptember, an in-between almost month squished into the crannies of autumn, is an intense addition to the mensal calendar. It’s special. During the almost month of Promptember, we’ll meet regularly for generative write-ins and mingling. Promptember also includes three webinar/workshops and two open mics. There will be a dedicated space in… Continue reading Promptember 2026
Sara Hills is the author of The Evolution of Birds (Ad Hoc Fiction, 2021), winner of the 2022 Saboteur Award for best story collection. Her flash-length stories have been taught internationally in schools and workshops as well as widely published in anthologies and journals, including The Best Small Fictions, SmokeLong Quarterly, Bath Flash Fiction Award, Fractured Lit, Cease Cows, Flash Frog, New Flash Fiction Review, Fictive Dream, and elsewhere. Originally from the Sonoran Desert, Sara lives in Warwickshire, UK. Find her online at sarahillswrites.com.
