Bedroom: Wake in a bed composed of him, your cheek pressed into the downy lanugo padding on his skin, your skull tucked gently into the whorl of his ear. Keep your fingers suctioned inside the wet cave of his mouth. Curl your limbs around the softness of his gut. Let his breathing roll you like a lifeboat lost at sea. Pull his plump pink arms across your empty torso. Ignore the alarm clock. Let his coos and gurgles ripple like...
You are not allowed to touch the birds. You are not allowed to place the little dropper above the desperate wide open beaks of the rescued infants, who are screaming for your help, and squeeze a few white drops of nutrition that you have prepared into their hungry throats. You are not even allowed to clean their cages, or come within 15 feet of the City Wildlife Rehabilitation Center, unless accompanied by someone else. You are most certainly not allowed...
My sister, who became Miss El Paso and then Miss Texas, is on stage about to answer the What would you do to change the world question to become Miss America. She looks close to God under those hot lamps, amongst the remaining Miss States, in front of the lens that transports her image to flat-screens across the Land of the Free. The judges ask her this question, and I know she wants to reveal her tooth, the wisdom in the back...
Reading Festival 2010, a wet August bank holiday and the mud’s on special offer. We don’t care, we’re lost in never-never land—you in a tutu, me in badger costume. You love the thrill of lacy frills around your sturdy man-thighs; I love the incognito intimacy, the unbegged attention. Guys pat me, awkward but fond. Women stroke my stripey snout while confessing their furry fantasies. On Friday I dance on all fours to Gogol Bordello, revel in Eugene Hutz’s “Shout-out to...
In lieu of speaking, Mother has begun hoarding bits of paper in her mouth, nibbling on words, holding them back. Something she never did before. Open up, Mom. She shakes her head and pinches her mouth tight. Her cheeks bulge, the wrinkles on them disappearing. I force it, and probe her mouth with my finger, sweeping out little spittle balls. She swallows once then bites me. I hide the mail, but she starts in on the books. So many books...
SmokeLong Quarterly has been dedicated to publishing the best flash narratives since 2003.
December 2024
I have so much to tell you and so much to ask. These are troubling times, but you will have noticed this. What can an independent online journal do to resist rising fascism choking the arts and putting people at risk? In my last letter from the editor I mentioned the Kennedy Center, and now… Continue reading New Front (continue reading)
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Now in the shop
We are often told that every word counts in flash fiction, but what about the spaces that vibrate between the words? One of the most compelling aspects of flash fiction is what remains unspoken, those moments where absence in the details create a tension and depth so intriguing, we can’t help but want to know… Continue reading Summoning Unspoken Spaces in Flash Fiction with Hillary Leftwich
Banchiwosen Woldeyesus (she/her) is a black woman, a teacher, short fiction, and nonfiction writer. She was born in 1980 and raised in Addis Ababa. Her work appears on The/Temz/Review. And is forthcoming on midnight & indigo. She has published 400+ posts and essays on her blog, Banchi Inspirations, since mid-2018. She publishes essays, flash stories, and curated reads on This Precious Dark Skin, her newsletter on Substack. She’s a Submissions Reader for Narratively. She lives in Addis Ababa where she teaches.
