James Claffey Reviews The Best Small Fictions 2016

Eclectic, compelling, and in places uneven, The Best Small Fictions 2016 presents a wide-ranging take on flash fiction, taking the reader from the woods of Michigan to Minnesota’s I-35 on a journey through the finest short fictions of the past year. Amongst the stand-out pieces are Justin Lawrence Daugherty’s “A Thing Built to Fly is Not a Promise,” a wonderful meditation on life, death and war. Daugherty imagines Earhart alive and siren-like, searching for signs of rescue. The story surprises and delights and gives the Earhart legend a new and quirky look. Read more…


FBomb NY flash fiction reading series: KGB

May 11th 7-9 pm

The Only Hope of the Jews

You’re sitting on your stoop thinking how much you hate the stoop, the building you live in with six side-by-side apartments (now called town houses) and the neighborhood. You hate the neighborhood because all of the stoops in all of the buildings and all of the wire fenced-in tiny yards smaller than a jail cell look alike and your fourteen-year old self can’t wait to get out of these projects and scrub the stigma off and live in a place where you don’t need the roach exterminator every month and head lice are the main pets for the little kids and on top of it all your family are the only Jews in all the buildings. Read more…

Another Whoops


By Paul Beckman

Stella left a grocery list and I left home without it—didn’t forget it—don’t always need her advice on fucking groceries. Got a good cart, wheeled it around, filled it to overflowing and have to admit I wasn’t looking forward to a set to with Stella re groceries. I left everything on the counter in the plastic bags and Stella came home from work asked me to pour her a Merlot and then reminded me we were leaving for vacation in two days and she only had tequila, nuts and Tootsie Pops on her list. Yeah—I returned everything.

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With a Wink and a Nod

It was four days before my fifty-eighth birthday when my body started to fall apart. I was taking a late morning walk in the park when I felt a strangeness after stepping down on my right foot. I hobbled to a park bench, took off my sneaker and shook it, thinking there was a pebble but there wasn’t, so off came the sock and I checked out my foot. A toe was missing—my pinky toe. I stuck my hand in the sock and found it. A pinky toe’s nothing to throw away so I put it in my pants pocket until I got home and then put it in the small canister from our unused canister set. Read more…