Flashion Week

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A week where everything changed.

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Photo by Charles Deluvio on Unsplash

Wednesday.

Summer is coming, I have a great boyfriend, and a few final exams are all that stands between me and a wild shared adventure. There are shadows, but I’m used to them, lurking close by. Terminally ill parents, my first full time job was as a nurse. It’s fine.

Thursday.

Parents at hospital appointments, I’m at school. Josh picks me up, and takes me home. Everyone always loved our rural retreat. We enter to sounds of agony. This is not new. I automatically remove Josh to hide a father’s pain. He died while I climbed trees outside with Josh.

Friday.

I decline extensions on my exams. I go through the motions but never the emotions. I learned stoicism early on. There are details, questions, and condolences. News spreads and I feel the pressure to be okay. One less thing to worry about. It is not well with my soul. …


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Image by InspiredImages from Pixabay

“How am I supposed to pack when you haven’t told me where we’re going?”

Fisher’s answer came in dulcet tones.

“You don’t need to worry about the weather or anything. It won’t be like rock climbing or anything, so you can just pack the most beautiful things you own. Relax, Poppy, it’ll be fun! I’ve got everything taken care of.”

I wasn’t relaxed, but I agreed just to get him off the phone so I could try to pack for this trip. While his excitement was contagious, there were so many unknowns.

He picked me up, and I spent the entire journey trying to pry details from his unusually tight lips. My playful smile faded as we turned off the highway and onto an unmarked dirt road. I fell quiet for a moment, scanning the surroundings for clues, mind whirring away trying to think of a scenario where offroading called for ‘the most beautiful things’ I own. I’d known since the beginning of our two year relationship that he was an unrepentant weirdo, but that carries little weight against a lifetime of learning how to exist as a woman. Fisher picked up on my darkening demeanor, glancing over repeatedly, concern clouding his big, beautiful eyes. …


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Photo by Gabor Monori on Unsplash

I was laying here thinking, ‘this is how Elvis died’. Then I thought, ‘nah, that’s stupid’. His bathroom was probably all pinks and golds. He liked pink. He had that pink Cadillac, and everyone knew it was his pride and joy. Not that I can blame him, of course. Gold compliments pink well, and it’s gaudy Elvis was gaudy in the end. I bet it looked like Versailles in there — decadent and dripping with wealth. This bathroom looks like shit. There’s black grime between the cheap, crooked tiles, and I don’t know that the toilet has ever been cleaned. Sure as shit don’t look it, or smell it. Mildew grows on the shower curtain, since no one ever remembers to take it out of the tub before drawing a bath to space out in til the water grows icy. …


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ESA/Hubble, M. Kornmesser

Cassandra waded through her malaise to the replicator. She ordered a chai latte, refusing to admit that this would be the most interesting thing she’d experience today. And the next day, and the day after, and the day after…

Mug in her thin hands, she shuffled over to the wall to wall glass windows. Outside, a white hot, tiny star was tethered to a spiral of plasma by its own life force, circling the drain and bleeding into an unknown.

Staring stoically into the abyss, she sipped her latte. There was no soundtrack for this spectacle, save the undercurrent hum of the generators, though she’d long since gotten used to those. …


Interstellar mixology is no laughing matter.

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Photo by Steve Harvey on Unsplash

I take a deep breath and adjust my beard. It’s a bad look for me. Another deep breath. Keep breathing. It’s my bartending apprentice night in the Old Earth Speakeasy, and I’m human. Patrons are either humans remembering a scorched planet they never knew or non-terrestrial species with a fetish. Should be easy. I pull out the scrunchie holding my top-knot and restyle it. Tonight’s theme is 2010s, and I look the part. Beard, man-bun, flannel shirt, fake tattoos, and a Google Glass.

On the shuttle over I’m reciting recipes under my breath, stopping when the bar comes into view. It’s a giant wagon wheel, trundling through space. The rotation creates artificial gravity, but makes flair bartending difficult. I aced the Coriolis Effect in bartending school, but what if I forget? I’ll never graduate if tonight ends with me hurling a liquor bottle at someone’s head when it’s supposed to go over my shoulder. …


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A clink of ceramic on glass marked the arrival of two large ornate bowls on the counter by the door. All of Debra’s loyal customers knew the drill: phone in one bowl, cash payment in the other. They would arrive soon. She was ready.

The small, intimate studio featured soothing murals with intricate symbols, and was lit by hundreds of candles. …

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Flashion Week

Weekly flash fiction stories across a range of genres.

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