Chelsea flash fiction

Double Image by Leanne Radojkovich

I was sixteen, finished with school, and couldn’t see a way forward. Went to stay at Uncle Ray’s. He’d been clearing the guttering and had fallen off the roof. Mum and I went down to look after him. They played chess, and binge-watched Breaking Bad. The house was so loud, even with the TV off, the way they shout-laughed and rabbited on. Drank heaps of tequila. Ray said it was pain relief for his busted shoulder. Mum agreed, but she had a busted heart. She was stuck, just enough energy to hold a fag in one hand, drink in the other. I guess Ray was looking after her, too.

Dad called sometimes. Neither of us were chatty. I choked up when I was put on the spot, I guess it was the same for him. It was better when he gave me an iPhone and we began sharing photos.

There was a park down the road from Ray’s; sports fields, carpark, and a steep path up to the ridge where you’re eye level with billowy crowns of massive gum trees. I loved their minty disinfectant smell – I’d sit on the bench, scrolling through photos, hoping it would rinse the smoke stink from my hair. I was never going to puff away like Ray and Mum. She’d started after Dad left. Took up anxiety meds, too. I snuck her pills. They made me feel less tangled, although sometimes my heart wound down so much I’d wondered if it could switch off.

The swamp was near the carpark, and hidden. I only found it because I’d followed a duck across a field and it peeled away into flax bushes. I’d squeezed through and there it was, empties jumbled around the edge, Woody’s boxes flattened to sit on, lighters dropped on greasy strands of grass that lay across the mud like a comb-over.

I took pictures there because I could catch two views at once – the pool of water reflecting trees and sky; and what lay in the ooze underneath. Sometimes the top and bottom views fitted together: a cloud-balloon balanced on an ice-block stick, a flax spike bursting from a squashed can. I sent those to Dad.

That morning, I was sitting on the bench, skimming through photos, when I heard her talking on her phone. She glided into view, then along the path. She reminded me of the head girl at school, ballet dancer, cat-poised, high-achiever. I did not share those qualities. Mum said I stumped along as if I had bricks for shoes. Hadn’t passed an exam since Dad left. I’d been an okay student before, I just couldn’t think properly after that. Cat-girl had almost disappeared around the bend when the sun caught her ponytail’s flyaway hairs and turned them into a fucking halo. For a hot moment, I wanted to smash her. No, I wanted to be her. A kingfisher flashed past. Maybe I dreamt that? They’re so quick. I’ve pinched out photos and seen one perched on a branch – I hadn’t spotted it at the time, but the camera had.

The next day was foggy and the swamp blank. I crouched, and focused on the underneath; the coppery glint of a coin, a yellow blob. Nothing moved. No bird flittered. No leaves drifted. A sliver of sunlight touched the water, and withdrew. It gave me a shivery feeling I couldn’t explain. I shimmied back through the flaxes, and clomped up the path. The bench was wet so I leant against the railing, and pinched out an image. The yellow blob was the head of a face-down Barbie. Her arms and legs had been yanked out. Creepy, but kids experiment. I once set a doll on fire to see what would happen. I’d felt sick watching it sizzle; and at the same time spellbound as it melted into a stump.

A boy found her that afternoon – a boy out walking his dog. The dog had galloped off around the swamp. Elvis couldn’t even bark, the boy said on the news. He just stood there, wheezing. I stared at her ID photo on TV, moon-coloured hair, false lashes that made her eyes look like flowers.

The swamp was barricaded this morning, and a police officer stood nearby. I headed to the carpark, circled back beneath the gum trees, and peered down. A churn of mud around the edge where the police had been – where the attacker had been, and her.

I thought about how I’d missed seeing kingfishers. Had I missed any clues? I scrolled through my photos hoping I’d snapped her gliding down the path. Nope. I might have been the second-to-last person to see her before the boy and the dog; and all I’d done in that moment was hate on her.

I slipped one of Mum’s ciggies from my pocket. I sucked in a lungful then let out the smoke gently; it swallowed my head – that’s the selfie I’d send Dad. For a heartbeat I wanted to shake him fucking arsehole. Wind thrummed in the canopy. Minty, clean-smelling leaves zigzagged down.

Leanne Radojkovich’s short story collections Hailman and First fox were published by The Emma Press. Her work has appeared in Best Small Fictions, Landfall, ReadingRoom, Short Fiction Journal, takahē, Turbine|Kapohau, and more. Originally from Kirikiriroa, she now lives in Tāmaki Makaurau, Aotearoa New Zealand. You can find her online at leanneradojkovich.com.

Chelsea flash fiction

Clean by Carol M. Quinn

Doreen forces thick, unwaxed floss between your molars, between your bicuspids and your canines. She is always honest, no messing around, and she needs you to hear this: even two, three times a day, brushing is not enough. There’s inflammation, Doreen says. The floss slices between your two front teeth, and the pain is electric, sharp to your core. You can fix this, Doreen says, but you have to be consistent. Eyes shut behind yellow-tinted safety goggles, you grunt in assent. The floss comes down again, and a section of gum peels away from a tooth. Nice boots, says Doreen. The floss catches behind an old crown placed by an old dentist, and imagining that it will pop right off, fall against your tongue and tumble down your throat, you make a small, concerned noise. Doreen exhales behind her surgical mask. Every night, she says, even if it hurts. You want to tell her how you used to be so good: pre-rinse, whitening toothpaste, fluoride sluiced between your teeth and under your tongue. You read once that the best way to keep from snacking at night is to brush your teeth right after dinner. A clean mouth feels so good, you’ll think twice before ruining it. And you do, you always think at least twice, consistently, but even still: you ruin things. Manicures and photographs, birthday cakes and carpets. Countless opportunities, second chances first through last. Doreen hums, satisfied, and drops the reddened floss on the dental tray. She wants to know, any questions? You swirl water from the plastic cup, you spit. You want to know, can it be possible, please, for the important things to not hurt? But you say, no, thank you. Blood against your tongue, blood between your teeth. Every night, Doreen reminds you. Every night, you agree.

Carol M. Quinn’s fiction has recently appeared in Five on the Fifth, Grist, The Tusculum Review, and others. She holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and currently lives in New York with her family.

Chelsea flash fiction

Spring Snow by Scott Ragland

A surprise spring snow. Enough for the neighborhood kids to get bundled up and mittened, for parents to get out sleds and plastic saucers. Morton watches from the window as they gather at the top of the hill.

The kids slide past, scramble back up to do it again. Morton waves, knows they don’t see him.

He remembers the big snow. Still a record: the forecast said three-to-five inches; two feet fell.

His office, the schools, closed for days. His wife made sausage soup with home-grown carrots and Cubanelle peppers. Morton braved the sidewalk in his gardening boots to get milk and red wine at the corner grocery. Their boy scattered sunflower seeds for sparrows. When the power went out for an evening, they ate doughnuts for dinner and roasted marshmallows over a candle flame.

After the snow settled, packed hard, Morton got the sled from the garage, waxed the runners. At first their boy worried, watched from behind as the other kids left him. “Too fast,” he said. “You can ride on my back,” Morton said. They stayed out until dark.

Inside, the house smelled of spiced apple cider, hot and steaming on the stove. Morton’s wife filled mugs from a ladle, splashed in bourbon after their boy went to bed. They got drunk, fell asleep laughing.

His wife is gone now. A tumor she called “my uninvited guest who stayed too long.” Their boy builds rooftop gardens in cities on the other side of the world.

The day descends to dusk. Morton warms rice for dinner, remembers to stir in saffron like his wife always did, eats watching the news for the weather. They say the snow will last the night, melt away tomorrow.

He opens the window, feels the cold against his face. The kids go faster and faster in the fading light. Their boy will wake soon. He listens to the laughter, leans out and waves again.

Scott Ragland has an MFA in Creative Writing (fiction) from UNC Greensboro. Before taking a writing hiatus, he had several stories published, most notably in Writers’ Forum, Beloit Fiction Journal, and The Quarterly. More recently, his flashes have appeared in Ambit, The Common (online), Fiction International, Cherry Tree, CutBank (online), the minnesota review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Cutthroat, Bacopa Literary Review, The MacGuffin, and Allium, among others. He is a 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee and has served as a flash reader/editorial assistant for CRAFT. He lives in Carrboro, N.C., with his wife Ann, two dogs, and a cat.