Ten More Journals to Submit Your Flash
There are many quality journals for flash fiction in 2017. The following list offers a few of them. About a third are selective journals. The rest are relatively more accepting of new and emerging flash fiction writers.
As always, the list reflects my own quirky sense of the market at this time. Many excellent journals dedicated to flash do not appear (NANO Fiction, PANK, Word Riot, Hobart, etc.).
I picked the titles on this list because they are excellent and because each one of them featured a recent piece of flash that caught my eye.
Proceed, therefore, with the aim of getting to know these journals better, along with the many dozens of others hosting today’s best flash and awaiting your submissions.
Flash Fiction Online One supple line arrests my skimming eye from “Marking the Witch” by Lina Rather:
Her aunt took her baby to one to heal his clubfoot, and he returned walking but with blue-jay wings on his back.
matchboook “The Man Next Door” by David Mohan begins with a confessional snapshot of contrast:
I kept this photo we took one time of both of us in his bath: our skin is blue-white in the unkindness of the flash, my face flushed, his streaked with sweat.
Gravel The first sentence of “Contract” by Jacqueline Masumian accomplishes much succinctly, carving its airport out of both physical and emotional space:
The sign painted in bold yellow letters on the concrete wall was clear as day–RENTAL CARS PULL AHEAD TO HERE–but Walt, always Mr. Cautious, had to drive to the end of a long line where harried travelers hauled suitcases from their trunks and waved rental contracts to draw an attendant.
The Offing A micro by NANCY JOOYOUN KIM–“La Jungla”–grabs you with its blend of biography and poetry:
FLAPPERHOUSE As they say themselves:
Our Winter 2016 issue is plagued by the perils of parenthood, and crawling with creepy monsters– both of which you can find in Janelle Garcia‘s haunting flash fiction “Mothers and Demons and the In-Between.”
Frigg “The Guy I Used to Date” by Christopher Allen rides a train of gender that crosses and re-crosses stations of identity:
The woman across from me on the train looks like the guy I used to date. I’m too polite to stare, so I find her reflection in the window. I do the geometry, know she’s looking at me.
Sundog Lit “The American Forest Museum” by L.W. Nicholson takes us on tour of trees recreated out of “toothpicks, beads, and small drops of glue.” But, please, do not ask about the chipmunks–they’re asked about on every tour. My favorite part of the exhibit:
It grew all on its own. I came downstairs one day after hours of carving Styrofoam into the shapes of boulders, and something bright caught my eye. I thought a tourist may have left behind a bottle or a banana candy. Instead, this was growing, straggly but brave.
Smoke Long Quarterly I never tire of discovering epiphany in words curated for me by the reliable editing of SmokeLong. The latest came in the finale to “Ruby” by Veronica Montes, which nutshells so tenderly a singular moment of transformation, when a young woman returns from a date forever changed:
another creature altogether, blind and groping and fettered to an enormous, feral love.
The Collagist “Death in the Woods” by Peter Markus is a polished gem–part flash, part horror poem. It is Blair Witch with a T.S. Eliot behind the word-camera. Here’s a judicious specimen from the middle of the coven:
No one but for the boys who hid in the dark and made like two trees and who brought stones to her witch head and flame to her skin and bones, they were the ones who dared, who stood up to her and to her witch ways, for there was no one else in these woods who would dare do it, they had it set hard in their own boy heads, you could see it in their dirt eyes: that one of these days, just wait and see, death in these woods for this witch would be here to stay.
Wigleaf In “An Object of Concern” Emma Smith-Stevens writes sentences that are worlds in miniature, stories all in themselves that you wish would never end:
Tamara wonders whether her sister Carmen, who lives in Arizona with three rescue dogs and a pot-bellied pig, childless, would—if she had a daughter, and if she were chronically ill—feel the same desire that Tamara feels now: a yearning for solitude in a life, a house, a mind, which makes solitude, in all of its crisp and airy and boundless splendor, an impossible thing ever to have.