The art of flash fiction thrives on desire, captivating readers with brief tales that leave them yearning for more. This desire is not only the driving force behind the act of writing, but also a means of exploring new ways to depict the world. Our collection of shorter stories this year explores the theme of desire, with some authors delving deep into the subject while others use it as a gateway to unique and distinct ideas. The result is an exhilarating array of voices, ranging from ancient eroticism to modern longing. In the beginning, there was desire, and what follows is for you to discover.
Photographs by Molly Matalon.
In Giza, during the stillness of the night, the grip of jet lag has me pondering thoughts of you. From the alley below the flat, the sound of a chained-up dog’s bark echoes through the air. In the vicinity, bad pop music blares near the pyramids, and a flashy light show illuminates the face of the Sphinx. It strikes me that when the world comes to an end, only the lights of Vegas will continue to shine. Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve longed to witness the pyramids. There’s a voice within me that claims I’ve been waiting just as long to catch a glimpse of you. Sadly, love seems to have perished, which renders these intense feelings meaningless. They say everything in life revolves around sex, except sex itself, which is surrounded by endless chatter. Despite crossing continents and oceans to reach this desert city, I find myself feeling at home. Allow me to explain. Boys and girls ride horses through the dusty streets, their diverse shades of brown representing the vibrant mix of people in this place. The dilapidated infrastructure is barely holding together, and it’s clear that Egypt, the birthplace of empires, has been conquered and abandoned by numerous invaders. It stands now as the world’s original reservation. Surprisingly, amidst all this chaos, I am filled with hope. My friend and I are tracing a path from this place of ancient sun, through the Athenian peninsula still resonating with the Platonian aura, to Rome, where the marriage of architecture and empire reached its pinnacle, and finally back to America. My initial glimpse of the Great Pyramid revealed not just an architectural marvel, but a dream shimmering across 4,500 years in the sun-kissed dunes. But enough about that. Let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we? Let’s assume for a moment that there is an abundance of good art, a fair share of great art, and an overwhelming amount of bad art. Yet, the only art that truly captivates me is you. Do you understand? Is this transmission successfully traversing time and space? My love, am I the best you’ve ever had? I beseech you, please don’t answer that question. Here’s another request: Let’s approach our relationship like we’ve never experienced it before, even though I’ve never experienced it at all. Innocence is a rare quality, especially in the age of Instagram where authenticity is scarce. However, what if we pursued it together? My darling, I’m supposed to write about longing, yet here I am, writing about something entirely different. Note this: Our first kiss, in terms of technique, was slightly off. But let me assure you, since that night, I have been diligently studying the art of kissing. I will strive to create movie-worthy kisses that belong in deleted scenes from Indiana Jones. Royalty shall be established in every aspect of our encounters. The overhead fans slowly circle the dimly lit rooms, remnants of an empire’s afterlife, as British accountants meticulously work through the day’s financial records and compose their latest letters to Martha. If I understand correctly the book I ordered from a magazine in 1985, upon my return, I will undoubtedly be a master lover. Historians documenting the trajectory of my affection for you might even take note. Hieroglyphs reign supreme as the greatest writing system. Just ponder it for a moment. The intricate symbols are undeniably impressive. However, they may not be the most efficient means of communication. More critical than willing young men ready to die spectacularly and the willingness to enslave others to ensure a pharaoh’s eternal reign is the necessity for a reliable writing system within an empire. According to my extensive Google search (I nearly ventured to the second page), before the Arabic name Great Pyramid of Giza, it was the Greek Pyramid of Cheops, and before that, the Egyptian Pyramid of Khufu. But you and I both know that before all that, it was known as Pharaoh’s Love Shack in the ancient language. It was a place where you and your sweetheart could enjoy a strawberry shake and a side of mutton. If you were the right kind of pharaoh’s son, she might even wear your gold-leaf letterman jacket. Unfortunately, I’m not that fortunate. In the end, it’s always the younger brother with his impressive physique and sly smile that wins the girl, while the ugly brute, like me, is left behind to carve esoteric yet oddly practical symbols into timeless stones. Thoth, now he’s a true companion for a writer. A deity of language, art, and judgement. Pay attention, America, you uncultured swine. Meanwhile, my canine friend, who bears a striking resemblance to Anubis with his dark, pointed features, continues to bark below. With each desperate howl, he garners my admiration. In fact, he reminds me of my younger self. Let me be candid with you: only the losers are truly worthy of a writer’s attention, but there are far too many winners in the world of American literature these days. Nevertheless, I have two questions for you. First, were you aware that the pyramids were once adorned with limestone, their walls pale and smooth, radiating a dazzling brilliance towards the heavens? And second, have you any inkling of the effect you’ve had on me? Good grief! As a discerning aficionado of high-caliber entertainment, I can only say one thing: My dear, you have stunned me. Speaking of spiritual masters, our tour guide possesses an unmatched wisdom in this city, which seems to drown in layers of time. I sense the hard-earned irony emanating from him, forged through pain, frustration, and the bewildering experiences of a highly intelligent individual waiting for the world to catch up. As an American Indian, I shared my heritage with him. He laughed and gestured towards a feather on his head, creating a connection between us. Feathers and hearts occupy my thoughts on this magical evening. I’d willingly sacrifice my heart, placing it on the scales of judgment, for a chance to undress you completely and engage in acts that would scandalize the United Nations. But hey, who cares. I will descend like a classic Hollywood gunslinger, firing blanks, only to be resurrected once again by that divine posterior of yours. Yes, I know. I merely wanted to use that word. Here’s another one for you: callipygian. It’s Greek for “having a great ass.” Now, say it with your best Pacino impression. We’ve concocted quite a mixture here, a piece that surely violates the Great Literary Treaty of 20___. You remember the one, where we traded irony for safety. Anyway, can we agree that we’re both utterly exhausted by the current discourse? I, for one, am exceptionally weary of it. Behind us lies only destruction and ahead lies even more. Yet, all these people seem to obsess over is finding reasons to be offended. This idiocy is taking a toll on me, and there’s still no authentic conversation about Indian Country. It’s abundantly clear that one will never materialize. But fret not, my fellow tribe members and I are accustomed to disappointment…
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