tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22697122881902948582012-02-16T00:15:58.871-08:00Advocating the theory that less is more, Tragic Pens is an online literary magazine dedicated to 21st-century flash fiction writing. Our mission is to provide readers with short pieces written by authors from anywhere in the globe, sans prejudice towards genre - Experimental, Tragedy, Magical Realism, Romance, Homosexuality, Ethnic, Dark Comedy, Psychotic, Vampire Erotica, etc, etc. - We believe that everything has potential...as long as it floats around 10-400 words.Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.comBlogger181100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-35828393235794525532008-05-17T00:22:00.001-07:002008-12-11T06:26:36.947-08:00

A special thanks to all the contributors of Tragic Pens Issue 2! We are currently in the process of shifting everything to our own domain. However, submissions will be read and considered so feel free to take a look at our guidelines and submit work for our upcoming issue.Best,Farhana Uddin----------Photograph taken by Tobias.

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-61125440697655488252008-05-16T00:39:00.000-07:002008-05-16T00:52:57.155-07:00

PendingA man walks into a restroom, pulling on his son's hand. At places such as these, there are always people coming and going, merely a short stop on the way to their final destination. They leave their mark, a part of themselves, and then they're gone, like dust particles in the wind. It is a stop where all is left pending, based on reaching that destination.“I don't know why you couldn't

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-69436980045324765602008-05-09T19:02:00.000-07:002008-12-11T06:26:37.123-08:00

Dust for Mickey“Keep going, keep going…” He saw Mickey shift on the blanket, which meant he hadn’t died yet, so Dai hadn’t failed and Ma wouldn’t cry when they went to meet her and the Baby Jesus and the Angels.“Dai, wheresa milk?” Ruthy tugged on his arm but he shoved her away, scraping up the coal dust and throwing it into the fire.“Not now, gotta keep going, going…”Ruthy started to cry,

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-59095164747817919072008-05-06T15:02:00.001-07:002008-12-11T06:26:37.322-08:00

Sacrifice I spoke with him tonight. I did not hang up on him as I’ve been, because since this morning he has known something that he will do. He told me there was evil in his blood that he could not control, and because he could not keep himself from hurting others, he had to be destroyed. He had to sacrifice himself so that he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.I didn't talk him out of it. I didn't try

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-81506220136545056612008-05-05T22:29:00.000-07:002008-12-11T06:26:37.584-08:00

Cell Phone"Samuel...Samuel, pick up the cell!" Rianna Wallace stood shivering in the phone booth. Her friends had ditched her after a party, and now she was stuck on Fleet Street alone. "Please, Samuel? Come on..."Rianna truly hated Fleet Street. There had been a series of gang-related shootings along the road, which was how it gained the nickname "Filet Street," but the best parties were along

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-64778759563388743842008-05-03T03:22:00.000-07:002008-12-11T06:26:37.798-08:00

HomelessHer flip-flops slap the pavement alongside me as she pushes the cart brimming with my recent purchases. I struggle alongside with bags and together we make our way towards my dented green Honda civic with the blue “Long Live Longhorns Long Life Longhorns” bumper sticker. I rummage in my purse for keys, and she looks across the parking lot. Other Park Slope co-op volunteers assist shoppers

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-32104344380742429522008-05-03T03:15:00.001-07:002008-12-11T06:26:37.968-08:00

A Square Meal for a Square Deal by Nick BrooksShe couldn't speak in a way that didn't pull silly mannerisms out of the locals. This being yet another dollop in the mountain of causes of my twitch, I gagged her when we left the house. She didn't seem to mind. I've avoided trying to discern why as I'm sure I wouldn't like the root cause of it. It might make me want to take it off and then the wave

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-53298082657885601322008-04-26T17:15:00.001-07:002008-12-11T06:26:38.329-08:00

EggshellsBefore Mara could finish questioning the wisdom of this trip, Ma was already waving from the upstairs window, wearing the same faded red, pansy-printed house she had likely worn every other Sunday for the last thirty years or more. Mara could describe each frayed piece of the fabric, not only because she saw it in her mind whenever she pictured Ma, but because she’d spent so much time as

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-72948953995803275042008-04-24T13:00:00.001-07:002008-12-11T06:26:38.497-08:00

A huge thanks to the writers of Issue 1 for packing the issue with experimentals, romance, and sci-fi. Tragic Pens has enjoyed reading all your work. We hope you will revisit us from time to time and find new and interesting pieces of flash fiction. We look forward to reading submissions for Issue 2. We'll be keeping an eye out for new styles and different genres. For those who have submitted

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-16770973368073098902008-04-23T21:43:00.000-07:002008-12-11T06:26:38.673-08:00

FireworksI send them up in the air, and strapped to them are tiny pieces of paper, each one with a small word scribbled on in my appalling writing, underlined, twice each, and tied on neatly with a cotton thread. When they explode, the paper does too, and it catches fire, and the paper falls down and then it's just ash, and the words are gone. This year I have six pieces of paper, and I wrote on

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-81721004253407435672008-04-23T12:44:00.000-07:002008-12-11T06:26:38.934-08:00

Something stirsSomething stirs inside as I unfold the letter again. Read the words quietly. Fold it again. Only to unfold it again in the same manner moments later. The words puncture the soul and leave me without breath.And I mumble under my breath, Who are you to leave me defenseless today? I shift in my long dress with the beaded bodice and the tulle skirt. I wonder now what this dress might

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-673944920938512602008-04-22T18:36:00.000-07:002008-05-09T11:14:58.871-07:00

Making WavesThis is the only wave, breaking with the blood and all its substantive nutrients, its calcium deposits and the flecks of oxygen and iron together racing past purple to black, drying beneath the skin, the split open heart of the knuckle, like the faces of wood that you can peel away from one another. It’s terror that you can swallow up hoping it’ll choke down easily enough.It’ll be

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-73865200274018651582008-04-21T21:51:00.000-07:002008-12-11T06:26:39.059-08:00

“I stole that locket from you,” he told his mother who was standing at the sink, washing the cups. He knew his mother would be affectionate and would smile at his confession of the innocent, little crimes of his childhood. Still, there was this faint, silent ghost of apprehension poking at his ease. Despite all the comfort of familial belonging, he was after all confessing theft.“What locket?”

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-44037913272081865202008-04-21T21:48:00.001-07:002008-04-21T21:49:39.775-07:00

Cowboy by Adam MooradHe was a tall man with a thick build and was very angry. I remember how the muscles in his jaw were clenched tight as he laid back, stretching out across the table.Years ago he had been a football star and earned a reputation of sorts as a winner with a team in Texas. The game was the passion of his life. “I came here because I have trouble getting out of bed in the morning,”

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-86055718984658438002008-04-20T07:00:00.000-07:002008-04-20T07:52:30.347-07:00

The sky filled up with darkness on that winter night, and then the lights started coming. How could I miss the silver radiance of the arms reaching out from across the fence to touch me? It was a moment of pure decision. Should I let it last? Or go back into the sanctity of my home.The way across the grass was rippled in the radiance of the lights above. They would all think me mad! They would

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-26724592512098732172008-04-20T06:55:00.000-07:002008-04-20T08:02:50.392-07:00

Quietly.Don’t wake her. I get out of bed. Up again in the middle of the night. I turn on the TV. Watch until I get tired. I go back to bed she’s standing in the hallway, two old lovers in the dark.“I missed you,” he says. He touches her. There are no inhibitions in the dark, especially for old lovers. He takes her arm and brings her back to bed.They hold each other and fall asleep.He gets up

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-79357139203402849782008-04-19T23:58:00.000-07:002008-04-19T10:51:32.653-07:00

Torn between the greater good of peace, at last, between peoples of differing cultural mores and traditions on the one hand and his selfish concerns about posing as the chained primate in Grigori’s elaborately feigned appearance of insanity as his ticket home, Astronaut Simpson agreed to play Jocko the surly monkey in the upcoming television transmission back to Star City, Russia from the

Farhana Uddinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16686873817569215116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2269712288190294858.post-37996164885453066612008-04-18T10:00:00.000-07:002008-04-19T10:47:19.445-07:00

The man set about his daily business of aligning film reels, selling tickets and watching over the little theater. About a quarter past noon on Sunday the patrons started filing in, mostly mothers with their children. Amongst the chatter of young voices a young lady appeared, poised with her student identification card in hand. The man denied her card and let her in for one dollar. It was a

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