Flash Fiction International by James Thomas (editor), Robert Shapard (editor), Christopher Merrill (editor)

Iranian-American author Sholeh Wolpé, born 1962

Flash Fiction International - Steller collection of 86 short-short stories, usually 1 or 2 or 3 pages long, from authors around the globe. Below are three of my very favorites.

Note - Unfortunately, the separate reviews I posted for each of these three tales no longer appear on Goodreads. Thus my consolidating in this review.

MY BROTHER AT THE CANADIAN BORDER by Sholeh Wolpé
On their way to Canada in a red Mazda, my brother and his friend, Ph.D.s and little sense, stopped at the border and the guard leaned forward, asked: Where are you boys heading? My brother, Welcome to Canada poster in his eyes, replied: Mexico. The guard blinked, stepped back then forward, said: Sir, this is the Canadian border. My brother turned to his friend, grabbed the map from his hands, slammed it on his shaved head. You stupid idiot, he yelled, you've been holding the map upside down.

In the interrogation room full of metal desks and chairs with wheels that squeaked and fluorescent light humming, bombarded with questions, and finally: Race? Stymied, my brother confessed: I really don't know, my parents never said, and the woman behind the desk widened her blue eyes to take in my brother's olive skin, hazel eyes, the blonde fur that covered his arms and legs. Disappearing behind a plastic partition, she returned with a dusty book, thick as War and Peace, said: This will tell us your race. Where was your father born? she asked, putting on her horn-rimmed glasses. Persia, he said. Do you mean I-ran?

Iran, you ran, we all ran, he smiled. Where's your mother from? Voice cold as a gun. Russia, he replied. She put one finger on a word above a chart in the book, the other on a word at the bottom of the page, brought them together looking like a mad mathematician bent on solving the crimes of zero times zero divide by one. Her fingers stopped on a word. Declared: You are white.

My brother stumbled back, a hand on his chest, eyes wide, mouth in an O as in O my God! All these years and I did not know. Then to the room, to the woman and the guards: I am white. I can go anywhere., Do anything. I can go to Canada and pretend it's Mexico. At last, I am white and you have no reason to keep me here.



As I read and reread this short snapper by Mexican author Juan José Barrientos, I kept wondering what is the uniquely stylized labyrinth described here. Perhaps a rich country for illegal immigrants? Any other guesses?

LABYRINTH by Juan José Barrientos
Labyrinths are designed to make it difficult or impossible for those who venture into them to find the exit. But a very different building exists.

Those who have entered it remember the usual corridors, turns, and staircases, but also the murmur of a party, of muted laughter, furtive comments, the tinkling of glasses or silverware, sometimes of panting of secret lovers, the burst of an orchestra or jazz combo or at least a melody interpreted by a solitary piano.

Upon hearing them, they hurry to draw near, but the strange architecture, not devoid of traps and pitfalls, sends them down a chute like trespassers onto the street.

From there they look back at the bright and inaccessible celebration, where it seems that everything is happening.


Mexican author Juan José Barrientos, born 1944



Women and men in the grip of insomnia know all too well the debilitation consequences of an absence of sleep. Some unfortunates will do anything to escape. But what if escape proves impossible? Reflect on this question as you read Virgilio Piñera's flashing flash fiction below.

INSOMNIA by Virgilio Piñera
The man goes to bed early but he cannot fall asleep. He turns and tosses. He twists the sheets. He lights a cigarette. He reads a bit. He puts out the light again. But he cannot sleep. At three in the morning he gets up. He calls on his friend next door and confides in him that he cannot sleep. He asks for advice. The friend suggests he take a walk and maybe he will tire himself out - then he should drink a cup of linden tea and turn out the light. He does all these things but he does not manage to fall asleep. Again he gets up. This time he goes to see the doctor. As usual the doctor talks a good deal but in the end the man still cannot manage to sleep. At six in the morning he loads a revolver and blows out his brains. The man is dead but still he is unable to sleep. insomnia is a very persistent thing.


Master of the Craft - Cuban author Virgilio Piñera, 1912-1979