Backhand Stories is a creative writing blog that publishes new short stories, flash fiction, non-fiction and essays by new and unpublished writers. Submit your own short story!

Dog Days and Starlit Nights By Angie J. Mayfield

It was love at first sight. He was ambling alongside the road with a McDonald’s French fry box in his mouth, and something about those big sorrowful eyes, copper brown and pleading, tugged at my heart, and the steering wheel, forcing me to pull over and offer him a ride. The scene was straight from a chic flick movie. I called out. He turned. He dropped the box and ran to me, his tongue outstretched, his tail wagging, rushing into my arms and delivering a big, slobbery kiss right on the lips. I was his heroine, his savior, and he gladly jumped into the truck and sat beside me as though we were destined to be together. The stretch of… Continue >>

Dolls Eye by Philip Berry

It’s an old memory. Too old to upset. I pressed the cool skin of her cheek with a plump, immature finger. Then traced the roots of her fixed lashes. I recalled the optimistic flourish of their application, leaning into the mirror, which itself leaned against the bedroom wall. Should I pluck one, from a tented lid? No way, I wouldn’t dare. She’ll wake. Then I peered along near perfect nostrils, rimmed red, and sore, dusted. Why so tired, Mum? I touched the dipped philtrum where she was joined, in the factory – that’s the joke we shared. Joined somewhere, with ideal symmetry. Still silent. I pushed the sheet aside, altered the balance of a limb. It reached out, fish-belly white,… Continue >>

Untitled by Becki Short

She loved to watch him. She loved to get lost in the very few, but deep, aging lines in his forehead, imagining the struggles he has had in his life, and recognizing how beautifully they had shaped a boy into this man that stood before her. She loved hearing his voice like an American audience hearing a French opera; not speaking the language but holding hopes for the day when they might understand the meaning of those so elegantly grouped together words in a tone that confirms mastery of the language. A tone that humors you as you try to keep up. His lips would quiver in a very secretive manner when he made a joke and no one could… Continue >>

A Free Spirit by Sandra Crook

Aunt Ellie had a secret past. As kids, we all instinctively recognised this from the way the family treated her. There were a lot of sidelong looks, lowered voices, and a general air of disapproval whenever her name was mentioned. We all loved her. She was so different from all the other grown-ups, with her wild grey hair caught up in a comb that never quite managed to capture those wayward curls. She wore long floating skirts, and low-cut tops showing acres of chest that crinkled like tissue paper when she folded her arms. In summer she wore sandals, and in winter, soft leather boots with a smelly old shaggy coat she called an ‘afghan’. And she walked around singing… Continue >>

A Cross to Bear by James Turner

We had been living out there for three months before I even noticed it. I remember looking up from Katy’s face as I worked away and the curtains were open. It was the middle of the day, a blue sky above and straight ahead I saw the cross atop a church steeple. I thought nothing of it at first. I carried on with Katy as she smiled up at me. Afterward, as she smoked a cigarette, I thought about Jesus up on that cross and all he had been through. I wondered if he was looking down on us as we lay there on the bed. I’m not particularly religious. My parents took me and my sister to church a… Continue >>

Being Orpha by Josepha Gutelius

Somehow or other ten years had gone by and she lost her voice. Her name, Orpha, was the last word she ever spoke out loud. Spoken in a whisper, it sounded like Alpha, a promising beginning. But perhaps creation, once it has been opened with Alpha, can only be followed by silence. Sitting in her chair on the porch she watched the empty parked cars. Frost scribbled on the windows and a small after-image froze: her fingers dangled in the air after she crossed herself three times. She often said to herself: I am the only one here. Much earlier in her life (she had come over mountains and the ocean), she had seen rivers that looked like small streams,… Continue >>

The Waiting Game By Tom McMillan

When the door clicks shut, his mouth starts running. Outside there is only snow, a pale sheet stretching three miles in all directions. Sunset turns the sky into an aging bruise. From the glass, this reflected father looks healthier, thicker, less translucent. He’s lost in her hair now, the way it fell in tangled strands. A briar patch of red curls. They met at an engineering conference in Jersey. Things devolved quickly. I wipe juice from the dying forest of his beard while a stranger watches through diluted eyes. A steady voice. I‘d never, I’d never, I’d never. Dying lungs wheeze. Urine stink fills the room. Reaching for my book, I try imagining how he sees me. Still wearing his… Continue >>

or snake charming by Lindsey M. Brummerhop

there were once three pretty cowards. i fell in love with each, and every, one. of. them. and then they ran. as i waved, then walked back into my house & wrote the stories they’d read years later and think to themselves, “fuck.” or, “of course.” but mostly, “as loud as she was, as childish and inappropriate. at least she made me laugh.” because everyone needs someone, even some stranger, to love them unconditionally for a little while. i loved you unconditionally, for a little while. the thing is: cliff diving is a very dangerous hobby. terrifying. but then you get to say you dove off a cliff; and people will nod at you like, “whoa. impressive.” i bet that… Continue >>

free cab ride for a broken heart by Heather Schutmaat

Twenty-four hours of travel. She is across the world and for him, it isn’t love. Standing on the steps of a small restaurant, on a crowded street in Chinatown. Watching the car drive away. If it were her in that car, she would trace the raindrops on the window with the tip of her index finger. Following their path. No. If it were her in that car, she wouldn’t have left. She began crying before he said goodbye and now, now she’s sobbing uncontrollably. Really, she’s still just a little girl. Eighteen years old is not a woman. She is a child, alone and across the world. For him. It isn’t love. For him it isn’t love. She hasn’t cried… Continue >>

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