The Last Dance by Sophie Khadr:
There is a shelved alcove in the living room. Neither of them has ventured near the top shelf in years; it is an unspoken rule between them. That is the urn’s place, its curves reminiscent of the way their daughter’s body might have flowered given the opportunity. At ten, Cassie had been lithe and boyish with the beginnings of small, olive-like breasts. She loved to dance. Charlie remembers how she danced with her mother, their laughter bouncing around the room trying to keep pace with their feet.
The rest may be found at Flashquake. It has a surprising ending.
Flash fiction seems perfect for the digital age, where we are consuming art and entertainment in new ways an in smaller chunks. A powerful, rounded thought in your coffee break. A bittersweet moment when you wait for the bus.
Adam Maxwell runs his own Flash Fiction lounge, with a playbill theme not unlike my envelopes. Read his essay on the difference between microfiction and flash fiction.
My recent efforts are, of course, available too. I may post another soon, you never know.