Daily Flash Fiction Stories
We call her Vera, and she takes us where we want to go. Or, perhaps, where she thinks we need to go—like the Tardis whisking the Doctor around the universe.
Vera says: Prepare to turn right in two hundred yards.
She says: At the roundabout, take the third exit.
And we obey, because she’s in charge. We type in postcodes and allow her to dictate our every move. When we stop for lunch, veering from her chosen path, she throws a bit of a tantrum, telling us to take U-turns at the first opportunity.
If we were on one end of the woods, and we heard Mother Hutton shouting, we used to race each other down to the Post Office where the Wren’s Nest Road meets Summer Road. That’s where I used to go in an’ ask Mr. Patel loads of random questions like, do yo’ ‘ave Sundee Roasts in Pakistan, or is it true yo’ all ‘ave pet cows—and our gang’d rob him blind of sweets and Panda Pop and pornos while he tried to be polite.
So, up in the woods, we’d be at the back of Hillside Road, and when Mother Hutton’s call came, we’d jump the fence into the back gardens and run up the sides and jump the gates, then jump the back fences of Broom Road and up and over the gates again. There was a dog at number four, and we used that house because the guy looked like Elvis, and he’d go mad and chase us.
By RK Taylor
The teapot was broken, which was an important detail because it was a family heirloom. Either his maternal grandma’s or her paternal grandfather’s. I get lost in the specifics, but it was important.
But now they were fighting about something or other. Whining, perhaps. Yeah, whining is more like it; they weren’t really argumentative. It was more of an “I know this isn’t your issue. I’m feeling like you’re neglecting our relationship because you’re focusing on yourself, but I think it might be that I’m not good at focusing on myself? So, rationally, I can’t blame you. I mean, there’s nothing to blame. You’re acting normal. Maybe, subconsciously, I’m envious because I don’t know how to focus on myself?”
Flossie’s a lovely little dog. Dead-friendly, like. A rescue dog. When she was a pup, she’d got a great big hernia all along her tummy and they dumped her on Bidston Hill to die, poor thing. But someone got her to the vets, and because my dog had just died, they said did I want her, so I said all right. She’s fine now. Real lovely. Keeps me company and I’m on my own now, you know, like.
Just when I thought it was over, that irritating sound begins again! I groan and flip over in bed, squeezing the pillow tight around my ears to block the noise. I can’t possibly fall asleep like this—as soon as I relax, the pillow will be released and the humming will return.
The faintly luminescent hands of my battery-powered travel alarm clock tell me it’s approaching two in the morning. I unplugged everything in this room earlier tonight. I know I did.
I’ve been hearing the hum from plugged-in electronics for as long as I can remember.
By Rush Eby
Dad used to play poker, and he wasn’t bad, either. He’d play, and he’d win, and sometimes he’d lose, but he always knew when to throw in the cards.
He’d tell me the most important thing in this world was to know when to fold. He’d say to me, “Knowing when to quit is more important than any win, no matter how big.”
