Daily Flash Fiction Stories
By Haley Magrill
It’s my birthday today, and I get special blueberry icing on my cake. Its mum’s favourite, too, so I’m really hoping she wakes up.
“Good Morning, Jojo,” Nurse Wilkins smiles. “That’s a very pretty backpack you have on.” Her lipstick is smudged onto her front tooth, and she talks in her ‘I-am-an-adult-talking-to-a-child’ voice.
By T.G. Scheidler
I think it was the chrome. The way it flashed in the light and gleamed even in shadow, buttery and immoderate. Ben was showing the car off, and it was vintage and sleek, more like a speedboat than a sedan. It was red as sin, and the seats looked like leather. I wanted to find out if they were. It wasn’t the kind of thing I would usually have envied. I’m not a car lover. I don’t even know what Ben said its name was. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to categorize it, I just wanted to possess it.
By Jean Majury
A loud voice kept repeating, “Cluck, cluck.” I tried ignoring it. But the clucks had penetrated my eardrums. I thought, what kind of a fool imitates a chicken on a crowded subway? And who assumes anyone wants to listen to clucks on the way to work, or at any time?
As the clucks rose in volume, my irritation became anger. I wanted to find the clucker, rip their voice box out and trample it under my feet. But how could I do that? Stuck among people who had fed too long at the trough, I couldn’t even raise my hands to cover my ears. The people-fit was that tight. Anchored to my position, I resorted to questions.
By Marine von Koenig
When he screams, his small round face grows red and blotchy, the veins in his temples swell and throb, and his pale blue eyes bulge.
He screams at me—have I forgotten that I came to him with one suitcase, how much I owe his family? I switch off. I’ve learned to switch off; the screaming is only a nuisance background noise, like the rattling of a refrigerator—quieter at times, and then louder again—so after a while you stop noticing it.
By N. Shephard
The room had the ordered arrangement and cleanliness a good motel imposes between occupancies. The man said: “This will do.” He closed the door.
“I didn’t like that clerk’s attitude,” the woman said.
“Don’t let him spoil the occasion,” the man advised.
“Bastard,” the woman spat.
I wake at 3 AM every night—or every morning, I suppose. The Internet says my problem is spiritual, an unsettled spleen, or a bad mattress. The Internet is wrong. I hear cries in the darkness. I crawled into the attic and found nothing but cobwebs and bat carcasses.
My grandmother prescribed a shot of whiskey before bed. That only caused indigestion.
