Daily Flash Fiction Stories
By Stuart Ziarnik
It was my weekend with Ivan. We were in the backyard, the sun cut in half by my neighbor’s roof. The sound of cars on Cameron rushed by, and Ivan balanced on the edge of the cement patio while I stacked kindling in the belly of my firepit.
“Are you gonna be able to spend the whole night in the tent this time?”
Continue Reading This StoryBy Yeshim Iqbal
Just as Molly was about to start eating her wedding dinner, her aunt fell down. There was a giant crash, and people started screaming and running. Someone shouted in English, “Khalamma has fallen!”
For a quick second, Molly thought, of course she has fallen. Of course she’s dead. Of course she’d be dead the very night I get out. In a flash, she wondered if she still needed to get married at all if her aunt was dead.
Continue Reading This StoryBy Steven Watson
They’re fighting again.
Eric can feel his parents’ anger building, his ears literally popping as the pressure in the house expands. His mother clatters dishes and yells, which is mirrored by his father’s stomping to the back porch trying to ignore his wife’s outburst. Eric learns to view his parents’ arguing as more of a sport.
Sometimes things get out of hand, like when Bill ripped up Emily’s favorite plant with a smirk on his face or when Emily threw a bowl and hit Bill in the forehead. However, in most cases, they both know the rules of the game. No one gets hurt, at least not physically. Let the words do all the damage.
Continue Reading This StoryBy Michele Wong
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1. Clean bamboo leaves, glutinous rice, and mung beans: Soak accordingly.
You take notes as your mother speaks in Mandarin. Sketchy notes because you never understand half of what she says, but the pull is in the blood. There’s enough DNA between you to shelter any wants. Her hands wash the bamboo leaves as quick and bluff as she used to wash your hair. It’s mid-summer. All you can think of is ice cream as the fan blows beaded sweat into the air.
—Mung beans or yellow beans?
Continue Reading This StoryBy S. Krauss
Fallen leaves crunch under my feet. They foretell of waning days and icy streets to come. Once, the promise of Thanksgiving and Christmas would have mollified me, but lately the holidays have become ominous, markers of change.
The polling place is a high school. Today the lunchroom holds clusters of old ladies in shapeless woolen coats and parkas, gathered to cast their ballots. I start for the table by the wall, then remember I live in a different district now; I need to wait in a different line. This year I’ll be signing the record book with my maiden name.
Continue Reading This StoryMother didn’t know what to do with her. When she was born, it was clear she’d be different from the rest of us. At first, she lived in the house. I looked after her, like a pet. Over time, she lost the human aspect except in one place: her eyes. They never changed. She was born with blue eyes, and they stayed blue.
When the goat girl turned three, Father placed her in a shed behind the house. She was fully goat by then, and definitely not going to school with us. How would we explain her? What could we say? There were endless conversations about what to do with a goat girl in the family. She grew hooves and wiry gray hair. She couldn’t talk, of course. That was expected from the beginning when we saw she would be a goat.
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