Daily Flash Fiction Stories
By J.J. Landry
A pair of brass knuckles hangs from a gold chain around my neck, beneath my dirty, tattered tee-shirt. I’m not really looking for a fight, per se, but I’m not going to walk away from one, either. That’s just not who I am and it damn sure isn’t what I’m about.
By Miles
On a morning like any other, the sun rose red on the horizon and kissed the earth before it began its march into the sky, bringing the village out of darkness. The president had come on television and given a passionate speech to the country before he disappeared, somewhere, they said, where he would be safe. When the teacups on the breakfast table begin to clatter and clink, they knew the tanks were rolling in, bringing with them another kind of darkness the sun could not dissipate.
By HRHardy
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it…”
—Oscar Wilde
They were on her feet again, dangling there like icicles from a willow tree, dripping dewy gems in the glittering morning light. She couldn’t afford them. She knew it, the sales woman knew it, everyone in the tiny Oxford high street boutique knew it. She was misplaced. A foreign object lodged in an esophagus pipe, the sales assistant choked on her.
By Wyle McClain
The escalating news coverage was making it look more and more probable that Reserve units like Brian’s were going to be called up to go to The Gulf, so when he went out for his daily runs, he began to steel himself for what could come by mentally rehearsing the countless checklists and procedures that were supposed to help keep him safe. What he was not prepared for was how to watch his father take in the nightly news reports on the TV.
By Bhavika Sicka
When Yamaraja visited the decrepit old jail in Muzaffarpur, he crinkled his parrot-beaked nose in disgust. The cells were cold and cramped. The stench of urine permeated the narrow aisles. Damp patches sprawled and spread across walls. There was only one large window on the far end—green and slatted—and the slivers of dust-speckled light let in were a dull shade of flaxen.
By Karen Bell
“His life will never be the one that he dreamed about […] That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action.”
—Dan Turner’s letter to Judge Aaron Persky
During lunch, a young collegiate cohort pokes her head in your tiny storage-closet workspace. You sit shoulder-to-shoulder with your fellow adjunct office mate. You both look up to welcome in April. With no spare room for an extra chair, April scoots her bum on top of your desk for a spot of gossip. She crosses her legs and slurps coffee.
