Daily Flash Fiction Stories
By C.E.Rickard.
Anna placed the photograph of her parents next to the empty vase on the mantelpiece. She smiled, tucking a loose strand of pale blonde hair behind her ear. They would be proud of her.
“Anna Richards. Homeowner!” She giggled, carrying the last of the packing boxes outside to the garden and flattened it ready for recycling.
By Pharrel Katz
There’s a girl in my class. There’s a rumor that she’s a witch. I don’t know how the rumor started. I don’t care. I believe it. She is a witch. How do I know? Because of her witchy ways. That and her tall, black hat in the shape of a cone. And she carries a broom with her wherever she goes. She comes to class with the hat and the broom and is all dressed in black.
I was waiting to make a left out of the country club’s parking lot when a black Mercedes approached with its right turn signal blinking. The driver could have been anyone—Dr. Luhrman, the Wolcotts, Mrs. Keppel with her new breasts. So many members drove black Mercedes.
The Mercedes slowed then stopped, waiting for me to turn. This confused me. I was idling at the right side of the driveway, leaving plenty of room for cars to enter the club, like I was supposed to.
The Mercedes shouldn’t have stopped. They could’ve turned into the club without waiting. I’m sure there was room. I’m sure I was far enough over. Maybe the driver thought he was doing me a favor. Maybe he was trying to be a nice guy. I made the left onto Sheridan Drive like he wanted.
By Lizbette Ocasio-Russe
I’d never seen her like that before. My baby girl’s beautiful face was all twisted up in cruel realization. She stood with her trusted, stuffed dog Chuito, petrified like the wood María had scattered all over the street, the street she could no longer play on with her friends. Many she hadn’t heard from for a month or two, others had just kind of vanished. Whether it was from Hurricane María or the diaspora, I still didn’t know. She wouldn’t speak; No matter how hard I tried to coax her out of silence, the blank stare and muteness remained. Not even the coconut candy I offered her cleared the fog stifling her consciousness. She was silent the whole time the storm was raging, too, though the blankness had not arrived; only her wild eyes darting back and forth hinted at concern. She didn’t let go of Chuito, though her grip on him loosened as the winds and rains roared into the morning. I’ll never forget how the wind sounded, gusting by outside the rattling walls of our home. It carried the voices of millions shrieking and crying across the island. It was thunder and lightning, explosions, crashes, and rock slides. I offered my baby girl some headphones and an old CD player to block out the chaos, but she refused.
By Steve Hollyman
By the time they found the source of the drainage problems in his garden, there’d been no sign of Frank for eight days. It wasn’t a burst pipe like they had thought. It wasn’t stormwater running off from my side, either. A lot of jargon was said. Retentive soil, compacted earth, plow pan. I understood what they were getting at.
By Phoebe North
If the teachers at Waxbury saw the way the mold crept in from the windows and up the walls of our classrooms, coating their world maps and the cases of dusty taxidermy, they failed to tell us. We counted black squares as the tendrils crept from ceiling panel to ceiling panel, spreading.
