Daily Flash Fiction Stories
Sure, we are both full grown men, me and my brother. But when your little brother doesn’t call you back after you’ve left at least two voicemails regarding dollar beers and tacos, you start to worry. Especially if your brother lives alone and has unreasonable allergies that could send him into anaphylactic shock.
I call again.
No answer.
By J. Allen Whitt
You see, she’d bitten her tongue, all the way through. A surgical slice.
Part lolled out the side of her mouth like she was making a funny face.
Well, something like that was to be expected.
Can you tell me how it happened?
By Kevin Taylor
I squeeze my shaking hands around the bat with bated breath, braced in the darkness just beyond the entryway to defend myself against the intruders crashing around on the porch outside, trying to get into the house. There are two of them, at least; the porch light casts abstract shadows of their bodies against the shade pulled down over the front window. I can hear them whispering, fumbling at the door like teenage cat burglars, failing in their attempt to be quiet or inconspicuous.
By KNA
“It’s been a while, Claire,” Tom said. “Six years.”
“Would’ve been seven in August,” said Claire. She took a sip of water then set the glass on the table. “Must be someone big if you’ve called me. Who’s the target?”
Tom slapped a thick file on the table. “Bucksworth.”
By Ross Clement
Astrid is different. She can see the dark before night falls.
She sits on a bench in a park. A small boy runs this way and that, like a dandelion seed blown in the wind. He carries with him a cloud of dark.
People, maybe his parents, lie on mattresses of sweet musty grass; newspapers shading their faces from the summer light. The shadows aren’t the dark. Astrid knows the difference.
By Hamish
She saw herself as a doorman of sorts. There were two doors through which we entered the world. The front door—the one God created and the one through which, as the old saw goes—men are all famously trying to re-enter. And the second door, an artificial one created by surgeons but occasionally born from pain and disaster.