Flash Fiction Magazine

Daily Flash Fiction Stories

The Little Shell

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By Fiona Kyle

The little shell sat on the mantelpiece where it had been for as long as anyone could remember.

Margery sits in her chair and looks at it.

She bought the shell a lifetime ago on a family holiday in Scarborough – her and Robert and the five children. She had wanted a souvenir to try and protect the memory of the most perfect day of her life. The very word ‘souvenir’ so different and exotic and always linked to magical trips to special places. They found it in a large shop on the front which smelt of sea salt and cigarettes. Susan had bought a stick of pink rock then refused to share it with the others.

She had put the shell, all wrapped up in paper, down in the fish and chip shop while they placed their huge order and nearly left it but the chap behind the counter pointed it out to her. They sat on a bench on the promenade to eat them. Sun beating down, greasy fingers, newspaper, salt, fish, lovely. Seagulls wheeling about above them – that noise they make! So distinctive, every time she heard a seagull since then she is catapulted back to that day, to that bench in Scarborough, surrounded by everyone she loved.
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Safe Haven to Living Hell

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By Mary Crowley

I stood gazing at the overgrown greenery, which once constituted a well-maintained colourful garden. Speculating, how somewhere could transform, from being my paradise. A place I referred to, as a little piece of heaven, to the living hell it had become, now desolate and chilling to look at. Depicting a sadness of unfulfilled dreams, and memories lost in the battle which caused its decay.

Stepping down the path, pushing through the dense English laurel hedging, its presence previously perceiving an air of mystery, and providing privacy. Now overgrown, shadowing the formerly picturesque area below. Entering the bottom of the garden, now overrun with rubbish, and broken garden debris. I glance around, the once beautifully designed area of this much loved garden. Having accommodated a water feature, surrounded by pebbles, to enhance the sound of the running water, as it splashed on top of them. Shimmering nuggets strewn among the stones, incorporated to reflect, in the light of the evening sun. Small maple trees had been carefully planted, to add visually to the tranquil ambience. Bamboo rustling in the gentle breeze. Beyond it lay a seating area, a tranquil space to sit and unwind.
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National Motorcycle and Tattoo Show and After

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By Jane Ozkowski

Saturday night, I found myself with a job at the National Motorcycle and Tattoo Show. I sampled kangaroo jerky and held out impotent pamphlets for motorcycle safety courses to bikers with face tattoos who refused to make eye contact.

And after I was at a friend’s house, drinking wine from a teacup and listening to a French band from Brazil. It was a record from the 1970’s, both authentic and ironic, and apparently, it kept skipping, and it might have been the wine, but I didn’t notice.

The tattoo booths, lined up at one side of the show, held overweight men with their shirts off and smelled antiseptic like some intimate sickness as though HIV had a scent. Even after I got on the streetcar, I could hear the tattoo guns buzzing like there was a man in the back seat giving out free tattoos to children, “Did you want an eagle or a crucifix?” He’d ask. “I’m only doing eagles and crucifixes from now on, or I can tattoo a picture of a cat on your neck.”
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The Letter

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By Nikki Mason

He stared at the words in his hands. The letters swirled and swooped more elegantly than he remembered. Hard to make out if he didn’t know their meaning by heart. Hours he’d spent tracing the lines with his fingers, gorging them with his eyes, these words that were once hers were now his. In his mind, in his soul. They spoke of a lost time. Before his skin was papery and dour. Before his mind began to grow feeble. Before he’d even married.
Now the words began to blur, the familiar writing becoming unfocused as tears threatened to spill over his drooping eye lids. This was the last time he’d know her. They were moving him out, away from his home and all the possessions that made up him and his life. That made up who he was. He was once the receiver of this letter – adored, wanted and vital. He once ran with vigour, lusted to touch this woman’s skin which was covered in freckles brought out by the sun. [Read more…] about The Letter

The Autocrat

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By Lori Schafer

He hacked. It was coming in gushes now, the blood in his sputum, the cureless calamity of his body and soul.

“Name a successor,” his adviser had urged, on reviewing the doctor’s report. Secretly hoping, perhaps, that it would be he.

It wouldn’t be. The Minister had no son; no child to carry on when he was gone. No reason to carry on at all.

The years of service had exhausted him. Few understood it, the strain of monocracy. His subjects perceived only its magnificence: the fine clothes, the luxurious automobiles, the sumptuous banquets with world-renowned guests. They could not guess at the responsibility that accompanied it, the knowledge that he was ultimately accountable for every decision, every difficulty of the people. When they loved, it was him they loved. But when they despised…

He coughed again, spat into the bronze basin, and watched the discolored mucus slide slowly out of sight, leaving a watery crimson trail behind it. It was nearly time.
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The Son of God

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By Angelika Rust

It’s pitch dark. Small wonder, as it’s the middle of the night. The lamps have long been extinguished, and not a ray of light shines through the narrow windows of the paltry huts lining the streets.
Nothing moves. No, wait, something does…there, at the back of a small alley. A lanky, coltish figure. A boy, with long, hazel hair and a pale face, around twelve years old. He stoops down to pick up a pebble. He aims carefully, then throws it upwards. With a resounding clatter, the missile bounces off the wooden window frame and drops back down into the sand. The boy waits for a moment, hoping for some kind of reaction. When nothing stirs, he picks the tiny stone up again and lifts his arm, squinting, aiming for another shot.
It takes three tries before a sleepy, ruffled face appears. Another boy, roughly the same age. His hair is distinctly darker, as is his skin. He stares down, unbelieving, and rubs his eyes.
“Jesus!” he blurts out. His hand flies up to cover his mouth. He hurriedly turns around to steal a glance at the room behind him.
“Whom did you expect?” The boy in the alley stands completely unperturbed, hands on his hips, an insolent expression on his gentle features.
“Shush, not so loud! Shouldn’t you and your parents be on your way to Jerusalem already?”
“Sure. Only it’s taken them so long to find me. And then it was too late to leave, which is why we’re staying another night. Come on. I’ve hidden a bottle of wine for us.”
“You’re nuts. I’m grounded.”
“Why?”
“Why?” the boy at the window repeats incredulous. “Because you and me disappeared for three days?”
“So what?”
“My mother cried her eyes out and my father gave me a spanking, I can hardly sit down. My parents are absolutely hopping mad, that’s what!”
The boy in the alley snorts derisively. “Well, so are mine. Is that supposed to impress me?”
“You’re not grounded?”
A mocking laugh sounds up in reply. “No.”
“Why not? You’re half a year younger than me! That’s not fair!”
“You’re not the son of God, that’s why. Oh, do come on, John. I’m bored.”
“You’re…” The boy at the window groans exasperation. “Wait.”
A scant moment later, the end of a rope hits the ground. John climbs down nimbly. He drops down the last few feet and lands next to his friend, burying his bare toes in the warm sand. They exchange a grin. [Read more…] about The Son of God

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