Flash Fiction Magazine

Daily Flash Fiction Stories

Office Girl

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By Jackie Law

Looks can be deceiving. She appeared to be just another young woman, beautiful in a conventional if bland way, but nothing more. Her grooming could not be faulted, her choice of clothes stylish but unimaginative. If she attracted attention it was only from the men who thought of getting her into their bed; she consistently rebuffed all such attempts.

She lived alone in a flat that had been created when a large town house had been renovated by a small time property developer some ten years previously. An elderly neighbour commented that she resembled a woman who had once lived there; she took pains to avoid this neighbour from then on.
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The List

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By L.S. Engler

Pat, the first one. Chris, who was colorblind. Andy, just messing around.

Sam, kind of into kink. Sam and Jeremy, camping in PA. Bob, kind of a blur.

Jennifer 1, history professor. Jennifer 2, rebound. Patrick, one-night-stand.
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Potato Chips from Hell

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By Miles White

Edward, Craig and Brett all had wives who were pretty much cool about it now. On Saturday nights the guys went out. None of them told their wives where they were going because it was always someplace new. The women did know what the boys were going to do once they got there. That they had talked about, not that they were exactly happy to hear it. The boys had made up their minds though, so there were ground rules laid and there were lines drawn that were never to be crossed; after that everybody stopped talking about it. At least their men were not out there on a Saturday night chasing girls; they were out there walking around being girls.
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Unconquerable

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By Chris Baca

The crowd before him surged with energy and anticipation. Everyone that had shown up for this event knew that it would be a life-altering experience. As he stepped toward the crowd, as he neared the podium from which he would speak to this volatile mass, a silence seemed to fall upon them. His mere presence commanded their attention.
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A Memoir

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By Namitha Varma

You were nestling atop the bookshelf, between a battered Harold Robbins and a few tomes of Umberto Eco, patiently waiting for someone to take you home. You were picked up endlessly by second-hand book hunters but dismissed, for more contemporary choices like Baldacci and Brown. Your cover spoke of neglect; your leaves were dry and crumbling. Yet, I could not put you back, and I bought you for a paltry Rs. 45. You looked at me quizzically I thought, as if questioning my judgment on taking you home, but you also seemed grateful for the relief from your high perch. I could sympathise with your acrophobia, however well you hid it all these years.
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