Daily Flash Fiction Stories
By Prospero Pulma, Jr.
“Leave the fruit of your spiritual catastrophe under this spotlight.” Emily frowned from reading the sign beside the red gate. Fruit of my spiritual catastrophe? She looked down at the basket in her arms. She had one too many and Scott was irresistible one night nine months ago. Her eyes returned to the sign. “Ring thrice and leave. Your burden is now our blessing.” Continue Reading This Story
By Chad Greene
“Don’t you love how the capital O in Onion is shaped like an onion—?”
“—And the neon inside it is purple?”
“It’s so perfect, yet it’s so simple: The Purple Onion.”
“It’s so perfect because it’s so simple.”
“Two steamed milks? One with caramel for the lady—”
“Thanks.”
“—And one with vanilla for the gentleman.”
“Thanks.”
“So….”
“So….”
“So….steamers?”
“Steamers. Started drinking them whenever I went to write—well, to try to write—at Hard Times on the West Bank. Because, well, what else do you drink at a coffee shop when you don’t—” Continue Reading This Story
By Em Frappier
She touched the fire to the pipe and took the sweet smoke into her lungs. The world went sideways, which was what she wanted. Anything was better than thinking. She was numb, and it was better that way.
The kitchen floor was cold under her bare feet. The sun was just rising over the mountains. She stood at the window and watched her father sitting in the garden. She was supposed to bring him a glass of water, but she couldn’t. It was so much better inside. She wanted to curl up on the cool tile and sleep. Continue Reading This Story
By Marc Nash
JANUARY: To see in the New Year and to prevent her head turning and casting a roving eye, I bought her a heavy choke chain necklace
FEBRUARY: For the designated month of love, I splashed out on pearl drop earrings
MARCH: Easter came early this year as did my beneficence, since her egg was a Fabergé one
Continue Reading This Story
By Ed Higgins
A hot summer night walks into a bar and orders a drink. A frozen strawberry daiquiri with lots of crushed ice, she says. She brings with her a slight fragrant scent of roses from outside, and a dusky, green hint of the ripening cornfield across the hiway. A large neglected rose bush outside in a half whiskey barrel sits to the left of the green padded-vinyl door. Its leaves brittle, desiccated petals falling from wilted blooms, stark thorns you could make a halo for Jesus with. Continue Reading This Story
By Michael Fredrick Geisser
“Don’t answer it,” my father said. “If people call at suppertime, they should be ignored.”
My mother said, “Donald, what if it’s one of our friends in need? Someone could be sick or hurt?”
“A rule is a rule, Gloria. Pass me the sweet potatoes.”
“Sometimes you can be so . . .” she said, stopping as she always did before she pushed my father too far. She handed the bowl to my Dad.
My dog Skippy, who was lying under my chair, began to bark and scratch at the rug.
“Shut him up, Steven,” Dad said. “He’s ruining my dinner.” Continue Reading This Story
