Daily Flash Fiction Stories
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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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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By Chloe McDonald
“You guys ready for a summary of the news, and my interpretations thereof? Okay.
“Concluding Question Time, the Prime Minister smirked and said, “Chitter-chatter.
“Precise Meaning: We’re the best.Continue Reading This Story
By Mike Woods
The day began like an explosion. That’s because my immature flatmate thought it would be funny to tip a bottle of water over me after I failed to respond to my alarm clock.
“Hey Brad! That’s the third time this week! Switch that thing off,” Sherrie said, “It drives me in-sane!”
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By Annecdotist
Trina gulps her coffee and bites into her toast (the teeth-tingling strawberry jam negating the virtue of the wholemeal bread and thereby triggering the guilt that she never really took advantage of that introductory offer at the gym). Continue Reading This Story
By Myron Lysenko
On my way home from a day trying to teach grammar to Year Nine boys, I stopped at the market. My wife had told me to buy apples which were ready to eat now; not the kind that sat around for days. That’s what happened last time. So I picked up each apple, looked it over, and pressed it between my thumb and forefinger to see that it was ripe. They were Golden Delicious, my wife’s favourite. Last month I bought Granny Smiths by mistake. She hates them, because of the name rather than the taste. “I’m not a granny yet,” she yelled. She hasn’t been the same since I took her boxer for a walk without a leash and it got run over by an ambulance.
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