The television at the diner was gone. My waitress said that someone smashed it. It was hard for me to imagine who would do such a thing.
After I ate, I went to the parking lot. I heard the sound of breaking glass. The manager was breaking someone’s car windows.
John Kujawski wrote this story.
We arrived with all the time in the world.
Those first birthdays couldn’t come fast enough.
The middle days whispered in our ears.
Don’t worry; there’s loads of time left.
We’ve known from birth this day would come.
Still, we’re surprised when we open the door and find death waiting.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
A loon’s call echoes across the amber lake. Her mate’s wail reassures her.
Above, a rested comrade takes point. The spent goose banks away, catching the slipstream.
Hardwoods preen, sashay their brightest orange, gamboge, and crimson. The old ones yawn, smiling at the adolescents, who dream tonight’s dance never ends.
Matthew lives in Maine.
The story of the week for October 9 to 13 is…
Grief’s Special Delivery by Connell Wayne Regner
After my husband’s departure, I acquired a dog for company.
Out walking, Rufus found a body in the woods. The policeman gave him some treats.
He scented the second corpse in the canal.
When Rufus brought back a finger, he had to go.
He’d also started scratching at the patio.
Viv Burgess wonders why dog walkers who find bodies in crime novels never get suspected. There’s a book in there somewhere, but it would take more than 50 words.
A black cat dashes across the busy highway. I slam on the brakes.
A siren chirps.
In my broken rear-view mirror, I see the fractured image of a police car. I pull over and the officer approaches my window.
I’m let off with a warning. Must be my lucky day.
Pontius Paiva protects himself every Friday the 13th by eating cereal with mini marshmallows shaped like items commonly associated with good fortune. See more from this superstitious scribbler at pontiuspaiva.com.
Let him die. The authorities will see. Can you carry the world’s weight with a back full of lead? I see you. Stranger. Will you overthrow them? You tend his wounds, and now you’re the dying one. But another comes. Stranger. Tending your wounds. Perhaps you have overthrown much more.
Michael Hilton lives in Irving, Texas, where he watches a lot of TV.
I would rather look at the sky than at a screen. I would rather walk than drive. I would rather drive tree-lined roads than highways. I would rather be alone than at a party. I would rather meet someone one-on-one than try to tell in 50 words who I am.
Jennifer L. Freed was recently irritated by a form that asked too many such questions. She mostly writes poems, sometimes writes short fiction, and always wishes she had more time to write anything at all.
I have been reading all of those stories about some strange creatures invading the Earth from another planet. One politician even says that there is a space war starting.
Don’t believe any of those lies. We are only visiting. We are staying for a long time because we like you.
Usually, Fillip writes in the fields of international politics and economics under a different name. These flash stories are creations in the shower when he can remember ten minutes later what he has composed.
At fifteen, the Pakistani boy knew the world was evil.
He saw the stranger outside the school gate, noted the bulge against the man’s chest. Unafraid, the boy stepped forward—and died in the explosion.
His mother cried, but that boy saved hundreds of mothers from crying for their children.
Diane Callahan is a freelance developmental editor and dreamer of fantasy and speculative fiction. Her YouTube channel, Quotidian Writer, provides practical tips for aspiring authors.