Crows waddle about pecking at the grass and dirt. He, in his black security guard uniform, waddles along too—arthritic knees splaying his legs. On the nearby street, tires squeal and horns honk, sending the crows skyward. He stops, turns his head, watches them, surely with a twinge of green.
Louella Lester writes in Winnipeg, Canada. Her flash writing has appeared in Spelk, Reflex Fiction, Flash Fiction North, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Fewer Than 500, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine.
Amy dragged her feet and luggage. The 22-hour flight was a killer. She needed food. Bad.
Bright, colorful photos lined the overhead menu.
“How much damage for Burger Meal #4?” asked Amy.
Behind the counter, the skull in a black, hooded cloak grinned. “Four years.”
Amy sighed. “Upsize it, please.”
Joey always upsizes it. He can found at joeytoey.com.
Micah the mole had always wanted to fly.
One day, he climbed a tree and jumped. For a full second, he was dropping through the air like a dead bird. It was exhilarating, then very painful.
He told his friends he’d do it again, but they knew he was lying.
“Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven…”
“Ha! Poor seven. Gone before its time.”
“You said nine ate seven!”
“…That’s really juvenile.”
“Oh, lighten up! Why is everyone always so serious around here? It’s not like we’re performing heart surgery or anything.”
“No. We’re just launching manned space flights.”
“Those are real?”