Flash fiction, short stories, poems, novella
Flash Fiction I was supposed to be writing about the bright decorative lights hanging so festively on the roof of the neighboring apartment complex as if it was Christmas, and yet it is Christmas, but the lights aren’t meant for Santa Claus. Regardless, the pantone yellow fairy lights go well with the night and with […]
Flash Fiction / Letter TW: Suicide Dear August, Regardless of what you believe about greetings in the start of a letter, I genuinely hope that this letter finds you in good health. You’re right. I am not exactly doing well. I am writing this letter to thank you for everything you’ve done till now. Having
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Fiction / Letter Dear Jan, The convention of writing a letter is to start with a greeting. An empty statement of hope towards the recipients’ good health. With your permission, I will forego that convent since your previous letters have made it beyond obvious that you are already in a deplorable state. I remember the
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Flash Fiction / Dialogue Only “Where am I?” “Oh, does it matter?” “What? Where am I?” “Everywhere and simultaneously nowhere.” “What the hell? Where am I?” “Where the river meets the sea; where dreams are disintegrated to oblivion.” “How did I get here? Where am I?” “In Xanadu, with Xubla Khan. Nine fathoms deep, with
Flash Fiction It was difficult to catch her singing, and often I didn’t try. I mustn’t. For I mustn’t be caught listening. As a rule, I left her alone. Everyone did. But sometimes I let my eyes follow her discreetly along as she shifted through the rooms, an apparition, silent, ghostly, unhappy. Mostly the third.
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Short Story / Post Apocalyptic I moved my hands through the blue, papery flames. The desert sun was blistering overhead in the brilliant desert sky, casting angry, yellow rays that baked the rough sand and us. The cold fire helped a bit. My eyes fluttered from object to insulating object before resting on the nomad
Flash Fiction “Dad, look, mountains!” Little Crisie pointed excitedly at the blue, bulbous mountains due north where the river flowed into the fog, her voluminous ponytail bobbing up and down, her arms shaking wildly and forearms struggling to reach over the last rung of the railing. He smiled, marveling at his little daughter’s excellent eyesight,
The slow spinning fans did nothing to abate the tense, humid, arid warmth of the classroom. Tensions ran high, pens ran slow. The clocks ticked, and so did nervous pens at the whims of nervous ticks; and sheets of papers were created that would dictate the quality of their author’s life from here on out.
Flash Fiction / Dialogue only “Leonard, did you take your medicine?” “Yes.” “There, you’re doing it again. Your meds are still on the counter.” “I took them.” “Don’t take that tone with me, I know when you take them and when you don’t.” “Then you should know that I took my meds.” “You’re exasperating. C’mon,
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Flash Fiction The weather is cold and listless. The seething sea hostile and frigid, the air cruel, piercing, and pregnant with an apocalyptic volume of water vapour, a tsunami threatening to burst forth out of the strained intermolecular forces of the paper-thin, unforgiving atmosphere. It is cold. The very spaces between the air molecules, the
