Short Stories Join free writing groups Register for updates About the Author: |
Flash Fiction
 Memories of Love by Willem Haenraets |
His breath was heavy in the thin, chilled air. I suppose mine was too, although it wasn't the focus of my attention. He was. His long, slow rhythms, the stars visible over his shoulder, so close it seemed I could pluck them from the sky. I shifted my gaze. His eyes were closed, concentrating on the slick sensations of the moment, as pleasurable to me as him.
 Tender Moment by Richard Earl Thompson |
Grandson, you picked a warm, spring night to be born, as did your mother, thirty years ago. While you lay cuddled to your mother's breast, I sit alone under the flowering silk tree,wrapped in a delicate fragrance wafting upon silent air. And my thoughts are not what I expected.
Short Stories
 New Adventures by Judith Gibson |
The insurance appraiser's words curdled my stomach. "It's in poor shape. Not worth very much."
It was an unsolicited and unnecessary opinion since Grandma's desk wasn't part of the earthquake claim. It was meant to be intimidating, negating the value of the other pieces, a ploy that would not work but was distressing nevertheless.The entire process was a rape of my personal life. I reminded myself to breathe. "Perhaps if you knew its history, you would perceive life different."
 Motorcycle by unknown |
Satan's Seducers Motorcycle Club, est. 1952, was emblazoned across the front of the cement fortress across the street. The yards were girded by a matching fence, effectively screening their world from the prying eyes of a curious public and equally curious cops.
 Tea and Memories by Joy Evans |
If I laid very still, with my cheek pressed hard upon the cold tile floor, I could look up through the front window and just barely see the top of the rose covered hill across the street. There, behind the endless blooming of flowers, were the front doors of the storybook house. My friend, Mrs. Bell, lived there. Mama said Mrs. Bell was crazy.
 In Blue by Antonio Vega |
Night crept in quietly. I'm alone, surrounded by corpses. Young, old, male, female: They are my charges. I'm supposed to fill them with embalming fluid, but tonight I have other needs to fulfill.
How sweet she looks, the Webb's adored daughter, now lost forever. Heroin. She died from an overdose at fourteen. Anger begins to rise: If she was adored, how come she needed heroin? How could they let her die from its deadly embrace? "Don't worry, dear. I'm here. I love you even if they didn't."
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