Flash Fiction starters

I’m avoiding starting new projects (as I’ve got way too many on the go that I need to finish) but some of Chuck Wendig’s readers have done some awesome ones

My favourite is; Every Thursday in recent history Doctor Tongue had brought a cake for the library staff, but for some reason this Thursday rated pie.

I’ll do a read more as there are lots that I love!

I have to admit, being dead isn’t nearly as boring as I feared it would be.

I woke up with scabs on my hands and blood in my mouth.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being a teenager, it’s that plausible deniability is everything.

They say that to err is human and to forgive is divine, but I think they got the second half of that saying all wrong.

The barman turned with a grin and spat into my whiskey.

There were only two people in front of Roy in the queue, and one of them was dead.

It’s not every day you open the door to find your own future self knocking; in my case, it’s only on Wednesdays.

Phil had read that there were three thousand ways to kill a man; he only knew four hundred himself, but he was still an apprentice.

The stains from dragon vomit almost never came out, and being covered in it while standing in a pile of manure, Donovan should have known better than to think the day couldn’t get any worse.

My first kiss was a story I told myself until it was true.

We left the freezer door open, but only because Gerald’s hand wouldn’t fit with the rest of him, and ice cream is always better after it’s melted a little.

Still four shopping days till Christmas and already nine department store Santas dead.

In retrospect, I suppose he didn’t have to die.

“Lucifer was right, you are a monumental douche.”

Let’s see, yes, I think this is where it starts.

Eighteen disfigured bodies greeted me as I walked into the hotel lobby.

There was something not quite right about that headstone.

“What did you learn about death among the living?”

There were four of us — including one of the Saints — in the ATV when we left the Refuge and set off across the barren landscape of what we still thought of as Arizona.

My dreams are filled with dead things that move, slithering shadows, gleaming black blood, and broken teeth; yet I still prefer them to the world outside my head.

Helen’s Home and Guidepost for the Wandering and Lost sat on the edge of a forest, in the middle of nowhere, and at least half a day’s walk from anything relevant.

Daddy, are you listening?

At least now I understood what Dad meant when he said running for your life is good exercise.

The 3rd time I killed Mr. Jenkers I knew i had a problem.

I learned an important lesson today: When making a deal with the devil always, ALWAYS, get a receipt.

Waking up next to a dead man will ruin your entire day.

This dead guy, his name was Aftermath Brad and I’m not supposed to know that.

Fox could never turn down a dare, no matter how idiotic.

My day went from zero to what the fuck with one glance over my shoulder.

 

And a final one that I think is beautiful: He never stopped writing cursive but the characters in his text started to dip the older he got, as if leaning their ear to the ground, made thinner by the weight of time, the strain of days.

There’s some links to finished pieces on the blog as well.