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!

Continue reading “Flash Fiction starters”

Flash fiction: font

A quick piece written from the Ad Hoc Fiction prompt of “font”.

Handwriting can tell you a lot about a person. For example, consider the piece of paper I currently hold between my gloved fingers.

The font is slightly crooked; a twist on the S and the T suggests a malleable personality. A bold stroke on the down of the K does speak of a flash of spirit, but the rest is low and drifting. The E and O are almost interchangable, and the pen does not press firmly. The personality overall is quiet. Open to suggestion. Generous. Weak.

Perfect.

I lay the note next to the blank eyes that stare up at me. Her handwriting said a lot about her…and it had the additional benefit of being easy to copy.

A suicide note that was easy to create. An alibi that was easy to forge. A reward that will be easy to take.

Flash fiction: In Memoriam

From the prompt “brass” at Ad Hoc Fiction.

He lives in a heap of rusted metal parts beside the old shopfront on Marley Road. He’s an older model; a ‘67, maybe, long obsolete. He pays no attention to the world, until you stop in front of him. Then tiny pinpricks of light in his eye-sockets focus, and he holds out a flower to me.

The materials he uses are dead; polished brass, rusted iron, silvery aluminium, fragile plastic, thin wire. But under his tools, they come alive. It’s a long time since I have seen anything as beautiful blooming in the real world.

I hand him a coin, which he pushes between his teeth.

“Where do you get your materials?” I ask as I tuck the metallic rose into my uniform.

“My fallen kin provide.” His voice is a flat drone. “Now they have another use.”

He starts another flower, and I walk away into the smog with a memory pinned to my heart.

Flash Fiction: Frosted Heart

From the prompt “fern” for Ad Hoc Fiction

Icy tracery on my window; the thin tendrils of frost speak of the chill outside, and I shiver from something more than cold. Jack Frost’s ferns warn me of his arrival.

He showed me the live ones, once. They were fragile and ethereal in the weak sunlight; but the delicate tracery vanished under my fingers, and Jack pouted. My warmth was deadly in that place.

He has never lost the scar that my lips caused on his frozen skin; the angry red that blossomed has not faded. He asked for the kiss, but has not forgiven me for giving it.

And so I shiver when I see the spreading ferns on my window.

Jack Frost comes.