Free Flash Fiction — Read Short Stories Online

Lookin’ for free flash fiction — bite-sized stories that ignite your imagination in just a few paragraphs? Whether you love sci-fi sparks, poignant love stories, or unexpected twists, our collection of super short fiction delivers a complete emotional journey in a jiff.

A Slice of Modern Madness

Written by: A.F. Knott

Tagged: Crime, Dark, dialogue, gritty, madness, modern noir, Psychological Horror, Urban

When the man came up to the counter, the clerk had just started smelling himself. He was wearing the chain’s vest with the red and blue patch and had left his name tag on the bed. He’d forgot to wash the vest because he started watching a comedy on Netflix, then watched a second and stayed up until midnight. The vest’s armpits got soaked in sweat the day before when he was unloading the truck. When the man walked up, he was thinking about having to wash the vest that night. The man put his things on the counter and started yacking like a hedge trimmer.

“Seen him move over onto the yellow median and I’m thinking he’s going to make a left, but he didn’t make a left. He kept inching along the median. I slowed down because I was afraid to pass him on the right. Me, afraid. I’m following him and he keeps driving along the median, and I’m thinking, son of a bitch, he’s getting me irritated. I kept watching the car and getting more irritated. Red Taurus. And he wasn’t drunk. The car wasn’t moving like a drunk was driving it. So, what I was saying—it moved like he was looking for an address, slowing down, speeding up, like a zoo animal. You seen a polar bear at the zoo, what they do? They pace. They pace and they tear fur out. You see what zoo polar bears look like? It looks like it has some kind of disease, but it doesn’t. Well, it does, I take that back. It’s a mental disease. They all look like that from tearing their fur out with their teeth.”
Plastic Nightmare

Written by: Thomas M. Malafarina

Tagged: Dark Humor, dialogue, Family, Marriage, modern noir, noir, obsession, Psychological Horror, relationships, Satire

“Brenda, this obsession of yours has gotten way out of control.” Herbert Weinstock said to his wife. He was standing in his living room with his briefcase, ready to head out to work. He looked about the room with a combination of disgust and frustration.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herb,” she replied.

“Jesus, Brenda. You’ve gotta be kidding me! It’s this obsession you have with collecting all this Barbie crap! For God’s sake! You’re fifty-seven years old. Why the hell are you still collecting these ridiculous dolls?”

Herbert pointed to the hundreds of boxed Barbie dolls that lined the shelves on almost every wall. He had known his wife collected everything Barbie-related when he married her thirty-five years earlier, but back then, her collection had been relegated to a small extra bedroom in a seldom-used area of the house. Now, Barbie paraphernalia was found in abundance in every room.

Brenda replied, “You just don’t understand Herb. You never understood. The world of Barbie isn’t simply about collecting dolls; it’s so much more than that. The thing about Barbie is it’s a… well, I suppose it’s a lifestyle.”

“Lifestyle?” Herb shouted, “More like a cult of mindless idol-worshiping minions. That’s it! It’s idolatry; that’s what it is. Brenda, you’ve become an idol-worshipping pagan!”
When Hal Calls, I Answer

Written by: Mark Slade

Tagged: dialogue, Family, funny, modern noir, relationships, trouble

A friend of mine named Hal Pressman called and said, “Hey, Walt! You gotta come over here and see this!” He hung up with a chuckle, not even giving me a chance to say I was working in the garden with Marci.

She noticed the perturbed expression on my face.

“Who was that?” She asked, rising from the ground and dusting dirt from her bare knees.

“Hal,” I rolled my eyes, put my phone back in my jean pocket.

“Good grief,” Marci said, exasperated. “What does he want?”

“He wants me to come over to his cottage.”

“You were just there yesterday.” Fuming, Marci added, “Watching Porky Pig cartoons for twelve hours, I might add.”

“Popeye,” I corrected her.

“What’s the difference?”

There was no arguing a point when a person has no interest in the subject of their outrage.

Marci continued. “When the University job starts you won’t have as much time for Hal. Because what little time you will have will belong to me.”

“I know,” I whined.

Marci had hammered home that statement since Coleman University hired me to teach Film studies last month.

“Why is he obsessed over cartoons?”

“Animation,” I corrected.
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“Whatever it’s called, Walter, a grown man shouldn’t be watching that stuff as much as he does.”

I shrugged. “He’s writing a book.”

“So he says. I think he’s just lazy. Weird to quit a good job managing one of the biggest resorts in the country,” Marci said. “He does know you have a wife, doesn’t he?”

“Marci, what can I do?”

“You can say no. That you are spending the day with your beautiful, charming wife.”

“I could.”

Marci sighed, rubbed my back affectionately.

“But you won’t.”
The Truth About Humanity

Written by: Thomas M. Malafarina

Tagged: Confession, Dark, Desperation, Enigmatic, Isolation, madness, Mystery, Psychological Horror, Unease

I might as well get this out of the way from the start. I’m not crazy, no matter what you think after reading this. The truth is, I’m a world-famous author. Many of my books have been adapted to screenplays and have become major motion pictures, royalties from which have made me wealthy.

In my early days, finding someone to publish my work was impossible. As a result, I collected a stack of rejection letters probably taller than the five-story tenement building where I rented a one-bedroom flea-bag apartment paid for by an assortment of part-time jobs.

It’s often been suggested I have an attitude problem, a sense of superiority. But how difficult is it to be superior to what we think of as the general public? In my opinion, most of the people out there are barely human.

The concept of what constitutes humanity is paramount to what I’ve learned and what truths I’ll reveal to you soon.
It Was Always 3:08

Written by: Beth Lee

Tagged: hallucinations, Murder, paranoia, police investigation, Psychological Horror, Psychological Thriller, supernatural mystery

Once I was done crying, I apologized.

“Why are you apologizing?” He asked.

I didn’t know, actually. “I don’t know. For wasting your time. I’m so tired. Recently, I haven’t been sleeping.”

“You haven’t wasted my time. You told me what you saw on the recording. What was the date your camera recorded this . . . incident?” he said.

“The actual murder? Two nights ago. At 3:08 AM. They were all at 3:08.”

“All? What do you mean all?”

He still hadn’t written anything down, so I half expected him to stand up and walk me back out to the front.

“There were several recordings of the man, both men really, before the murder.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and send all of the recordings to me when you get home. We haven’t had an unsolved murder in our district since early February,” he said and stood up, indicating our meeting was over.

“Sure, Yeah. But that’s the weird part.” I hesitated and he didn’t speak. “It doesn’t look like it was filmed in front of my house.” I didn’t mention that the blood squirting from Bald Man looked fake. He could make his own judgement when he reviewed it.

He looked behind me and nodded, likely responding to a detective behind him rolling his eyes at what I’d just said. Nonetheless, he ushered me out, handing me his card with information to send the recordings on the back.

Once home, I sent the recordings, but wasn’t surprised when I didn’t hear back. Then, I ate cereal for dinner and laid in bed without brushing my teeth or removing my makeup. For the first time in months, I slept through the night.
Half Awake, Half Dreaming

Written by: Robert W. Chambers

Tagged: Dark, Gothic, Mystery, Mystical Symbols, relationships, Suspense

She dropped at my voice, and I had time to curse myself while I made a light and tried to raise her from the floor. She shrank away with a murmur of pain. She was very quiet, and asked for Boris. I carried her to the divan, and went to look for him, but he was not in the house, and the servants were gone to bed. Perplexed and anxious, I hurried back to Geneviève. She lay where I had left her, looking very white.
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“I can’t find Boris nor any of the servants,” I said.

“I know,” she answered faintly, “Boris has gone to Ept with Mr. Scott. I did not remember when I sent you for him just now.”

“But he can’t get back in that case before to-morrow afternoon, and—are you hurt? Did I frighten you into falling? What an awful fool I am, but I was only half awake.”

“Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. Do please excuse us for letting you stay here all this time.”

“I have had a long nap,” I laughed, “so sound that I did not know whether I was still asleep or not when I found myself staring at a figure that was moving toward me, and called out your name. Have you been trying the old spinet? You must have played very softly.”

I would tell a thousand more lies worse than that one to see the look of relief that came into her face. She smiled adorably and said in her natural voice: “Alec, I tripped on that wolf’s head, and I think my ankle is sprained. Please call Marie and then go home.”

I did as she bade me and left her there when the maid came in.

What Is Flash Fiction?

Flash fiction — also called microfiction or sudden fiction — is storytelling distilled to its essence. Usually under 1,000 words, each story captures a single moment, emotion, or decision that lingers long after reading.

Writers and readers love flash fiction for its intensity and surprise — perfect for modern readers who want stories that fit into commutes, coffee breaks, or bedtime rituals.