Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction Monday:  Kill Him? Hold the Salsa

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She gives him five minutes to agree. The napkin says “call Abel.” The only problem: making murder look like an accident is harder than it sounds.

She’s right, kill him.

“She’s right—kill him.” Words I should have let roll into the storm drain. I didn’t.

I was at Jose’s Tacoria with my buddy Pedro. Jose leaned over, arm heavy on my shoulders. “You can’t go to the police, Juan. First thing they’ll ask is if you’re a citizen. When you say no, they’ll want the green card we don’t have.”

I sighed. “I’ve been dodging ICE for three months. I got more enemies in Tijuana than I got here.”

“That’s what I’m saying. You go to the cops, they’ll ship you back. Rocky gets Miranda on a silver platter.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Pedro’s eyes hardened. “You can’t reason with Rocky. His brain don’t work that way. Every time he screws up, his daddy Tito—Las Maspachas’ boss—bails him out. You got to put him down like the dirty dog he is. Tito will get over it.”

I laughed nervously. Rocky Sanchez, eighteen, baby-faced, obsessed with my girlfriend Miranda—who’s twenty-eight and knows how to throw shade like a champ. At first we laughed at Rocky’s crush. Until he started showing up at her work, loud, crude, and getting her blamed by her boss.

Pedro scribbled on a salsa-stained napkin, slid it across.

“What’s this?”

“Abel Torres. Guns on demand. Mention my name for fifty percent off.”

“You’re serious?”

“As a bullet. Make it look like Chico Malos took Rocky out. Let the gangs kill each other. The neighborhood’ll be safer.”

He sounded crazy. The worst part? He was making sense.

⸻

It started the night before. Miranda slammed the bathroom door and refused to come out.

“Mira, you okay?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Did I say something in my sleep?”

“I’m gonna kill that pendejo.”

“Who?”

“Rocky. Walking dead. Don’t talk me out of it.”

I leaned against the door. “He’s an idiot, but harmless.”

“I’m buying a gun and giving him a third eye between the other two. You in or out?”

“Will you come out and talk?”

“You got cinco minutos.”

When she finally emerged, her eyes flashed like warning lights, lips tight as the jaws of life.

“What did he do, Mira?”

“He came to the store, bragging to his friends what he’d do with me in bed. Loud. My boss blamed me and threatened to fire me. Next time, I’m out.”

“You want me to rough him up? Maybe a little assault charge?”

“I want him dead. Are you scared?”

“I’m smart. This is the death penalty state, Mira. You don’t get parole from lethal injection.”

“Make it look like a suicide. Tito too.”

I rubbed my face. “Mira, that’s double murder. Let me think.”

“You’ve got forty-eight hours. If Rocky’s breathing after that, your clothes are out the window.”

⸻

That’s what pushed me to Pedro. He wasn’t help; he was fuel on the fire. I left the tacoria and wandered to the river. Thought about throwing myself in—except I can’t swim. Crashed at my mom’s instead.

Morning, she shook me awake. “Mira called four times.”

My gut clenched. I pictured her in jail, maybe worse.

“She’s home,” Mom said.

I powered on my phone. Ten missed calls. Five messages. I didn’t want to hear them. Just hit speed dial.

Mira picked up on the first ring.

“How’d you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Get Los Chico Malos to take out Rocky and Tito.”

Her voice purred like she already knew the answer.

Flash Fiction Monday: My Grooved Swing and Civic Improvement

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One man’s baseball swing turns from sport to statement in a story where anger meets irony under the glow of streetlights.

The tattooed arm in the red pickup leveled a gun at me as he pulled beside my car. He leaned out, glass down, and yelled—little more than static and bile. Horns filled the air like warning shots. I’d cut him off getting onto the expressway; I didn’t expect to be practiced in retribution.

For a moment, I thought I was dead. I hit the brakes and pulled to the shoulder. He barreled past, shaking his fist and the firearm the way some men shake a fist at God. I watched his rear lights until they disappeared and I memorized everything I could: the plate, the stickers—every ugly creed and petty slur arranged like trophies across his bumper. My pulse was a drum. He thought he was  finished with me. What he didn’t know, it wasn’t over. 

No one pulls that stunt on Tony  Nichols without answering for it. I had his plate number and I had a buddy at the DMV who would trace it for me.

I had to be careful how I made him pay since a judge gave me two years probation, ordered me to pay restitution, court costs, and see a psychologist for my anger issues because of a simple parking space disagreement.

I signaled to pull into a parking space close to the supermarket entrance. The car in the space backed out leaving the space open. Before I moved my foot from the brake to the accelerator, a sporty BMW came from the opposite direction and cut in front of me and pulled into the vacant space. 

The BMW driver, sporting Ray Bans and dressing like he belonged on the cover of GQ  flipped me a dismissive wave and went into the supermarket. 

I took a baseball and smashed every window on his BMW and laid waste to his sideview mirrors. I was proud of my art work and grooved baseball swing.

Unfortunately, I didn’t think about security cameras.  The judge didn’t admire my art work or my grooved swing. I took a plea deal to avoid to avoid jail time.  

The work I did on the BMW was nothing compared to what I was going to do this truck and its driver.

I told my psychologist what happened and my plans. My psychologist told me I wasn’t angry with the guy who pointed a gun at me, I was angry with my mother. 

I asked my psychologist how he’d feel is someone pointed a gun at his head. He said it wouldn’t happen to him because he wouldn’t cut anyone off.”

I told him about the bumper stickers on this idiot’s truck.

“I’m going to teach him a lesson.”

The psychologist said, “Show him you’re the better person.”

My psychologist was the one who needed counseling, not me. 

“I was only ranting. Thanks for listening,” I lied.

I took a couple of personal days to follow this guy. His name was Randy Twilk. He worked at a hardware store.

The next morning I walked in the hardware store. I found him restocking a shelf. I had an urge to kick the stool he was standing on and watch him crash to the floor. I had something better in mind. 

All the pieces came together for me. What made it even better was that I bought what I needed from the shelf he was restocking. Pure irony gold. 

It was two a.m. when I pulled into Twilk’s apartment parking lot. I didn’t care about cameras. I was going full commando, I put black makeup over my face. I bought a ski mask with only openings for my eyes and mouth. I slipped on latex gloves. 

I worked my way in between cars, The only signs of life were me and two rats working the overflowing dumpsters. 

I went to work on Twilk’s truck with three cans of spray paint and painted a masterpiece Rembrandt would envy. At six a.m. I made a phone call to EyeWitness New 6. 

At 7 a.m. I turned on the TV, there was Stephanie Gibbons, Eyewitness News reporter standing next to Twilk’s truck with a microphone stuck in Twilk’s face.

“Mr. Twilk you’ve made a strong political statement with all the pro minority groups art work on your monster truck. it must take a heaps of courage for someone with your background to support gays, blacks,  open borders, and a ban on guns.”

Flash Fiction: Three Nights, Two Lovers, One Impossible Choice

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When secrets collide with love, someone’s heart is bound to shatter. How long can one woman balance the impossible?

✍️ Grab Hold First Line

Laura hadn’t slept in three nights, and the silence of the early hours weighed heavier than her own conscience.

📖 Paragraph (190 words)

Laura’s heart raced as she replayed their faces in her mind—Matt with his steady warmth, Scott with his fiery ambition. Each man, unaware of the other, had slipped a velvet box into his pocket and circled a date in his mind. Laura loved them both. That was the truth that tormented her in the dark, the truth that made her stare at the ceiling until dawn painted her blinds. How long could she keep balancing this fragile house of cards? How many more dinners, how many more stolen weekends before everything came crashing down? She thought of Matt’s soft smile, the way he believed love was built brick by brick. She thought of Scott’s daring eyes, his conviction that love was a leap, not a climb. Laura knew she couldn’t say yes to both, yet saying no felt like a betrayal of her own heart. She pressed her palms against her temples, wondering not just who she would choose—but who she would become once she did. The night offered no answers, only the relentless ticking of a choice she could no longer avoid.

💬 Question for Readers

If you were Laura, torn between two loves, would you follow your heart, your head—or walk away from both?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Whispers Between Broken Hearts

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Two betrayed souls meet in a park, torn between fear and longing. Will they risk a second chance at love or let it slip away?

Grab-Hold First Line

He tossed a peanut toward the pigeons, never expecting his heart might follow its arc.

Flash Fiction Prompt

The park bench had become her quiet refuge, a place where pigeons gathered as if they carried secrets in their wings. She cupped a handful of peanuts, scattering them across the gravel, each toss a silent prayer for peace. A man on the next bench mirrored her, his movements deliberate, almost solemn. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—long enough for recognition, too short to call it safety. Both bore wounds from partners who had promised forever and delivered betrayal. The silence between them was charged, not empty, but filled with what-ifs and maybe-nows. His hand tightened around the peanut bag. Her breath caught in her throat. The pigeons fluttered, oblivious, as if daring the two wounded souls to do what they feared most—trust again. Neither spoke, yet both wanted to. The question pulsed louder than the city around them: will you risk another chance at love, or let fear win?

If you were sitting on that bench, would you take the risk of speaking—or would you let the moment slip away?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Unemployed and Desperate—Would You Take the Money?

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One man’s worst day turns into his most dangerous choice when he finds a backpack stuffed with cash in the park.
Grab-Hold First Line

The backpack sat alone on the park bench, its zipper straining like it held a secret too big to contain.

Flash Fiction Prompt

After another fruitless day of searching for work, he cut across the park, shoulders slumped under the weight of rejection. That’s when he saw it—an unattended backpack, weathered and sagging, with no one in sight. His first thought was to ignore it, but curiosity tugged harder. He glanced around, then unzipped the top.

Stacks of crisp $20 bills stared back at him, neat bundles piled high. His heart pounded. He touched the money just to be sure it was real, the paper cool and undeniable. A hundred questions hit at once: Who left it? Was it stolen? Was someone watching him now?

The weight of his unemployment pressed in. Rent overdue. His fridge nearly empty. This bag could erase months of struggle. Yet his conscience whispered: “Easy money comes with chains.”

The park suddenly felt smaller, every rustling leaf like a watcher. His hands trembled. Should he take it, report it, or walk away as though it never existed?

Question for readers:

Imagine you’re the one cutting through the park after another long day. You see the backpack, unzip it, and find bundles of $20 bills staring back at you.

👉 Would you:

  • Take the money and run?
  • Report it to the police?
  • Walk away and pretend you never saw it?

Your turn: Share in the comments what you (or your character) would do—and why.

Flash Fiction Prompt: Blood, Money, and Fear: An MMA Fighter’s Choice

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When the fight of her life collides with a threat she can’t ignore, the cage becomes more than sport—it’s survival.

Grab Hold First Line

The cold barrel pressed against her ribs made the championship belt feel very far away.

Paragraph

She had trained for years, every drop of sweat, every bruise, every ounce of sacrifice pointing toward one night—her chance at the title. Two days before the biggest fight of her life, she was forced into a car, blindfolded, and driven to an abandoned factory lot. When the cloth came off, she faced two masked men and a thick envelope shoved into her trembling hands. Inside: stacks of crisp $100 bills. “Throw the fight,” one of them growled, “or you’ll never walk out of that cage alive.” Her stomach churned, not from fear, but from rage. They were asking her to betray everything she had ever bled for. The weight of the money in her hands was nothing compared to the weight of the choice before her. She had dreamed of this moment her entire career. Was she willing to give it up for her life? Or was victory worth dying for? The cage suddenly looked less like a ring and more like a death trap.

If you were in her shoes, would you take the money and live—or fight for the title no matter the risk?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Lipstick on the Mirror: A Deadly Message Awaits

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What if the safety of home turned into your worst nightmare? Step into a scene where lipstick becomes the messenger of fear.

First Line Grab

She flicked on the bathroom light—and froze.

Paragraph

After a long day at the office, the quiet hum of her apartment usually brought comfort. She dropped her keys on the counter, slipped off her shoes, and padded toward the bathroom, ready to splash water on her face. But tonight, comfort shattered into terror. Written across the mirror in thick, smudged lipstick were the words: “You’re going to die, Bitch.”The crimson letters dripped slightly, as if freshly scrawled. Her stomach dropped, icy fear rushing into her veins. She stumbled back, nearly knocking over the towel rack, every sense screaming. The door had been locked when she entered. Hadn’t it? She grabbed her phone with trembling hands, but the battery was dead—how convenient. She thought of bolting, but what if he—or she—was still here, waiting? The apartment suddenly seemed smaller, every shadow a hiding place. Her reflection stared back at her, pale and wide-eyed, framed by that cruel message. One thought echoed in her head: They knew her name. They were inside.

If you walked in and saw this on your mirror, what would you do first—run, fight, or freeze?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Deadly Waters: The Gulf Excursion Gone Wrong

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A father-son fishing trip drifts into dark waters when the skipper’s secret call reveals a sinister “cargo.”

First Line

The salty breeze carried laughter until a single overheard word—“cargo”—changed everything.

Flash Fiction Prompt

The sun shimmered across the Gulf of Mexico, painting the waves gold as a father and son cast their lines with childlike anticipation. It was supposed to be a perfect afternoon—fish on the hook, memories in the making. But then, as the boy leaned against the rail, he caught the skipper’s voice drifting from a cell phone call.

“We’ll drop the cargo overboard before dusk,” the skipper said, his eyes scanning the horizon.

The boy froze, his small fingers tightening on the rod. Cargo? He looked at his father, who smiled, oblivious, untangling a fishing line. Was he the cargo? Was Dad? Or was this boat carrying something darker—drugs, weapons, something that could drag them all into danger? The boy’s heart raced as he weighed the choice: tell his dad, or keep silent and pretend nothing happened.

The line on his reel suddenly jerked. Fish—or fate?

3 Questions for Readers

  1. How would you escalate the suspense once the boy overhears the skipper’s call?
  2. Should the “cargo” be the father and son—or something illegal that endangers them anyway?
  3. How would you end the story: escape, rescue, or a chilling twist?

Flash Fiction Monday: Marty Bennetti Doesn’t Do IOUs

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When mob collectors close in and your best friend suggests armed robbery, what’s your escape plan? For Lenny, it wasn’t muscle or bullets

Marty Bennetti Doesn’t Do IOUs

“You got the thousand dollars you owe Bennetti?”

Larry, the beak, DiVito had his right hand around my neck and was lifting me off the ground.

Larry is Marty Bennetti’s administrative assistant. That’s what you call the mob’s debt collector these days. The cops have tried for years to shut Bennetti down, but no body dares to talk. When the police think they have a witness, the witness catches a serious case of amnesia. 

“Larry, I’m short of cash. My mom has a hernia and can’t work. You know how it goes.”

“I don’t know how it goes. I know Mr. Bennetti is out a grand. I will stop by to collect the money day after tomorrow. I don’t want Mr. Bennetti disappointed. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I’ll do my best ”

“You gotta do better than your best. When you win, does Mr. Bennetti tell you he will do his best to pay you off?”

“Ah … “

“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking rhetorically. As I was saying. Does Mr. Bennetti tell you to come back next week to collect your winnings? No he does not. See you the day after tomorrow.”

There’s no way I can legitimately come up with a grand. Two weeks ago, my buddy, Johnny, couldn’t pay Marty Bennetti and Bennetti sent DiVito to break his left arm. He told Johnny pay up next week or he’ll  break the other arm.

An hour later I was at s coffee shop trying to bum cash from my best friend Pete Cardozo.

“No can do, Lenny. I’m walking on thin ice, you know what I mean? Besides, DiVito is not so tough. I think you can take him.”

“He grabbed me by the neck with his right hand and lifted me off the ground. You still think I can take him?”

“If you got a lucky punch in. You want me to see if I find brass knuckles?”

“I don’t need brass knuckles. I need a stroke of luck.”

“You come to the right guy, Lenny.”

“What you got?”

“I been thinking of hitting the liquor store on Grove Street for a couple of months,” Pete suggested.

“I’d be a three time loser if I get caught and that means life.”

“That’s cause you don’t plan. Me? I’m like NASA I plan until I’m ready to take my moon shot and stick the landing. Hear me out.”

The door opens and DiVito walks in. He stares at me. Puts two fingers to his eyes and twists them to point at me.

“I don’t like the way DiVito was looking at you, Lenny. You got no choice but to hit the liquor store with me,” Pete whispers.

Pete was right. I didn’t have a choice. Pete and me decided to do a walk through tonight.

Eight hours later I’m riding shotgun in Pete’s Honda. 

Pete pulled into the parking lot of a mom and pop store across from the liquor store. He parked so we could face the liquor store.

“Only the counter guy is there, I say we hit it now?” Pete said reaching over to open the glove box. He pulled out two guns.

“No guns, Pete. That’s armed robbery. Besides we gotta case the place. And, you haven’t told me your perfect plan.”

“I got too excited. You go over and give the place the once or twice over. Buy something so the counter guy don’t get suspicions.” 

Ten minutes later I was in the Honda. 

“You are not going to believe this, Pete.”

“What?”

“Member you told me to buy something.”

“Yah, so?”

“I bought one of them scratch off tickets. And, I scratched it.”

“Did you hit something?”

“DiVito is gonna have a tough time breaking my arms next week.”

“You won a thousand bucks? You gotta give me a finders fee. You wouldn’t  a bought a ticket here if I didn’t take you. Besides I told you to buy something.” 

“No way I’m giving you a finder’s fee, Pete.”

“You’re not? We been best buds since our mom’s got knocked up with us.”

“Pete, I won a trip for two for two weeks all expenses paid to Hawaii. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“What about DiVito?”

“We can hit the liquor store when we come back.” 

Flash Fiction Prompt: Blood on the Gridiron: A Detective’s Deadly Season

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When fandom turns feral, the game isn’t just about touchdowns—it’s about survival.

First Line

The roar of the crowd masked the killer’s footsteps as another player fell silent in the shadows of the stadium tunnel.

Flash Fiction Prompt

Detective Marcus Lane never cared for football, but this season he can’t look away. Not from the field, but from the bodies piling up behind it. A star receiver poisoned before kickoff. A quarterback found strangled after a decisive win. Each victim shares one thing—they all stopped the local team from victory. The killer, a rabid fan whose obsession has crossed into madness, leaves taunting notes scrawled in team colors: “For the glory of the game.”

Lane knows the season is short, but the body count is growing. Every win for the home team means another rival marked for death. As the investigation tightens, the detective feels the killer watching him from the stands, disguised among tens of thousands of screaming fans. How do you stop a murderer when the suspect could be anyone wearing a jersey?

The season has just begun. Can Lane catch the fanatic before the championship dream becomes a blood-soaked nightmare?

3 Questions for Readers

  1. How would you build suspense in revealing the killer’s identity without tipping your hand too soon?
  2. What clues would you scatter in the stadium chaos to keep the detective—and the reader—guessing?
  3. Would you end the story with the killer caught, or let the season—and the terror—continue?

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