Flash Fiction

The Favor That Couldn’t Be Refused

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When Uncle Tony calls after fifteen years, the favor he asks could ruin your life — or save it with a twist you’ll never see coming.

The caller ID on my iPhone made me a candidate for a cardiac arrest. I’ve dreaded this phone call for 15 years . The caller ID said it all, Tony Abruzzi. Wherever I went in this city when someone heard my name, Mark Abruzzi, they tossed me the same question, “You related to Tony Aburzzi?”

Tony Abruzzi rumored to be the mob boss. Tony Abruzzi arrested nine times. Nine times a witness in one of his court cases disappeared. Tony Abruzzi who had more legislators and cops on his payroll than cable network channels.

I hadn’t heard from uncle Tony since he pulled strings to get me into Harvard Law. He paid my tuition and Harvard tuition doesn’t come cheap.

When I asked him how he did it, he said, “I can reason with people.”

I said, “How can I repay you?”

“Maybe some day I’ll want a favor,” Uncle Tony said giving me a slap on the back.

I knew I’d regret what he did for me. Today was the day for the favor.

I answered, “Uncle Tony, how are you?”

“Nick, I’m in the coffee shop across from the courthouse. C’mon over and join me.”

“My case starts in five minutes. Can we speak on the phone?”

“You want me to sing you happy birthday? I do that on the phone. I don’t do nothing else.”

“But, the judge . . .” I muttered.

“Make up an excuse. Besides, avfew years in Cedar Junction will be good for your client,” Uncle Tony said.

“I don’t know if I can get a postponement.”

“I get you into Harvard Law and pay your tuition. This is how you thank me?” Uncle Tony’s voice had the edge of an angry snapping turtle.

I had no choice. I said, “I’ll talk to the judge.”

“You do that,” Uncle Tony snapped.

Twenty minutes later I was sitting at a corner table inside CoffeeTime across from Uncle Tony. Uncle Tony, his back to the wall, his eyes scanning the sidewalk and scanning anyone who came into CoffeeTime for a tell..

“The judge was reasonable. She gave you a break,” Uncle Tony laughed.

“I told her I tested positive for COVID right before court started. I was wearing a mask, She had no choice but to believe me,” I said.

“I like your style, Mark. That’s why I chose you for a little favor I need done no later than Saturday,” Uncle Tony softly said.

What is it?” I asked picturing Uncle Tony telling me to whack a competitor.

“I want you to take care of Tom Janovick. I owe him one. I don’t want anybody know I asked you to do this. Capito?”

I nodded then asked, “You know he’s the assistant D.A.?”

“You think I’m stupid,” Uncle Tony waved his hand dismissing my question.

“What do you want me to do?” I stammered.

He stared at me, “You went to Harvard. You figure it out.” He picked up his coffee cup and walked out of CoffeeTime.

Saturday was two days away. What was I supposed to do? Kill Janovick? Kidnap his wife or son and hold them for ransom? Did he want me to put a bomb in his car? As a kid I heard family rumors about people who crossed Uncle Tony. It never ended well. I hurried to the restroom and left my breakfast there.. Soon as I got home I went straight to ChatGPT to find out everything about Tom Janovick. I couldn’t find a connection between Uncle Tony and Janovick. My wife was about to lose a husband, my son a father if I didn’t deliver. My stomach was tied tighter than a boa constrictor’s coils around its prey.

I got my breakthrough the next day at lunch. I tailed Janovick to a deli. Janovick shook hands with a short muscular guy who looked familiar to me. My mind raced to place him. They sat at a table near the bar. I took a stool close by and ordered a beer. Five minutes later I knew who was meeting with Janovick. I knew what I had to do. It was a long shot. If I was wrong, I’d be dumped in the harbor. I needed to call in two favors, one legitimate, one that could get me disbarred.

I got my favors and the package I needed late Friday afternoon. I was cutting it close. I went to Janovick’s house at 2 a.m. The house was pitch dark. His ten year old Toyota sat in the driveway. Perfect. I slipped a ski mask over my head and went to his car, jimmied the car door open and set the package on the driver’s seat.

I’m doing yard work Saturday afternoon when my phone rang.

“Everything worked out, Nick,” Uncle Tony said.

“It did?” I answered.

“I didn’t give you a clue. How’d you figure it out?”

“Janovick met Javier Lopez at the deli. I figured it out.”

“Give you credit. Lopez bats cleanup for the Sox. I got lots of pull, but I couldn’t get first base side box seat tickets for the Yankees and Sox game. You got them right next to the dugout. And, they were playing on Janovick’s birthday that was an extra plus. Janovick and me go way back. He helped Tony Jr. get out of a teenage jam. Janovick called me from Fenway and thanked me for the tickets. Even better, he owes me.

If this story hooked you, share it with someone who loves suspense. And keep coming back — new flash fiction premieres every week right here.

A Call You Don’t Want to Miss…

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What would you do if a phone call from the past threatened to turn your entire life upside down?

Some phone calls you welcome with joy. Others… you spend your whole life dreading.

Tomorrow at 4:45 PM CDT, I’ll be posting a brand-new flash fiction piece that explores what happens when family ties, old debts, and mob loyalty collide.

Here’s the setup:

“The caller ID on my iPhone made me a candidate for a cardiac arrest. I’ve dreaded this phone call for fifteen years. The caller ID said it all: Tony Abruzzi.”

That’s all I’ll share for now. The rest? You’ll have to come back tomorrow to see how far one man is willing to go when his powerful uncle decides it’s time to collect on an old favor.

It’s sharp. It’s fast. And it’s a story you won’t want to miss.

Mark your calendars — tomorrow at 4:45 PM CDT.

Flash Fiction Prompt: Face to Face With Darkness: A Sleepless Thriller Prompt

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What happens when the enemy you fear most isn’t out there—it’s staring back at you from inside?

First Line Grab:

I flicked on the light—and there I was, sitting in the chair, smiling back at me.

Paragraph:

At first, I thought it was a trick of exhaustion, a hallucination brewed from too much caffeine and not enough rest. But then the other me spoke. His voice was calm, almost tender, as though he’d been waiting for this moment. “You’ve hidden me long enough,” he whispered, standing, moving with the same rhythm as my own heartbeat. I backed away, but the wall caught me. His eyes glowed with something I had buried years ago—rage, temptation, freedom. Every step he took felt like a countdown, every breath like stolen time. “Tonight,” he said, “only one of us survives.” The clock ticked louder, the silence pressed in. I realized this wasn’t a nightmare I could wake from. This was a reckoning. And the question wasn’t if I would lose sleep—it was if I would live to see the morning.

❓ Three Questions to Spark Writing

  1. How does the protagonist’s “dark side” reflect truths he’s tried to hide?
  2. What setting details could heighten the claustrophobic dread of this encounter?
  3. Who ultimately wins—light, dark, or something in between?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Ninety Minutes to Prove Her Innocence

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The clock is ticking. A woman’s life hangs by a thread—and the truth is her only weapon.

First Line:

At 11:30 p.m., the hum of the fluorescent light in her cell sounded like a countdown to the end of her life.

Paragraph:

Ninety minutes. That’s all Maria Sanchez had to change the course of her fate. Outside the thick steel door, the prison corridors echoed with the methodical steps of guards—each one bringing her closer to the gurney. Her hands trembled as she gripped the pen, the last tool left to her. Somewhere in the governor’s mansion, a staffer would read her plea, decide if her words were worth passing on. Every letter had to bleed urgency, truth, and the raw injustice that had stolen her last five years. She didn’t kill Senator Harper. She wasn’t even in the state when it happened. Evidence was buried, witnesses silenced, and now time itself had turned executioner. Maria stared at the clock on the wall. Eighty-nine minutes. Somewhere between despair and resolve, she decided: if the governor wouldn’t listen, the world would. Her story would not die quietly.

Three Questions for Flash Fiction Inspiration:

  1. What hidden truth could shatter the case in the final minutes?
  2. Who stands in the shadows, benefiting from her silence?
  3. What final act could make her voice impossible to ignore?


Flash Fiction Prompt: The Woman Who Forgot Herself — and Might Not Want to Remember

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What if the truth about you is the one thing you can’t bear to know?

First Line:

Her name was the first thing she couldn’t remember—and the last thing she wanted to find.

Paragraph:

The mirror in the motel bathroom reflected a stranger. Pale skin. A faint scar above the right eyebrow. Eyes that seemed to search for something and recoil from it at the same time. She’d woken three hours ago on the floor, head pounding, with a bloodstained note in her pocket that read: Don’t trust him. No name. No explanation. The scent of gunpowder clung to her clothes, and the faint hum of tires outside told her she was not far from a highway. Whoever she was, someone wanted her erased—or maybe she’d erased herself. Her hands trembled as she unfolded a second scrap of paper she’d found in her shoe: You know why. She didn’t. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. But the dread in her chest whispered that the truth wasn’t hiding from her. She was hiding from it. And now, someone was coming up the stairs.

Three Questions for Flash Fiction Inspiration:

  1. What truth about her past would make her fear remembering?
  2. Who is “him,” and why can’t she trust him?
  3. Is she running from a killer—or from herself?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Midnight Pulse: Your Next Sleepless-Night Thriller Prompt

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Ready to write the story that keeps even you checking the shadows? This flash fiction prompt will drag your reader into the deep end—fast.

First Line:

The phone rang once—just enough for me to answer—and then I heard my own voice whisper, “Don’t scream.”

Opening Paragraph:

It was 1:17 a.m., and the darkness outside pressed against my windows like a living thing. I hadn’t spoken a word all night, yet my voice—my exact tone, my subtle rasp—had come through the line. The whisper was too close, too knowing, as if the caller had been watching me for hours. My chest tightened as I scanned the room. The shadows seemed to lean forward. I replayed the sound in my mind, searching for flaws that would prove it was a trick, a recording—anything but what my gut told me: it was happening in real time. The silence stretched on, heavy and deliberate. Then, faintly, in the background of the call, I heard something else—my front door slowly creaking open. My body froze. My mind raced. And somewhere in the house, the floorboards began to groan under someone’s weight.

Three Questions to Spark the Reader’s Story:

  1. Who—or what—was using the narrator’s own voice, and how?
  2. What’s waiting beyond that front door, and why now?
  3. Does the narrator escape, fight, or learn a truth more terrifying than death?

Flash Fiction Prompt: The Night the Sky Forgot to End

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What happens when darkness refuses to fall, and the day won’t die?

First Line:

The sun clung to the sky like it had secrets it couldn’t bear to bury.

Paragraph (175 words):

By 11:58 p.m., the whole town was wide awake, staring at a horizon that refused to dim. Children clung to their parents’ legs, dogs barked at nothing, and the air was thick with a heat that didn’t belong to midnight. The mayor stood on the courthouse steps, tie askew, voice cracking as he assured everyone it was “just an atmospheric anomaly.” No one believed him. The farmers said the corn was whispering at them, words in a language they’d never heard. The old woman in the corner diner swore she saw the shadows moving—without anything to cast them. Radios crackled with static, and the preacher’s bell rang by itself. Somewhere, far beyond the fields, a hum began, low and steady, like the earth had a heartbeat we’d never noticed until now. No one knew what was coming. Everyone knew it was already here.

Flash Fiction Writer’s Prompt: The Day the Sky Forgot Its Color

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When reality takes one step sideways, the smallest change can shatter everything you thought you knew.

First Line:

The sky blinked, sighed, and then forgot to turn itself back on.

Starting Paragraph:

No one noticed at first — the morning coffee still brewed, dogs still barked, and Mrs. Caldwell still shouted at the mailman for stepping on her lawn. But sometime between sunrise and mid-morning, the blue drained from the sky as if someone had pulled the plug. By noon, it was an empty expanse of pale nothingness, a ceiling erased. Children stopped playing. Airplanes rerouted. And then came the whispers — not from people, but from somewhere above, just out of sight. The wind seemed to carry messages, half-heard, that made you stop in your tracks. Some swore they could feel eyes on them, others claimed they saw shapes moving in the blankness. The government issued a statement about “atmospheric irregularities,” but no one believed it. You stood there, neck craned, wondering if this was a glitch in the universe — or the moment the truth finally slipped through.

3 Questions for Flash Fiction Inspiration:

  1. Who—or what—caused the sky to lose its color?
  2. How does the world react as the phenomenon worsens?
  3. What personal stake does your protagonist have in restoring the sky?

Flash Fiction: Smiling in the Shattered Glass

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Love, lies, and a an ex’s vengeance leave Joey with a bloody nose, a broken TV, and a smile he can’t explain.

Smiling in the Shattered Glass

Gail is five-foot-four, never topped 110 pounds. I’m six-two, and a hundred pounds heavier. Her slap loosened two teeth and gave me a bloody nose. That was the end of us. Or maybe the beginning of my biggest mistake. This is how it went down.

I’m a bartender at The Last Round, big enough to double as the bouncer. Thursday night was packed—half-price drinks for ladies, and the guys piled in, ignoring the sticky floors and not minding the cheap perfume as long as they could hook up. It didn’t matter to most if they exchanged names or not. I was pouring rum and cokes when Nicole walked in and wiggled and flirted her way to the bar.

She was the last person I wanted to see. We broke up six months ago at Vincenzo’s. It’s a trendy Italian bistro. We were eating a pricy meal when out of the blue she’d demanded to know if I was cheating on her. I turned away, hoping Nicole wasn’t grasping the steak knife. I tossed her a goofy smile, shrugged, and said, “I was meaning to tell you.”

 I thought Nicole was going to dive across the table and thrust the steak knife into my chest. 

“Who’s the bitch?” Nicole demanded to know my lover’s name.

 I wouldn’t give it to her. She carefully set the knife down, glared at me, and tossed the remainder  of her wine into my face and stormed out. I was left with the bill, a ruined shirt, and my freedom.  

Later, when I went to our apartment to get my stuff, I found it dumped into the parking lot from her third-floor balcony. My PlayStation? Smashed. My MacBook? Dead. My clothes? Baptized in red wine. The next day, she kicked up the revenge theme into the passing lane. There were the hang-up calls, the CHEATER posts on Instagram, and some very unflattering AI “nudes” of me.

Three weeks later, she disappeared from the online revenge. I thought it was over for good.  Until tonight.

“You going to say hi or are you still pouting?” she asked.

“Hi, Nicole. What’ll you have?”

“You know my favorite. And I’m here to apologize—for the calls, for everything. Lunch at Vincenzo’s tomorrow. My treat.”

Maybe she’d changed. Sure. Like a scorpion changes. Like a fool, I said yes. A simple no would have sufficed. I didn’t need a scene. I like my job. I didn’t trust her to calmly accept being turned down.

The lunch went smoothly. She apologized and paid. She begged me to take a selfie with her for old times’ sake. What was I thinking? She took a selfie of us, and she was draped over me tighter than a boa constrictor is around its prey.  

The next day, when I came home, Gail—my straight-laced, daily-Mass love—was in the hall, hands on hips. I thought she’d run into my arms. Instead, it was the slap that loosened two teeth and a bloody nose that refused to quit.

“You bastard. I’m out of here.”

“What? Gail—”

“Get out of my way.” She shoved past, backpack over her shoulder, middle finger raised. The slam of the door knocked my favorite Red Sox mug to the floor, shattering it like my heart.

I called Gail’s cell. Straight to voicemail. Again and again. I called her mom. Her mom told me I was lucky all she broke was my heart.

I was halfway through a pity beer when my cell rang. No caller ID lit the screen. I grabbed it like a lifeline.

“Gail?”

“How’s it feel, Joey?” Nicole’s voice dripped poison. “Remember the selfie? I sent it to Gail. Gail may be my twin, but we were never close. I got even with two at the same time.”

Her laugh followed me into the silence when the line went dead. I hurled the phone into my TV—glass shattered, the Red Sox game froze, then blinked out. My heart was wrecked, my apartment wrecked, and now my TV too. In the cracked screen’s reflection, I almost looked like I was smiling. Hell, maybe I deserved every bit of it.

Flash Fiction Prompt: The Day the World Skipped a Beat

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What if time hiccupped for everyone… except you?

First Line:

The second hand froze mid-tick, and the silence slammed into me like a brick wall wrapped in velvet.

Opening Paragraph:

One moment, the city was a symphony—horns blaring, footsteps slapping the wet pavement, a street vendor shouting about the “best tamales in the world.” The next, it was as if the air itself had congealed. The man mid-bite into a hot dog was now a statue. The steam rising from his bun hung in the air like a ghost. A bus stopped inches from the crosswalk, the driver frozen with a half-blink that made him look almost… scared. My phone still ticked forward. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. The world hadn’t ended—it had just… stopped. Which meant that for some reason, I was outside of whatever force had hit pause. And that left me with one question that tasted like adrenaline and fear: if I was the only one left moving, what exactly was I supposed to do now?

Three Questions for the Writer:

  1. What’s the first risk your character takes in the frozen world—and why?
  2. How does the stillness reveal something hidden about them?
  3. What happens when time suddenly restarts?

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