short fiction

Writer’s Prompt: Murder in the Mud: A Thrilling Flash Fiction Crime Story

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A detective spots a killer’s unique footprint in the last place she expects. Read this gripping dark noir flash fiction and write the ending.

Sole Witness

The rain in San Antonio didn’t wash away the filth; it just made it slick.

Mari Gomez stared at the plaster cast on her desk. A distinct, interlocking chevron pattern with a jagged tear across the left heel. The imprint of a high-end running shoe. It was the only clue left in the muddy alley where old Buster, a harmless fixture of the neighborhood, had been beaten to death for the change in his pockets. Or so it seemed.

She grabbed the file and walked into the office of District Captain Vance to report her progress. The air in his office smelled of stale espresso and expensive cologne.

Vance was leaned back, his feet propped up on the mahogany desk, laughing into his phone. “Yeah, it’s handled,” he murmured, his voice smooth, devoid of the stress that kept Mari awake at night. He glanced up, saw her, and nodded toward the leather chair across from him.

Mari sat, dropping the case file onto her lap. Her gaze naturally fell to the desk. To the shoes.

Her breath hitched, sticking like dust in her throat.

There they were. Propped right at eye level. Brand-new, premium athletic shoes. And there, carved into the left sole, was a jagged, unmistakable tear splitting the interlocking chevron pattern.

Vance winked at her, still talking on the line. “Don’t worry about the noise, it’s dead in the water.”

The room turned ice-cold. Mari’s fingers tightened on the edge of the folder. Vance reached for his desk drawer, his eyes locking onto hers, the casual smile vanishing from his face.

How does Mari survive the room? Does she confront the captain right there, or play it cool and walk into a trap? The next move is yours—finish the story.

Writer’s Prompt: The Last Bet That Could Save Everything

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Some decisions don’t knock—they stare back at you from a glowing screen and wait.

Carl Previti knew the numbers weren’t lying, and that was the most frightening part. He stared at the computer screen as if it might blink first. The projections were cold, clean, and merciless. Traffic was down. Cash flow was drying up. The business he and Janie had dreamed into existence—late nights, borrowed faith, and too much coffee—was sinking fast. Twenty thousand dollars. That was the number that kept pulsing in his head like a warning light. Enough to save the launch. Enough to lose everything. Another loan was impossible; the bank manager had already delivered that smile people use when the answer is no. The savings account sat untouched, a quiet promise meant for emergencies, not desperation. Vegas hadn’t crossed Carl’s mind until it suddenly had—one hand of blackjack, a clean decision, win or walk away forever. He imagined Janie’s face if it worked. He imagined it if it didn’t. Risk, he realized, wasn’t about recklessness; it was about choosing which fear you could live with. The clock on the wall clicked toward midnight. Carl shut the laptop, grabbed his keys, and wondered if fate respected courage—or only odds.

Writer’s question

If you were Carl, would you protect the dream by walking away—or risk everything on one impossible hand?

Writer’s Prompt: The Cabin by the Lake Was Empty—Until a Knock Changed Everything

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One quiet act of kindness could protect a family—or place everything JoAnne believed about safety and courage at risk.

JoAnne Summers folded the cash into Jose Martinez’s calloused hand when he leaned closer and whispered, “They’re taking people—families—from my barrio.”

For five years Jose had cut her grass, trimmed her shrubs, and power-washed her driveway with quiet pride, never late, never careless. Now his eyes darted toward the street as if it might suddenly betray him. He spoke quickly, explaining that ICE vans had been circling at dawn, that neighbors were disappearing, that his two children—born in the U.S.—cried at night when sirens passed. JoAnne listened, her stomach tightening. She thought of her small cabin by the lake, empty most weeks, a place she used to escape noise and worry. The idea arrived uninvited and dangerous. What if she offered it—no rent, no paperwork—just a place to breathe until the threat passed? The risk was obvious. So was the need. Jose fell silent when she spoke, disbelief softening into something heavier than gratitude. As he nodded, JoAnne wondered whether kindness always comes with consequences—or whether fear survives because too few doors ever open.

Question for Readers

If you were JoAnne, would you open the cabin door—or would fear keep it locked? Why?

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