Flash of Fiction

Sweat drenched my shirt as the sun beat down on me. I swiped at my forehead, wiping away beads of sweat and leaving a trail of dirt in their place. I looked down at the hole in front of me. Not quite deep enough for what I needed it for, but already too deep for landscaping. I would know. Landscaping was my day job. “Would you like some lemonade?” the homeowner called. She was a sweet, middle-aged woman. If I could, I would’ve felt bad about what I was going to leave buried under her lawn. But then again, if I felt bad for all my clients, I would never get any work done. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said as I took a glass from her tray. She looked over the edge of the hole I’d just climbed out of and then back at the sapling on the side of the road. “Why is it so deep?” I took a long drink from my glass. “I bury dead pigs under all the saplings I plant. Helps ‘em grow. Stinks to high heaven, though, so I gotta put ‘em deep down.” She shot a nervous glance toward my ...

BEFORE YOU READ: The following story deals with suicide and may be triggering for some. If you struggle or have struggled with self-injury or thoughts of suicide, please don't read this story. I thumb through the note cards in my hand again. Only three left. Four already gone, delivered with no final words. It bothers me that I couldn’t say goodbye, but I get to say goodbye anyway. That’s what the note cards are for. The bus I’m riding trundles to a stop. I look up and realiz e we’re at my stop. I slip off, clutching my note cards close to my chest. Another couple of blocks and I’m at the next house. Just like the others, I knock first. And, like the others, there is no reply. I slip a note card under the door, taking one last look at the plain, handwritten words. A song title and an artist. That’s it. I didn’t sign any of them, but they will all know who left them. Back on the bus, I stare out the window, watching the town rush by one last time. I will neve...

With every bump in the road, the supplies in my backpack rattled, and there were a lot of bumps. The road was in terrible shape since nobody came up this way anymore, except for the odd group of kids sneaking into the house on a dare. It was perfect. I pedaled up the last of the hill and stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. The old house loomed above me. The roof drooped, the windows were broken, and half the paint had peeled off. The home of all the local ghost stories, but not for long. I set my bike down on the lawn and bounded up the steps. As I stepped inside, I called out, “Hello?” I made my way upstairs. “Hello?” No response. Good. Didn’t wanna accidentally kill somebody. In a matter of minutes, I’d emptied my supplies and gotten to work. I splashed lighter fluid everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, on the rotten remains of furniture. The Molotov cocktails were next. I’d made them out of old soda bottles, strips of a bed sheet, and more lighter flu...

As I walked in the building, the fear rolled off the patrons in waves. Gasps followed my purposeful footsteps into the center of the floor. I raised my arm, pointing the gun in my hand at the people behind the counter. "You know what I want. Hands in the air, and step around the counter slowly." The employees did as I asked. “On the ground.” The employees knelt at my feet. I pointed my gun at a woman across the room, the manager. “Fill this up.” I chucked a bag toward the counter. The woman grabbed the bag, her hands shaking. Strangled sobs escaped her chest. “There’s no need to get choked up. All I want is the money,” I said. “All of it, from every register.” The woman nodded, her chest still heaving. My gun followed her from register to register. When she’d gotten all the money, I took a few steps toward her. “Bring me the bag.” As she stumbled around the counter, I sensed movement out of the corner of my eye. I whirled around, gun...