Flash Fiction and Short Stories
"A Gateway"
Dalia’s hammering pulse echoed in her ears as she stared at the cube on her doorstep. She recognized it from a movie she loved, but it couldn’t be real. Who would leave something like this on my doorstep? The box sat solitary, shining in the sun. It had to be a joke, but she didn’t think anyone knew about her love of the Hellraiser series. Dalia reached down to touch the box and hesitated. She hated to be on the receiving end of a prank. She picked up the box gingerly. She examined the device as memories from the movie flashed through her mind. It was by far one of the best replicas she’d ever seen. Her fingers itched with a child’s need to touch the device. A curiosity, one she didn’t think she could resist, burned within her. An aching need to run the pads of her fingers over its smooth gold and mahogany surface nagged at her. Her eyes darted around to search for the culprit to the box’s placement. No one jumped out in surprise. She shook off her paranoia and took the box inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.
The smooth surface of the wood and inlaid gold design glided effortlessly under her fingertips. It felt real. Too real. The design was perfect. Not a single detail was missing. Whoever made this box must have spent hours watching the movie, examining its details. Her fingers trembled as elation came over her. She let her fingers roam, becoming familiar with each grove in the small box. The slightly raised pars of the gold bumping under her fingers as it gave way to the glossed surface of mahogany.
"A Dying Man's Wish"
Jacob lifts the metal storage door with ease. It rattles and bangs against its constraints before slamming to a halt and bouncing down a foot. Dust and dirt particles swirl around him as he enters. His feet scrape against the cement of the nearly empty storage container, echoing through the small space. A single, worn cardboard box full of paper occupies a corner. The creek and slam of a rusted door announce his passenger joining him.
“This is it? How am I supposed to know whom that belongs to?” Jacob says.
“What did that old man hide out here?” Kelly says from beside him with her hands settled on her hips.
“It looks like a box of paper. Posters maybe?” Jacob closes the distance between the box and himself.
The paper isn’t paper at all, but heavy, aged canvases covered in cracking paint. Jacob shuffles through them. He stops at one painting of a man. Going back to the first painting of a small sail ship fighting the sea, he continues back through the paintings again. Taking a moment to look at each one before going to the next.
“Holy shit. There’s no way,” Jacob steps back from the box.
“What?” Kelly bends over the box examining the paintings. “Is that a Vermeer?”
“I can’t believe it. I didn’t know the old man had it in him.”
“Stop touching them. They’re almost ruined. The oil on your fingers will only make it worse.”
“What the hell do you want me to do? I can’t just leave them here. Besides, Papa wanted me to return them to the rightful owner.”
“Crazy old man. You need to call the FBI.”
“So I can go to the slammer? Have you lost your mind?”
“Didn’t you want to fulfill your father’s final wish?”
"The Visitor and the Guest"
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There were rumors about room 406. The gold letters gleam in the room’s light when John enters. The door snicks closed behind him. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, a typical hotel room with two beds dressed in a tacky bedspread. He walked around the room taking it all in.
The clock on the bedside table read 7:30 p.m.
John removed the bedspreads from each bed and piled them on a nearby chair. The action set his mind into a flashback of his wife doing the same. Settling in on the closest to the door, he grabbed the remote and turned on the television. He flipped channels, never settling on one.
…
“Why are you doing that?” John asked. His new wife bundles up the bedspread from the hotel bed and tossed it into a far corner.
“Because it’s the only part of the room that doesn’t get cleaned regularly. Trust me, you don’t want to lay on that.”
“I’ll take your word for it” He laughs.
…
After some time, the television flickered. It pulls him from his memory. John tosses the remote to the end of the bed. He gets up and paces the floor.
The clock read 7:45 p.m.
The air clicked on and startled John. He tripped over his own feet but righted himself. The whirring of the fans sputtered and stopped. The sun glowed blood orange through the glass door.
…
“Can you shut the curtains? The sun is making my eyes hurt.” Andrea shields her eyes. She is sitting at her desk, hunched over the latest project. Her headaches were getting more frequent. She didn’t sleep well, and it showed in her hollowed cheeks and the pallor of her skin.
“Yes, my love.” John pulls the curtains shut and her shoulders relaxed slightly. His worry must be showing on his face because she shook her head and smiled.
“It’s just a headache. It’ll go away when I lay down tonight. I promise.” He rubs her shoulders and they relax a little more.
…
His watch beeped and turned to 8:00 p.m.
A knock echoed through the door. A bead of sweat made its way through the pores in his forehead. He wiped it away and answered the door. No one was there. He checked both sides of the hall. Still nothing.
…
The door snicks closed. His wife and he looked up at the doctor that enters the room with her chart. The doctor won’t look them in the eyes. “Tell me what it is. Don’t sugar coat it.”
“Well.” The doctor looks at Andrea. She was never one to shy away from the truth.
“Just tell her. It will go over better if she doesn’t have to walk through the bushes to see the forest.” The doctor gives him a look. John shrugs, “It’s her saying.”
…
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