A World Without Sound (flash fiction)

All the sound was gone from the world, and it had been like that for a while. At least as long as Darius had been alive and many years before that. The Great Event happened more than a century ago, the story repeated so many times that it had become a legend. It was a pandemic, an infectious disease that altered the course of human history and turned everyone deaf.

The sound never returned, but humans are resilient creatures and found a way to persist and keep society moving. Sign language became familiar and more complex, and there was still the written word. But to live with no sound? Many grieved the loss deeply, and things such as music ceased to exist.

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Images of Pain (Flash Fiction)

A cold ground and thunder rumbling outside. All darkness at first and no memory of how I’d gotten here. Chilly air and damp.

I called out into the darkness but got no response. I saw what looked to be an old Zippo lighter by my side. I used it to faintly illuminate the room.

I am in prison, but the cell door is wide open.

They say sometimes we have dreams like this, though they could be better called nightmares. Perhaps they are nightmares embedded within nightmares in the subconscious, sleeping world. I have no memory of my life; everything is a blank slate, pale and grayish. The only images playing in my mind are of shadowy figures like ghosts. Though I see no one in this prison, I hear echoes of voices. They’re whispers, so I follow them. They say, “You deserve this,” and “The time is now for your punishment.”

The prison is expansive, set up like a labyrinth. I walk through the corridors and rows of cells, lost. It feels as though I’m wandering in circles. I follow the echoes of the voices. “Come closer,” they whisper. The thunder continues to rumble outside, and brief flashes of lightning that illuminate the prison’s interior. The whispers turn to deeper voices like growling. Then, the barking of dogs, loud, deep barks from vicious chained-up dogs. I can tell they’re chained up because I hear the chains rattle in the nighttime air.

No moon in the sky outside through the windows. My eyes adjust to the darkness so I can see better, but there’s not much to see. Despite the sounds, there still appears to be no one here.

My stomach twists with anxiety. Goosebumps on my arms. The clanging of steel now sounds in the distance. Memories are coming back, not like a flood of them, but little pieces here and there. Memories of a physical struggle, of looking down into the ashen face of a pale man on the concrete. His eyes are the purest light blue, and his smile is devious. He says, “Kill me, you bastard.” Memories of me holding a handgun and the steel’s coldness in my hands.

But it’s all mixed up. The man is on the ground, and his face has changed. The skin is green now, and the tongue is reptilian. The eyes are a deep yellow, and the teeth are sharp like fangs. There’s a crowd encircled around us, watching, cheering. There’s my mother crying, my dead father sleeping and levitating.

I am still walking the prison corridors, listening to noises. When I hit a dead end, the walls start closing in. Just when it appears as if there’s nowhere to go, a heavy door opens and hits me with a blinding red light.

Standing there behind the door is GOD.

But it is now how I imagined GOD would look.

He is a black, nebulous creature with wings. He has no face to speak of, and his body is not humanoid. It is more like a reptilian bird. I know this is GOD, though, for some reason. Something tells me it is.

I wait for the thing to speak while it flaps its wings. Then, the creature, GOD, opens its terrible, cavernous mouth and lets out the most horrible sound I could ever imagine. It blows me backward and pierces my bleeding eardrums until it makes me deaf and mute. The sound continues unabated, and the pressure in my brain keeps getting worse until it suddenly stops.

Everything is in complete darkness again. A garden has formed in this small room, filled with radiant blue flowers. A garden of the night within the prison walls. I fall asleep, I think, but I awake in the garden again.

There is no escaping this place. This is my home now, for eternity. Whatever punishment must come, it doesn’t matter. Whether I am cursed or blessed, I do not know. I know nothing anymore. Nothing but pain.

The End

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What Are the Most Important Elements of Good Flash Fiction?

Flash fiction is a fun genre to write. It’s also great for WordPress blogs because it’s short and it packs a punch. A genre of very short stories, flash fiction, is growing more popular by the day. Writing a good story in just a few hundred words can seem daunting, but the rewards of crafting an engaging story with a few well-chosen words can be immense.

Flash Fiction is a type of short story, typically no more than 1000 words, focusing on a specific moment in time. It’s a way to tell a complete story within such a small word count. Character development is often limited, with most stories having only one or two characters, and the story’s plot is usually succinct. This type of writing creates a vivid snapshot of the moment, often including emotional impact or dramatic action. As such, flash fiction authors need to find ways to effectively capture the reader’s attention quickly while also conveying their intended message concisely.

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Voices in the Attic (Flash Fiction)

We hadn’t been in the new house long before I suspected something was very strange. It was the noises at first. Initially, they were soft echoes that repeated the words me and my wife would say. Only in the bedroom, though. And this was awkward, as well, because it would repeat us during noisy sex. Each moan and groan would play out on a three or five-second delay, inevitably distracting us and making us stop. The echoes repeated the noises our dog made, too.

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Drifting (flash fiction)

The lines on the highway get blurry when you’re driving for so long. Pete was used to this; he’d stop at whatever town seemed appealing to him. He usually picked where he stopped based on the name of the town. He didn’t know much about these small hamlets throughout the states, nor did he want to. Usually, the smaller and quieter the town, the better for Pete.

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