We value your privacy

We use cookies to enhance your browsing experience, serve personalized ads or content, and analyze our traffic. By clicking "Accept All", you consent to our use of cookies.

Customize Consent Preferences

We use cookies to help you navigate efficiently and perform certain functions. You will find detailed information about all cookies under each consent category below.

The cookies that are categorized as "Necessary" are stored on your browser as they are essential for enabling the basic functionalities of the site. ... 

Always Active

Necessary cookies are required to enable the basic features of this site, such as providing secure log-in or adjusting your consent preferences. These cookies do not store any personally identifiable data.

No cookies to display.

Functional cookies help perform certain functionalities like sharing the content of the website on social media platforms, collecting feedback, and other third-party features.

No cookies to display.

Analytical cookies are used to understand how visitors interact with the website. These cookies help provide information on metrics such as the number of visitors, bounce rate, traffic source, etc.

No cookies to display.

Performance cookies are used to understand and analyze the key performance indexes of the website which helps in delivering a better user experience for the visitors.

No cookies to display.

Advertisement cookies are used to provide visitors with customized advertisements based on the pages you visited previously and to analyze the effectiveness of the ad campaigns.

No cookies to display.

national flash fiction day

  • The Juggler

    Waldo the Sword Swallowing Midget was being carried out on a stretcher when Lucius arrived. In the stage manager’s office, Oliver Bunco was pacing and chewing nervously on a big cigar. Lucius called out, “Everything alright, Bunco?” “Did you see Waldo? Poor sod; he pulled out the big one and pulled part of his gut…

    Read more: The Juggler

  • The Faces of Harry Slade

    It had been a normal sort of Sunday, so far. The sun had shone for most of the day. Lawns had been mown. Cars had been washed. Children had been yelled at. And Harry Slade had lain in his bed. He’d lain there all morning. The sun squeezed through the closed, but gappy, slats of…

    Read more: The Faces of Harry Slade

Subscribe and keep up to date with whatever this is