#flash fiction prompt

[operationmorewhitecollar]

At long last

Gosh, we've been bad lately. And this is just a quick drive-by post, but we've made ourselves a "new season resolution" to get back into the swing of things. (It's like a new year's resolution, but we don't want to wait that long, so almost summer will have to do.)

Anyway, we're sorry for being incommunicado for so long, and we're so grateful there are still folks out here looking for the flash fiction prompts. So, for the moment, here's the June prompt, but we'll be back sometime later tonight to see what sort of shenanigans we've been missing out on!

[transcendragon]

“Look, I can tell you try hard to provide a good home and your child has only good things to say about you,” Ms. Paureen said, holding her clipboard close as she stared me down, “but I can tell there’s more that you’re not telling me.”

I cursed internally. Social workers had been sent our way before, it felt like an inevitability as a single mother even without the lycanthropy, but the others had clearly just wanted to check off boxes. It was almost scary to think about how easily they’d dismiss a household with real problems. I would applaud Ms. Paureen’s dedication if she weren’t such a major problem.

“I- I don’t know what you mean,” I said, trying not to glance away. “What more could there be to tell?”

Besides, of course, the secret trap door leading to the locked and padded basement. The layers of red meat under the popsicles in the freezer. The tattered clothes of my late husband that I kept deep in my closet, one of few memorabilia of him in his cursed form. Nothing at all besides all of that.

“I’ve checked your child’s records,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Every month? It’s a pattern, almost like clockwork. It makes me wonder.”

My heart pounded in my chest. Blood rushed in my ears.

“Wondered what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

She glanced around and lowered her voice surreptitiously. “Has your child had an early puberty? PMDD is nothing to scoff at. They claimed they were just clumsy every month, but I think they almost admitted to me that they have… monthly struggles. Have you seen a doctor?”

I pressed my lips together to keep the relief from flooding my face and finally let myself look down at my hands. I could feel the laughter welling in my chest, and fought desperately to keep it down. Premenstrual Depressive Disorder? More like Pre-Lycanthropic Depressive Disorder. But I couldn’t say that.

“Do you really think so?” I asked, just to say something.

She nodded gravely. “Young people find it hard to talk about these things, they might not have mentioned anything to you. But it’s truly worth checking out. See a doctor, just in case, alright?”

“Of course, I’ll have it fully checked out,” I said.

“I’ll check in with you again in a few months,” she replied. “I’ll expect to see that doctor’s report on record!”

She didn’t leave immediately, needing more signatures and admin forms. When she finally left I let out the deepest sigh of relief that I could manage. I headed up to my kid’s bedroom, knocking on the door for them to let me in.

“Is everything alright?” they asked me anxiously, but didn’t give me the chance to respond.. “She didn’t realize anything? I think I said too much, and she got this look, I’m so sorry-”

I raised my hands to stop the flow of recriminations.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I said firmly. “Everything is fine. We just need to call up that vampire doctor again.”

“Her?” They made a face. “But their hands are always cold! Can’t we just go to the Dryad vet again?”

I shook my head. “This isn’t exactly a medical issue. It looks like we might have to fake PMDD.”

“PMDD?” They repeated. “What’s that?”

“Well, remember the talk we had last year?”

They groaned. “Ugh, I wish I could forget it. That was so embarrassing.”

“Unfortunately it looks like there’s going to have to be a part two to that conversation,” I said. I put my hands on my hips as my child fake-gagged at me and sighed.

The glories of having a werewolf child. After everything, I have to admit the experience probably isn’t that different from many other parents. You never know what to expect with kids.

Your child is a werewolf. You're struggling to both keep their condition a secret and give them a normal life. Full moons are always a challenge. One day child protective services visit you on a report of your child's scars and monthly missed school days.

[ekingston]

Friends! Lovers! Writers of fan fiction, foe fiction and original fiction alike! Are you drowning in WIPs? Do you find yourself procrastinating instead of writing? Do you abandon all of your current projects every time you think of a shiny new idea? Fear not! I’m here to make your problems even WORSE by bringing you a

The following picker wheels will randomly assign you a genre, a premise, a trope, and a subject (an item, concept or character that has to come up in your fic in some way).

The challenge is to write a fic up to 1000 words long.

For extra credit, make it exactly 100, 250, 500, 750 or 1000 words long.

Please reblog with the prompts you were given, and if you’re up to the challenge, link to your work in the comments!

If you like, you can add your work to the collection on ao3. It’s categorized as multi_fandom_flash_fiction.

I’ll also be regularly updating the masterlist here.

Have fun & thanks for playing!

[gothamite-rambler]

Jason answered his phone in the middle of the job, the target seizing up at the sound of the ringing. Jason held up his finger, asking the man to wait.

Jason: Hello?

Alfred: Jason, I have a gun that Mas— I'm not too pleased to be dealing with him, so I'll just say Bruce found it in the laundry room and was talking my ear off about why I would need a gun in the laundry room.

Jason: For protection. We live in Gotham.

Alfred: That’s what I tried to tell him. He wouldn't listen and demanded I get rid of it. I’m not disposing of my gun to a random person or leaving it on the street.

Jason: Obviously, weapons are something I like to regift rather than sell. Unless it's a faulty gun I buy from some pathetic loser of a drug dealer— and if you crawl away again, I’m shooting you in the other leg!

Alfred: Are you working? I didn't mean to interrupt.

Jason: Technically. This person, who for the sake of this call I won't disclose their gender, is a teacher who slept with students. Plural. And I’m being generous using the word 'sleeping' but you gotta say that cause 'legal'.

Mr. Coddwell: Love is love—

Jason shot the man in the other leg, eliciting a scream. Jason snort laughed at the man's deserved pain.

Jason: One of the parents of their victims lives near me. We meet at the ShopRite a lot, her daughter... not doing great. So I'm dealing with the vermin who again, gender has not been specified. This could be a woman with a deep voice, right?

Alfred: You don't have to ask me; I'm giving you a gun even though Bruce specified to not give it to you. We never had this conversation, but I am proud you're dealing with trash like that. Let them live and suffer, prisoners despise pedophiles. Back to you, would you like the gun? You're the only one I know who uses weapons responsibly, and I've always respected that.

Jason: Aww, thanks. For those kind words, I will gladly take the gift. Can I pick it up tomorrow?

He tucked his gun into his pocket, then calmly walked over to grab a small step ladder.

Alfred: Of course. Hope you have a good day at the "park".

Jason: Oh… I’m about to.

Jason ended the call, carrying the closed steel step ladder towards the teacher as he hummed a tune from Heathers.

Jason: I wonder how many hits this will last before it breaks? Let’s find out.

Mr. Coddwell (terrified, holding up his hands): No, no, no!

Jason smirked, smacking the man hard with the ladder while shouting insults.

Jason: Bet your victims begged you to stop! How does it feel to be helpless?! Ooo, you just made me work in a song for this!

Mr. Coddwell (crying like the baby he is): NO! YOU'RE A THEATRE KID TOO!

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ seven word prompts for seven sentence fics 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ “really? i never knew that about you.”

²⁾ “come on, don’t pretend for my sake.”

³⁾ “looks like they left in a hurry.”

⁴⁾ “who’s calling you this late at night?”

⁵⁾ “seriously, were you dropped as a baby?!”

⁶⁾ “i could eat a horse.” “please don’t.”

⁷⁾ “ice cream? at three in the morning?”

⁸⁾ “get your ass here, right fucking now!”

⁹⁾ “i really did care about you, y’know.”

¹⁰⁾ “you’re not going home, you need stitches!”

¹¹⁾ “we need to get you warm, fast.”

¹²⁾ “how long have we been driving for?”

¹³⁾ “[name]- “ “don’t start. [boss]’s already deafened me.”¹⁾

¹⁴⁾ “what’s a single bed between three friends?”

¹⁵⁾ “why are you in just a towel?!”

¹⁶⁾ “i’m your bodyguard, not your damn friend.”

¹⁷⁾ “swallow your pride.” “i’d rather swallow concrete.”

¹⁸⁾ “you look really good in my money.”

¹⁹⁾ “i said i’d help. didn’t say how.”

²⁰⁾ “come, sit. i made you some dinner.”

²¹⁾ “hide! they’re coming your way, and fast!”

²²⁾ “i knew you had feelings for them.”

²³⁾ “you’re exhausted, pet. let me mind you.”

²⁴⁾ “[name]’s in the hospital. it’s not good.”

²⁵⁾ “but you promised it’d all be okay!”

²⁶⁾ “their cover’s been blown- get them out!”

²⁷⁾ “who’d buying you flowers that isn’t me?”

²⁸⁾ “i was stupid enough to believe you.”

²⁹⁾ “isn’t paying for dinner a date thing?”

³⁰⁾ “for you, i’d do anything.” “i know.”

[featherlovesrobots]

this would be hilarious actually

"As they stood together on the balcony, they stopped and stared into each other's eyes. For the fifth time, by the way, because they don't get bored easily, I guess. But who's keeping track."

unreliable narrator but it's just an aromantic writing romance

[dc-dorito]

PROMPT

What if clockwork had HUGE beef with the flash family? They slow down time or travel back and forward in time and it just ruins all his hard work. At the beginning, it was ok but after five years? No, just no. Now the justice league has to summon Danny to make political connections, but after the summoning Danny is just gob smacked and asked flash to sign something, when asked why Danny just says "you and your entire family pissed off the controller of time and timelines. He isn't allowed to kill you guys because ghost writer won't allow him, so he has been planning your lives after you die, he has a HUGE grudge with you guys, you're like celebrities". And flash? He has a new love for being alive and absolute terror for when he dies

[ammarettu]

Writing prompt: Curse breaking, true hate's kiss.

It's been two weeks since that horrible wretch of a mage falsely seduced him. Wandering hands on his chest and muttered words of adoration had distracted him from that distinct crackle and the faint scent of ozone.

He should have known better.

Should have seen it, or sensed it. He knows mages. Knows what they're capable of, their temperaments and egos. It wasn't until she was uttering about how he needed to learn to be humble, not to try and worm his way into everyone's good graces. Had to accept that people - no one - wanted him, that he noticed what she was.

So, instead of getting laid, he'd gotten cursed.

At least, mercifully, she'd told him the means to breaking the curse, which left him unable to speak, sing, or write.

True hate's kiss. Kiss someone who well and truely hates him. Perfect.

Which is how he now finds himself trudging through the overgrown wilderness, chasing rumors of a white-haired Witcher despite promising on the top of that fucking mountain that he would never bother him again.

He's still angry. Still hurt. His heart aches with every step closer, feels flayed open like bass being salted for dinner - and now he's hungry on top of it all!

He knows Geralt is going to be angry, annoyed at having to see him again even after the six months that have passed, but it can't be helped.

Jaskier's boots are caked in mud, the soles worn thin - he's pretty sure he's more blister than man at this point, despite his feet being used to years of walking, he's spent quite a bit of time in one place recently. He's gone soft rather quickly, it seems. (That tends to happen when you drink yourself stupid almost every night.)

He's close now.

He can see the smoke of a fire rising from above the trees, just past a village that told him the White Wolf had been staying nearby for the past several weeks, slaying mosntsers, refusing coin and only coming into town to sell the parts.

The woods here are dense, he'd curse at the branches smacking him in the face if he could, nature can eat his entire ass, thank you very much.

So maybe he's in a bit of a bad mood. Usually, the dense foliage, verdant and towering, letting through faint rays of sun that glitter on the moss and stones of the ground would inspire him to compose. Today he can only feel anger, because if he lets himself feel anything else he'll remember how heartbroken he is and start weeping like a small child.

So he's angry.

Angry at the branches. Angry at the Witcher.

Geralt hears him approach, of course he does. He's a Witcher, and an extra special one at that. The thought irks something in him that wants to taunt, "Ooh, so special, such a special boy," but again, that would be childish. And he can't talk.

When he reaches the clearing Geralt is there, sitting on a log facing away from him, hunched over as though trying to make himself smaller. Jaskier is half expecting him to growl or threaten him. Instead, he gets a quiet, "Bard?"

It's a question, and Geralt doesn't even bother to look at him or use his name. It makes Jaskier seethe.

He rounds the log the Witcher is sitting on, stands glaring down at him with his hands on his hips. Geralt keeps his eyes locked on the fire. Doesn't lift his gaze. It would hurt, would break his heart if there was anything of it left to break. He hates that Geralt hates him so much he can't even bear to look at him, or say his name.

He might as well get this over with. Might as well bite the rapier, so to speak, and get out of Geralt's hair before the Witcher decides to tear him a new set of holes.

He steps forward, into Geralt's space, winds his fingers into that glorious white hair, which is looking and feeling worse for wear - all of Geralt is, really. He's dirty, unshaven, looks ragged and worn and disheveled. He ignores that observation and yanks back on his silver locks until his head is tilted the way he wants it to be, leans down, and kisses him.

Jaskier normally isn't the type to kiss people who don't want it. Consent is important and he'll cut the balls off anyone who says otherwise, but this is important. Geralt won't forgive him, but he already hates the bard so there really isn't much lost there.

Then, hands are on his waist tugging him closer and a tongue is in his mouth and - Geralt is kissing him back. He's confused as all hell but not complaining, he's not an idiot!

Well, not that kind anyways.

When they break apart Geralt is looking up at him with furrowed brows, confused. Not angry.

"Mm, not... that I don't... why?"

Jaskier rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to speak - nothing. No sound. All that effort wasted. Geralt doesn't even hate him enough to break a fucking curse.

"Jaskier?"

He shakes his head, fighting back tears, unsure how to explain to a man who hates him but doesn't hate him enough why he's just assaulted him.

Jaskier flops onto the log next to Geralt and gestures vaguely, makes a talking motion with his hand, then an X with his arms.

"Can't talk?"

At least Geralt is smart, most Witchers are, in Jaskier's experience. They solve murders, chase monsters. They have to be good at reading between the lines, but only if those lines aren't emotions.

"Mm," Geralt looks him over, pulls his pendant from his neck and holds it up to Jaskier, "Magic. Curse?" Jaskier nods. Geralt swallows, "The cure is... a kiss?"

Jaskier nods again, sighs.

"From... what? Usually it's true love." He sounds oddly hopeful. Fidgets in a way that Jaskier has never seen. Jaskier shakes his head, ponders how to explain this absolute clusterfuck.

If Geralt didn't work there's only one other option anyways.

Valdo Marx.

((Now with part 2 ))

[demonpoppyseed]

Children of Darkness Armand time travels to 2025 and meets the vampire Daniel.

~😁🫀~

The ritual, such as it was, had been meant to grant Armand insight into the future of his Coven. He had performed the rite in secret, knowing that his tenuous position might be lost at the first sign of doubt or uncertainty.

Now, staring at the strange, fast moving buggies whizzing past him in the street and listening to the buzz of languages he didn't understand, he thought he must have done something wrong. He went over and over the ritual in his head, searching for a mispronounced word, a misplaced line in one of the symbols. He couldn't find his mistake.

His chest felt tight. The night was too bright in this strange place. Abruptly, he turned and ran, looking for darkness, a place to collect himself and figure out how to return home.

Pushing through the flow of bodies, he finally found a dark alley and ducked into it. His shoulders dropped immediately. He took a deep breath.

“Oh, hey babe,” a voice said in the darkness. “Wondered where you went. Look what I found.”

He didn't understand what the words meant. He tried to reach out with his mind, to glean the meaning from the other vampire’s thoughts, and found only silence.

It didn't make sense.

He stalked forward, bent and cautious, ready to fight or flee, his eyes darting over the scene in the dark.

The man on the ground looked at him and gulped. He was perhaps forty years old, and his clothes were strange. His shirt, tight and buttoned all down the front, was tucked into a pair of light brown trousers of a cut Armand had never seen before. The crotch of the trousers was dark with urine. The man was frightened, but he couldn't move.

Armand looked at the vampire standing over him. He looked old, but Armand knew instantly that he was a fledgling.

“You are powerful for one so young,” he said.

The vampire gave him a quizzical look.

“Still don't speak French, baby,” he said. Then he did a double take.

“Armand?” he said, brow creasing as he turned away from the prey. The man ran for it, stumbling as he rounded the corner at the end of the alley and disappeared.

Armand felt trapped, glued to the spot by the intensity of this strange fledgling’s gaze.

“How do you know my name?” he started to say.

Then, a few things caught up with him.

He had been trying to learn about the future of the coven. Was it possible that this was his future? That he had been physically transported into an era he'd only wished to learn about from afar? And if that was the case, and this powerful fledgling knew his name... this powerful fledgling whose thoughts he could not hear...

“No,” he whispered, backing away from the vampire and shaking his head frantically. “No, no, no...”

In an instant, the fledgling was much closer, cupping Armand’s face in his hands and peering into his eyes. Armand hissed.

“Hey,” the vampire was saying. “Hey, it's okay, you're okay.”

Armand did not respond to the first gentle kiss pressed to his lips, torn between fury at this vampire's audacity and a sudden desperate longing to be touched like that again, like he hadn't been touched in centuries.

“It's 2025,” the vampire said, working his fingers into Armand’s hair and rubbing at his scalp. “You're in New York. Okay? I think maybe you're having an episode, but you're safe now. I've got you.”

Armand stared at him. He didn't know what he was saying, but the words were spoken with a gentle adoration that made him want to cry.

Would he break his vow for love, then? Was that what the ritual was telling him? That one day he would love this man enough to do the unthinkable?

“Where the hell did you even get these clothes?” the vampire was saying, hands wandering down Armand’s chest and tugging at the worn fabric. “They're f—”

Armand kissed him, clumsy and desperate, and the vampire let his words go, wrapping his arms around Armand’s waist and pulling his body close against him with a hungry little, “Mmm.”

That, at least, Armand understood.

[mystradepromptsandscenarios]

Mystrade Monday Prompts #34

"I’m not scared of loving you.”

For April 21, 2025

The game is to write a flash fic this weekend and post it here (or with a link to the fic on AO3) on Monday with the hashtag Mystrade Monday.

Flash fiction is a complete story that is less than 1,000 words. 360mg is complete fic of 360 words with the last two beginning with “M” and “G” in any order. Please spread the word.

Hot tip: if you tag @mystradepromptsandscenarios , we’ll reblog it.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Through Time

In response to a prompt from @twinklingwatermellon: two friends see each other again for the first time in years and feel a sudden spark that wasn’t there before.

Though this stretch of shore in this point in history was as quiet as one could get, plenty of people got stranded here, tossed about by the currents of time. When the buoy alarm went off, Meg went out expecting to find another stranger. She didn’t expect to see a friend.

Calvin had been seventeen when she’d seen him last—a skinny, lanky, sandy-haired kid. Time had filled him out. His skin was darkened by the sun. He was bleeding from the shoulder. But his smile when he saw Meg was bright.

“Meg!” he cried, throwing his good arm around her shoulders and pulling her into an embrace. “How long has it been?”

It was a hard question to answer. In one sense, it had been nearly two-thousand years since they’d left 1994 Los Angeles—this monitoring outpost was situated in one of the most isolated and peaceful moments in Earth’s future. In another sense, it had been nearly half a lifetime, though it was hard to keep track when you didn’t stay in one time period.

“I’d say it’s been about twelve years since LA,” she said.

He pulled away, his brow furrowed. “That long?” he asked.

“Time flies,” Meg said with a shrug.

“Time flows,” he corrected, echoing the agent who’d educated them about the world of time travel. His eyes sparkled at the memory, and his smile made Meg’s heart skip a beat.

Time had been very kind to him.

She shook away the thought. They’d been friends, nothing more. They’d fallen onto different paths—Calvin traveling the currents of time, helping out across history, Meg staying in one place for months at a time, helping stranded travelers and fostering lost children.

So she turned the talk back to business. “We should take care of that shoulder.”

She brought him into her cottage, settled him onto a kitchen chair, and helped him to clean and bandage the shoulder.

He told her a bit about his current misadventure—he’d intended to wind up half a continent and half a millennium away, until a ripple in the Flow had sent him careening off-course.

As he wrapped up the story, he said, “Of course, I’m always glad to see you.”

The way he said it made it feel like no time had passed at all. And the way he squeezed her hand, the look in his eye—there was something almost intimate about it. Like he knew her, not just as the kid she’d been, but as the woman she was.

She escaped to the bathroom to gather her thoughts. She’d been alone for too long. She was reading way too much into a few gestures. They hadn’t seen each other in years; they’d both been through so much they might as well be strangers. There hadn’t been time to build any sort of relationship—and there wouldn’t be. He’d be on his way in a few hours and she’d go back to her ordinary (as far as this existence could be considered ordinary) life.

She returned to the kitchen to find Calvin pulling forks and spoons out of her silverware drawer, with a water glass already half-full on the table.

Nothing like making yourself at home.

She swallowed back sharp words—her job was hospitality—and opened the food preservation cupboard. “If you’re hungry, I’ve got gran-apples, some protein meals, half a loaf of seaweed bread—”

“The bread’s fine.”

She pulled out the loaf and placed it on the counter. “I’ll need to cut it.”

Without looking, Calvin reached to his left, opened a drawer, pulled out a bread knife and handed it to Meg.

Meg stood frozen.

Calvin hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t fumbled. Yes, he’d been rummaging through the drawers, but Meg had only been gone for a minute.

Meg had lived here for months and she still had to think about where she stored things. He knew.

It was a cliché in the time travel world—the guy who claimed to know your future self. Something that girls laughed about, and never believed. But Calvin hadn’t made any claims. He’d just shown up out of the blue, looking at her like she was someone special. Knowing his way around her kitchen.

With equal confidence, Calvin opened a cupboard to his right, pulled out a jar of saltberry spread, and placed it next to the loaf of bread.

Meg’s favorite—a food that hadn’t existed when they’d been kids together in the 1990s.

I’m always glad to see you.

Somehow, she managed to slice the bread without cutting herself. She applied the spread and served him his meal.

Calvin tried to act casual, even distant, but now that Meg had seen the truth, she could see a hundred other signs. He made jokes about things in the house she’d never told him about. He pulled out Meg’s favorite chair for her. He spoke in rhythms that matched her conversation and sense of humor. He was comfortable here—comfortable with her.

She couldn’t bring herself to speak her suspicions out loud—could barely say anything. But finally, he was fed and rested and started making motions toward the door.

And she found she couldn’t let him leave without knowing.

“Calvin?” she asked, her voice thin and strangled. “Have you been here before?”

He blushed. “Not before, chronologically. But, yes, I’ve been here.”

“You know me in the future.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “You still live here. We’re still good friends.”

“Are we…” The words rolled out before she could stop herself. “Are we...more?”

He met her eyes then, and there was so much depth to that look that it almost answered her question. “Do you think there could be?”

The man before her was so like—and so unlike—the boy that she’d known. That combination of familiar and strange was both comfortable and fascinatingly new.

“Yes,” she said.

He smiled. “Then let’s see what happens.”

She squeezed his hand. “I can’t wait.”

[antlersatmidnight]

How do I hate myself so much that I let you pretend to love me?

[worthymartyrconstruct]

My Wife Keeps Coming Home, But I Buried Her Last Week

I buried my wife last Tuesday. Closed casket. She was in pieces when they found her.

They said it was a bear. But the coroner told me, off the record, that her bones had been cleanly cut. No bear did that.

I watched them lower her casket. I threw the first handful of dirt. I signed the death certificate. She was dead. I know she was.

But last night, at 2:13 a.m., she walked through our front door.

No knocking. No key. Just walked in like she'd forgotten her purse.

I was in the kitchen, staring at nothing, drinking straight from the bottle. I heard the door creak. Heavy footsteps on the wood. I turned—and there she was. Same honey-brown hair. Same chipped glasses. Same faint mole beneath her left ear.

I dropped the bottle.

She blinked, confused. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Her voice. Exactly the same. Sweet. A little sleepy.

She wasn’t... injured. Not anymore.

I couldn’t speak. My mind screamed, She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.

She frowned. "Is this about the laundry again?"

The smell hit me then—wet soil. Earthworms. Rot.

I backed away. She stepped forward. I ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

She knocked once. Gently. “You okay in there, babe?”

I didn’t sleep.

When the sun rose, she made pancakes. Blueberry—my favorite. She hummed while flipping them, just like she always used to.

I sat across from her, watching the steam curl off her plate. Her smile was perfect. Not a crack. Not a twitch. But that smell—I could still smell the dirt.

I asked, “Where were you last week?”

She tilted her head. “You mean when I visited my mom?”

I shook. “I buried you.”

She laughed. “You’re being weird.”

I checked the photos. The funeral. They’re gone. The texts from the coroner? Gone. Even the death certificate. My emails to her friends. Our last texts. Gone.

She didn’t just come back—she rewrote the past.

I searched the backyard where she used to garden. Something was freshly dug up.

I grabbed a shovel.

I hit something hard after two feet. Wood.

My heart pounded as I scraped away the soil. It was her jewelry box. Cracked open. Inside was her wedding ring. She was wearing it in the kitchen.

I went inside. She was watching TV. Still humming. Still smiling. Still rotting.

I took a photo of her on my phone. When I looked at the screen—nothing. Just an empty couch.

I pretended everything was normal. Said I was going for groceries. Drove to the police station. Told them everything.

They humored me. Took down my statement. Probably labeled me a drunk or a lunatic. One officer followed me home.

She answered the door. Invited him in. They chatted. She offered him iced tea.

He looked at me funny. “Sir, your wife seems fine.”

I showed him the picture I took. He laughed. “Is this a prank?”

She smiled wide behind him. Too wide. I saw something shift under her skin.

After he left, she said, “Don’t do that again.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

That night, I set up a camera in the bedroom. Pretended to sleep.

At 3:12 a.m., she stood beside the bed. Just stood there for over an hour. Not blinking.

Then she leaned down and whispered something in my ear.

I’ve watched the footage a dozen times. There’s no audio. But I remember what she said.

"You're next."

I haven’t slept since.

I’ve tried burning sage. Holy water. Even salt lines. She laughs at all of it.

I don’t know what I buried last week. I don’t know what came back.

But that thing is not my wife.

And now, I think it's starting to forget how to pretend.

[lizardperson]

the price of peace

[on ao3]

fandom: original work (ocverse - warcrimes au) rating: m cw: implied war crimes? wc: 365 prompt: #fff308 the price of peace for @flashfictionfridayofficial note: set not too long after the flashback chapter of break me once more

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I can hear Helena walking up behind me.

"Can't sleep?"

I answer with a vague "hmm", and she joins me.

We both sit there for a while, staring out into the desert. I wish she would say something. Anything, really. Why is she even here?

"Does it really never bother you?" I finally ask, unable to take the silence anymore.

"What?"

"All this death." I look at Helena, trying to find some kind of human emotion in her face. Anything at all. "All those innocent people meeting a really, really horrible end. One that you caused." I hesitate. "That we caused."

Because as much as I would like to pretend I'm just doing administrative things, I am still working with her - for her - helping her with all her 'little projects'. I have as much a hand in this as she does.

Helena studies me intently for a long moment before she finally replies: "No."

Such a simple, terrible answer. I sigh and turn back to the desert.

"It needs to be done," she eventually explains, and I can't help but scoff. "It does, believe me. Sometimes, when people can't be reasoned with, they have to be frightened into submission. And sometimes you need force for that. It's the price of peace, simple as that."

Does she actually believe all this? It sounds like typical Empire propaganda. Bullshit. Since when am I the more cynical one here?

"Sofiya, you need to separate this work from yourself, or it will break you one day." Helena's voice gets softer, and she gently tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear. "And I'd rather not see that happen."

Then maybe you shouldn't have forcibly conscripted me into your little war crimes operation.

"I don't know how to do that. I don't know how you do it."

"It's a job like any other. One I happen to be exceptionally good at. But it's just a job."

How casually she says that. I think she actually means it.

"You scare the shit out of me."

Helena stares at me silently for a moment, holding my gaze, then she smiles and gets up. "Come on. Let's get you back to bed."

[writingamongther0ses]

Expectations

Spooky spin-off of The Princess and the Pea, written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt of Invisible Guest.

When I was a child, I was told to avoid princes.

Being a princess, expected to marry a prince someday, I thought that this was silly. When I mentioned this, my mother sighed and agreed. "I want you to avoid princes with too high expectations," she revised, stroking my hair out of my face. "They will chew you up and spit you out, yanking off pieces of you so you fit their image of perfection."

Later, when I was a little older and better understood the relationship between my mother and father, I understood.

My father hated my mother. The opposite of love was indifference and that was how she felt for him, but he hated her. Truly hated her. Hated her because he was one of those princes and was forced to "settle" for her.

For years, there were songs about my father and his expectations. The children at school- I begged to be sent to public school, it was my way out of the anger in my father's gaze- sang songs when they didn't know I heard about my father. They all ended the same way.

...the final one, slept on a pea and hit her head!

When I was much older, I better understood why.

I stood inside the room. I guessed it had been a guest room once but now it was a tomb. Cobwebs and dust caked the giant bed, with mattresses and blankets piled high. In the faint light drifting from the curtains, I could see green twisting its way through.

Either pea sprouts or mold.

I was more focused on her presence.

The invisible guest. The final victim to my father and his expectations for a bride.

The princess who slept on a pea was the last straw.

[sleeplessspell]

The Count of Convenience

Boudreaux, Louisiana – Population: 2,217 (plus one timeless anomaly, still on payroll).

The first thing Amanda Hartley did when she arrived in town was light a cigarette, despite the suffocating July heat. The second was squint at the 7-Eleven sign like it had personally insulted her mama.

"Well," she drawled, flicking ash out the window of the van, "this here's where the reports say it lives."

Behind the wheel, Thomas adjusted his baseball cap and checked his notes. “You mean ‘he,’ right? The vampire’s name is Gregor. Been managing this place since 1975. Never seen in daylight. No shadow. ‘Garlic aversion’, whatever that means. No mirror reflection. Smiles like he wants to devour you?”

Miss Hartley snorted. “Sugar, you ain’t never met a real vampire, have ya? Real ones are slick. Smooth-talkers. Look just like the fella at your church who always brings deviled eggs.”

Thomas frowned. “But the local stories—”

“Exactly. Folks know about him. Means he ain’t it.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but Hartley was already climbing out. She smoothed her vintage bomber jacket, tucked the stake deeper into her belt, and nodded toward the automatic doors.

“Well,” she said, “let’s go meet the local mascot.”

Inside, it was ice-cold and smelled of hot dogs, citrus cleaner, and haunted vanilla. Gregor stood at the counter, sorting receipts with the precision of a tax accountant and the posture of a man who hadn’t blinked since the Carter administration.

He looked up.

“Velcome to seven-elev—” he paused, then corrected himself slowly, “—Welcome... to seven-eleven. May I offer you a discount taquito? Today only, vith purchase of Red Bull or Monster.”

Thomas tensed. That accent alone made his ears twitch.

Miss Hartley, on the other hand, lit up like someone just handed her a free funnel cake at the state fair.

“Oh, honey,” she said, smiling, “you’re just precious.”

Gregor bowed stiffly. “Thank you. I was cast once as innocent victim in community theater. Very believable.”

She leaned on the counter, real easy. “Mind if we ask you a few questions, sugar?”

“I have answers. Especially if they are... store-related.”

Thomas eyed the wall behind him. A whole row of “Employee of the Month” photos. All Gregor. Same expression. Year after year. Like a low-budget horror movie.

“Have you,” Thomas asked slowly, “ever bitten a customer?”

Gregor blinked. “Only vith coupons.”

Hartley laughed, full-bellied.

Thomas, not amused, pressed on. “No reflection in the mirror?”

Gregor leaned forward. “I am too clean for reflection. The glass fears my purity.”

“Your… uh, garlic aversion?”

Gregor’s eye twitched. “Ah. Yes. Stench too strong. Ve do not speak of it. But I assure you—vampirism? Ridiculous.”

He gestured toward the security monitors. “See? My image. Right there.”

Gregor appeared on screen... but shimmered. Like the camera wasn’t entirely convinced he existed.

Thomas narrowed his eyes.

Miss Hartley bought a taquito combo.

Over the next couple of days, they asked around town.

Everyone said the same thing: Gregor? He’s harmless.

“He gave me a ride to the hospital when my hip gave out,” said an old woman.

“He remembered my cat’s name three years after I told him,” said the pharmacist.

“He personally swept the parking lot after prom night,” said the sheriff’s niece.

“Sure, he’s spooky,” one man whispered. “But spooky ain’t illegal.”

Thomas was losing patience.

“He sleeps in the storage closet!” he hissed as they peeked through the back door.

Hartley shrugged. “Rent’s high. Maybe he’s just economical.”

“He hissed at an Italian family.”

“They had a lot of cologne on, Tommy.”

“He called Diet Coke a ‘lifeblood substitute.’”

“Shoot, so do I.”

“Miss Hartley—he drinks red smoothies that smell like rust!”

She raised an eyebrow. “Look, if you want to crucify a man for drinkin' tomato juice with flair, I think you’re gonna have a rough time in Louisiana.”

Then the thing in the woods showed up.

Fast. Hungry. Bad-tempered.

Someone’s dog went missing. Trees split like toothpicks. And tourists reported “something howling” out by the marsh.

Thomas and Hartley went hunting.

By the time they tracked it down—a snarling, lanky mess with glowing red eyes and a craving for domestic animals—it was already beat.

Pinned to the dirt with a trash lid, mop handle jammed through its shoulder.

Gregor stood over it, pale and poised, not a hair out of place.

“Oh,” he said coolly, “you arrived.”

Hartley blinked. “You... took it down?”

“Yah. Tried to eat Ms. Corvin’s feline. Unacceptable.”

Thomas stared. “You weren’t scared?”

Gregor gave the monster a nudge with his foot. “It broke into the hot dog aisle.”

Hartley stared a moment. Then started chuckling. “Well, I’ll be damned. He really ain’t a vampire.”

Once the monster was in the van—tied down, tranquilized, snoring faintly—Thomas turned to her, flabbergasted.

“So... Gregor is definitely a vampire, right?.”

“Oh, baby,” she said, exhaling smoke. “He was always a vampire.”

“What?” He gasped. “Then why didn’t we—?”

“He’s Gregor,” she said, like that explained everything.

As they drove off, Gregor waved with a Slurpee cup in hand, lit by the blue glow of the open sign behind him.

“Come again soon!” he called. “Fresh donuts on Thursdays! If sun not out!”

And just like that, Boudreaux went back to normal.

If you could call Gregor normal.