flash fiction
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Thou Art Known
It started the week he turned sixty-two. Like a light flickering in the chapel of his mind. Until then, Henry’s life had been a blur of deadlines and dinner tables, of ballgames and spreadsheets, of making sure the mortgage was… Continue reading
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The Field
They called her Sister Marianne, though she hadn’t worn a habit in years. The townspeople remembered her not for her sermons, but for the strange presence that followed her, something heavy, luminous, unsettling. They said if you stood too close… Continue reading
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The Thought That Rots
Cling not to thought: it blooms, then rotsA gilded chain in sacred knotsAs soon as mind begins to graspRelease the hold, unclench the clasp The prayer you whisper turns to rustIf built on dogma, fear, or lustIdeas are idols dressed… Continue reading
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The Last Bloom
The roses had withered long before she did. Elaine lay atop the crimson velvet of her ancestral bed, each breath a brittle offering to the air. Shadows licked the walls, and somewhere beneath the floorboards, something stirred and sighed. The… Continue reading
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The Briar Crown
They said Isolde was carved from candle wax and winter mist. Too beautiful to be real, too cold to hold. But when she smiled at you, it was like drinking from a goblet of starlight, heady and irreversible. She lived… Continue reading
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Regret Comes Shuffling In
Mildred had always said her Harold was a hard man to live with, but an even harder one to live without. So when she discovered a dusty old necromancy manual wedged behind the casserole dishes at St. Ignatius’s rummage sale,… Continue reading
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The Hollow Season
“If you were torn from me,” he whispered, “I could not bear what the earth had to offer.” Her breath hitched, a soft tremor in the candlelit gloom. The fire crackled, spitting sparks. Outside, a storm combed the cliffs with… Continue reading
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The Wailing in the Trees
My mother told me that owls in trees wailed the windswept night before her father died. I was ten when she first said it; her voice soft, but not gentle, as if she feared the words might wake something. We… Continue reading
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More Alive Than The Living
They said the house at the edge of the forest was where people went to die. Not in flesh—at least not always—but in spirit. They called it The Hollow. No doors. Only a stairwell that descends without end. When Miriam… Continue reading
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The House That Crawls Toward God
They say the house on Saint Mary’s Hill rings its bell only on Easter Sunday, but no one remembers who rings it. Locals avoid the place. Some claim it shifts position ever so slightly each year, as though it were… Continue reading
God Is In The Radio 