Best of Friends– Flash Fiction

“Seriously?” Vivian answered the door. “I extend a peace offering and this is the best you can give? What even is it, a fucking Costco cake?”

“Well excuse me for not knowing what you’d like! I’m usually too busy saving my own neck in our encounters! Or was I supposed to stop as you had a knife at my throat and ask if you prefer chocolate or vanilla?” asked Darryl. 

“Ok, that’s enough you two!” Aubrey chimed in. “You’ll have to excuse him Viv, he’s not used to being civil.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Excuse me?” Darryl said, “I’m right here, you know?”

“Hmm? What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your own arrogance” said Aubrey.

“Oh I’m the one who’s arrogant? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“I thought you two were getting along?” said Vivian.

The two looked at each other. “Yeah, we are. He knows I’m kidding,” said Aubrey.

“If you say so. Come on in, let’s have some of that cake it looks delicious!”

“What the hell,” said Darryl.


~Fioza Leigh


Photo by Heather Schwartz on Unsplash

flash fiction, Uncategorized, writing

Comatose– Flash Fiction

Aida could feel the slow unhinging of her jaw and the ease that overcame her muscles as they slowly melted toward the soft cushion of warming sand at her back.

The rhythmic hum of the waves lapping gently nudged the thoughts of her day further and further from her conscious mind.

Called to respond, her eyes flapped open- struggling against the glaring orb directly above her in a fleeting and futile attempt to resist slipping into the numb embrace of relaxation- just as they always had and felt obligated to since she had started this work nearly twelve years ago.

With a deep sigh, the air wafted the familiar scent of warmth and fish and the soothing taste of salt to her body. 

Delivering the final numbing blow- her mind succumbed to the spiraling grip of sleep.

One last thought remained, echoing like a taunt: I wonder… could they feel the pain?


~Fioza Leigh


Photo by Mink Mingle on Unsplash


flash fiction, writing

Flash Fiction– Revolutions



          It was an unseasonably cold morning for May. Snow stood– frozen… suspended in time as long as the boy’s thoughts hung in his head. Both were cold to the touch but unable to be thawed away. The winter that eclipsed his heart had gone on for much longer than a season. How long exactly, he could no longer remember; he had kept count once in that journal– the one his mother gave him– but his father had not liked it and burned it as feed for the fire. Keepsakes from his mother made Atticus uncomfortable– they always had. The boy stared ahead, his pace halting ever so slightly before he drew a sharp, unnatural breath and shook his head from side to side as if willing the thoughts to fall from the walls that caged them.

          The sound of crunching sand and stone caused his heart to flutter even higher as he traversed to meet the curious gaze of the gruff man. The man whistled a command to his horses, willing them to bring the stagecoach to a halt.

         “Fixin’ to go somewhere?” the man asked, eyes searching the boy up and down. The boy only bit his lip and averted his eyes in response. A moment passed before he started shifting his weight nervously and sneaking glances in the direction he had come from. “I’ll tell ya what,” the man said “I could really use some help unloadin’ those boxes in the back once I get to the docks. Would ya mind lending me a hand?”

          The boy stared silently for a minute, meeting the man’s gaze with an intensity that caused a shiver to run down his spine. The man waited patiently, allowing him to weigh his options. One more sidelong glance down the road outstretched behind them and the boy hurriedly hid himself away in the back of the cart.

          “What’s yer name?” asked the man.

          “Don’t got one” responded the boy. “What’s yers?”

          “Gabriel” he replied, turning his head to meet the boy’s. Not knowing what else to do, he smiled and fought the tears from showing in his eyes.

          I like that name, thought the boy. He would adopt it as his own in the life that lied ahead. The stagecoach wheels began to turn, pushing the dirt and gravel further and further away with every revolution.

~Fioza Leigh


Photo by Ron Smith on Unsplash

flash fiction, writing

Begin Again- Flash Fiction

         Begin Again 


          Stupid cat, thought Akila as she glared glossy eyed at the last thing her father’s hands had held. She had screamed at him that night… screamed at him for the thought that this plush, stuffed, fat, cotton thing could possibly fill the hole left by her other dad. How could he possibly think this inanimate toy could replace the role of his now ex-lover? 


He had to hate her for it. That was the reason she was alone now, right? Getting juggled between aunts and uncles and friends of other relatives who would debate if she would be more happiness or more burden if added to their day-to-day lives? Now she sat in her uncle’s house– her words echoing… ringing in her ears. Just like the slam of the door that followed that night– and the shot of the gun that would tear through her house and Eurin’s head the day after that. 


          I wish you weren’t my father, she had said. And just like that, he was no longer. He shut the door on her… and on Eurin. And now Eurin was dead and it all her fault. It’s all my fault… it’s all my fault… it’s all my… 


          Ding! Ding! The sound of the doorbell shot through her mind, cutting the images of what shot through her father’s from view. She sniffed, running to the mirror in a frantic effort to make her face appear like a more normal, less swollen version of itself but soon gave up. She swung the door open with her best attempt of a smile only to realize she was putting on a show for no one. 


Instead, covering the tauntingly cheerful welcome mat, sat a very plain and simple dark oak box the size of her hand. She leaned over and picked it up, examining it for a note or engraving– any clue to where it had come from– but found nothing. Frowning, she took one last glance up and shut the door behind her. 


She continued to turn the box over that night as she sat by her bedside, opening it and closing it but still finding nothing. Confused, she turned out the lights, lay in bed, and turned over. 


Immediately the thoughts came rushing back. 


          If I hadn’t said that papa wouldn’t be gone. 

          I didn’t mean what I said… I’m such a bitch… he was perfect and now he’s gone. 

          They’re both gone… it’s all my fault… 

          It’s all my fault… 


          It’s all my fault. 


A rumbling seized the house, rolling deep and low… threatening like a hungry beast. Akila sat up in her bed and looked out the window for lightning but found nothing. She tiptoed down the hall, looking to see if anything was out of place but again nothing. Uneasy, she crawled back into bed. 


          If I wasn’t such a horrible daughter, my dads would both be here and I could snuggle with them right now. 

          Maybe papa wouldn’t have hated himself if he hadn’t adopted me. 


A schism tore across the ceiling of Akila’s bedroom, revealing a deep indigo 

sky, dripping through the space like blood. 


How did this happen? Akila thought. What did I do to cause this? 


The far side of the bedroom collapsed in on itself, narrowly missing the bed where she sat. Debris and rubble fell, threatening to destroy everything in its path. Horrified, she ran. 


I destroy EVERYTHING! 

            Why in the world would my uncle want me? Now I’ve ruined his house! 


Another wall crumbled, leaving the front door standing alone. 


I don’t bring anything good to this world! 


The foundations shook. 


I hate myself! 


The ground broke loose from under her. 


This world would be better off without me in it! 


The rubble crumbled until there was nothing left. 


Just as she was about to hit the ground, she jolted awake. Sweat filled her sheets as she gasped hollow breaths to stop the quaking. The room, the house, the walls were all intact. And still on the floor next to the bed laid the small oaken box. 


Akila picked it up and turned it over once more. Nothing had changed, that is until she looked inside. In the space lied the dust of drywall, a container of Spackle, and a putty knife. She looked up at the ceiling and found a small crack had begun to form above her bed. Slowly, she climbed up, took out the putty knife and started to fix the damage she had done.  


Photo by Ksenya Drozd on Unsplash

~ Fioza Leigh