Flash fiction is a guilty pleasure. The word limit forces you to be efficient, to make every word count. It’s an exercise in conciseness, in knowing what to say, and what to leave to the imagination.
I wrote these three stories over the past few months, initially scribbled on paper, and tucked away elsewhere. Think of them as little microdoses of weird, short jolts of the uncanny, the absurd, and the eerie… just in time to ease us into spooky season.
Enjoy!
The first story started in notes, the result of a challenge right here on Substack. A user named Leviathan posted this prompt:
The porch light flickers Morse code.
No one’s lived there in years.
Challenge accepted. What follows is The Porch Light, a story told in under 180 words.
The Porch Light
The house at 53 Ashgrove had been empty for years. Kids told stories, they said it watched you. The flickering porch light only fueled rumors that it swallowed misbehaving children whole.
That didn’t scare Marla. She’d just been honorably discharged and had moved into the Craftsman house next door. Ghosts weren’t going to stop her from starting over.
What unsettled her was how deliberate the blinking seemed. Short bursts. Long pauses. A pattern.
A pattern she recognized. Morse code.
She grabbed a notepad and started transcribing.
“ I REMEMBER THE CHILDREN…” “…I MISS SLAUGHTER.”
She froze, her chest felt tight, heartbeat roaring in her ears.
Marla blinked. She’d misread it. The message said:
“I MISS LAUGHTER.” Another flicker: “…BUT NOT THE ICE CREAM STAINS.”
Marla laughed, half-stressed, half-surprised. “You’re just… lonely, aren’t you?”
The porch light blinked again. Four times, once, then a flurry.
She translated:
HELLO.
Marla sat on the steps and pulled her hoodie tight against the chill. “I’m here,” she said. “Let’s talk. Let’s get to know each other, neighbor.”
As some of you know, I’m a management consultant during the waking hours. It’s thoroughly intellectually satisfying, but it also means a lot of travel. Sometimes to amazing places like Tokyo, Kinshasa, Amsterdam, Paris, Antwerp, Seattle, New Orleans, Mexico City, etc… but it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.
Yes, I get the upgrades. Yes, I drink free mimosas in the lounges. But honestly? Most days I’d rather be on my couch at home.
This story was inspired by a random man I overheard while stuck for a few hours in Denver during a thunderstorm.
The Lounge King
In the airline lounge, he was a king.
Mimosas at night, free vodka, practiced smiles.
On every call, he mentioned his delay.
Made sure his team knew he gazed down from the 4th floor into the terminal.
At 10:42 PM, his flight finally boarded.
The seat reclined, the noise-canceling headphones canceled…
…everything.
The flight attendant looked through him.
The Denver mountains loomed.
The thunder rumbled.
Was he a ghost, or did life ghost him?
Keep on bragging, Mr. Bigshot.
It’s all you’ll ever do.
Creative writing is new to me. Some of you may have crossed paths with products, projects, or services I’ve worked on over the years, but that was business.
I’ve always had vivid dreams and a restless imagination, and that’s what finally nudged me into writing. Just a hobby, just for fun, and I hope you’ll enjoy the ride with me.
This last story, I’m especially proud of. The editors at published it in issue #2 of their magazine. They do good work and are fine people, you should check them out.
I entered their competition after spending some time with a client in Seattle. I love that city. Its gloomy, ghostly vibe has been an amazing source of inspiration.
Greetings From Seattle
My flight back to New York was cancelled. I’ve been everywhere, seen it all on these business trips, but an extra day shouldn’t be wasted. Figured I’d do the Seattle thing: music, coffee, market, mist.
The coffee was perfect… even if the barista, beanie included, smiled a little too eagerly. The fish at Pike Place posed, but the beer at Marchant’s was crisp. Two tech bros apologized when I bumped into them. Everyone was so polite.
Polished little town.
The mist rolled in from the bay. It felt like someone dimming the lights. A man in a trench coat took my photo, no flash, just a click. He nodded and walked away. Even the weirdos are courteous here.
I turned a corner. The streets narrowed, European almost. Turned again, same coffee shop. Beanie-barista still staring from behind her counter.
I stopped at a postcard stand. Every card showed… me: walking, sipping, turning.
The mist didn’t just blur, it flattened things. The city fell silent. The sidewalk turned glossy, like it had been printed. The card swallowed me whole.
Seattle’s ghost doesn’t take kindly to dismissive East Coasters.
The mist cleared. I’m still here, as the world passes by.
Until next time, dear reader.
Enjoy Spooky Season…
Great stories, Felix.
I particularly enjoyed the first one; creepy in the beginning, with a great resolution; but they were all great to read.
I loved Greetings From Seattle. To me, this one was the strongest in terms of craft and concept. The pacing is deliberate, but never slow. The setting feels like Seattle (I lived close for years) not the tourist version, but the shadow version. The recursive looping of the postcard shop, the beanie-barista still watching, the images on the cards. It all elegantly escalated. Then you twist the knife: "The card swallowed me whole" -- It’s casual and surreal, almost like a dream you're realizing too late is a trap. A great metaphor for being consumed by a place you never took seriously. I'm hooked!