Here the blogger ibikunle Abraham laniyan churns out 150 ultra short flash fiction stories. However, he provides a curated collection of ultra-short "Flash Fiction" stories with the first five stories to kick things off and many more.Enjoy the Reading:
The Last Transmission: The astronaut watched the blue marble fade. "Radio check," he whispered. Silence answered, followed by a faint, rhythmic knocking on the outside of the airlock.
Inheritance: My grandfather left me a locked silver box and no key. On my 30th birthday, it dissolved into smoke, leaving only a note: "The best things can't be held."
The Clockmaker: He built a watch that counted backward. On the day it hit zero, he didn't die; the rest of the world simply froze, leaving him the lone curator of a silent museum.
Mirror Image: I brushed my teeth and leaned in to inspect a stray hair. My reflection didn't lean back; it just stood there, tired of mimicking my mediocre life.
The New Employee: The robot was programmed to be perfectly empathetic.
The Gardener’s Secret: He grew the most vibrant roses in the county. Neighbors assumed it was the soil, never noticing he only gardened during the new moon, whispering names into the dirt that hadn't been heard in town for decades.
The Bargain: The devil didn't want his soul; he wanted his "unimportant" memories. The man agreed, only to realize later he no longer knew the taste of his mother’s cooking or the reason he once loved the sound of rain.
Static: My radio only plays stations from the future. Today, the announcer apologized for the "unavoidable silence" starting at noon. It is currently 11:58 AM.
The Replacement: After the accident, the agency sent a "Synthetic Kin." It looked like my brother, talked like my brother, and even had his scar. But every night at 3:00 AM, it stands by my bed and asks, "Am I doing a good job being him?"
Lost and Found: I found a pair of glasses on a park bench that let me see people's expiration dates. I had to take them off when I looked in the mirror and saw the number "1" glowing on my forehead.
The Librarian: She didn't curate books; she curated lives. When you "checked out" a biography, you stepped into that person's skin for a day. The shelf for "Happy Endings" was perpetually empty.
Gravity’s Debt: One morning, gravity simply stopped working for anything weighing less than ten pounds. The world watched in horror as the stray cats, the autumn leaves, and the city's newborns drifted slowly into the clouds.
The Last Artist: In a world of AI-generated everything, the last painter used his own blood. People lined up for miles to see "The Crimson Sunset," not realizing the artist was becoming paler with every stroke.
The Time Capsule: We dug up the capsule buried in 1924. Inside was a single, modern smartphone with a video file titled "To those who survive the 2026 Shift."
The Echo: Every time I speak, my echo arrives three seconds late and says something slightly different. Today I said, "I'm home," and the echo whispered, "Run."
If you'd like more, you can find thousands of similar professional micro-stories at Flash Fiction Magazine or the 50-Word Stories archives.
The Archivist: He spent his life filing the world’s "almost" moments—the almost-kissed, the almost-hired, the almost-saved. When he retired, he filed himself under "Almost Happy."
The Guest: The doorbell rang. I opened it to find myself, twenty years older, holding a suitcase. "Don't ask questions," my older self said. "Just let me in before I see us."
Final Flight: The pilot announced a minor delay. Outside, the clouds began to solidify into a giant, marble floor. We weren't landing; we were being shelved.
The Collector: He didn't collect stamps; he collected the silences between conversations. He kept them in jars. When he opened one, the room felt heavy with things left unsaid.
The Window: My new apartment had a window that looked out onto a bustling Paris street. I live in Ohio. Every morning, I watch a woman buy bread, terrified she’ll look up and see me.
The Algorithm: The dating app guaranteed a 100% match. It paired me with a mirror. For the first time in years, I realized I was exactly who I had been looking for.
Weightless: She woke up feeling light, then realized she was translucent. Her husband walked through her to reach the coffee. She realized her "invisible" labor had finally become literal.
The Debt: He found a coin that granted wishes but cost a year of life per use. He used it once to save his daughter. Now, he’s a hundred years old in a ten-year-old’s body.
The Map: I bought an antique map that updated in real-time. I watched a tiny red dot—labeled with my name—exit my house and head toward the cemetery while I sat on my couch.
The Inheritance: The lawyer handed me a pair of headphones. "Your father didn't leave money," he said. I put them on and heard my father’s voice, not speaking, but humming the lullaby he used to sing to me, recorded from the day I was born until the hour he died.
The Shadow: I noticed my shadow was leaning against a wall while I was still walking. I stopped, but it didn't. It sat down, pulled out a phantom book, and started reading, leaving me standing in the sun, feeling suddenly and entirely hollow.
The Gallery: Every painting in the museum was a portrait of the same woman. In the first, she was an infant; in the last, a ghost. I reached the end of the hall and found a blank canvas with my name and today's date written on the frame.
The Rain: It didn't start with water. It started with keys. Thousands of them fell from the sky, clattering against the pavement. No two were alike, and every citizen spent the afternoon wandering the streets, trying to find which door their "raindrop" belonged to.
The Translator: I built a machine to understand dogs. I turned it on, expecting "I love you" or "Food." My golden retriever looked me in the eye and whispered, "You have no idea how much they are lying to you."
The Note: I found a sticky note on my fridge: "Don't eat the apples." I live alone and haven't bought apples in months. I opened the crisper drawer to find a single, glowing red fruit pulsing like a heart.
The Lighthouse: The beam didn't warn ships of rocks. It guided them to the edge of the world. Sailors reported that once you hit the light, the ocean turned into ink, and the stars became close enough to touch.
The Bargain: She traded her voice for the ability to hear what the trees were saying. It turned out trees don't talk about nature; they just scream about how much their roots itch.
The Photo: In the background of every childhood photo I own, there is a man in a gray suit. He’s always looking at the camera, and in every photo, he’s one step closer to the foreground. In the one I took this morning, he’s standing right behind me.
The Clock: The grandfather clock in the hall only ticks when someone in the house tells a lie. Since my roommate moved in, the ticking has become a continuous, deafening roar.
The Sandman: He didn’t bring sleep; he brought memories of lives you hadn’t lived yet. I woke up weeping for a daughter I won't meet for another decade.
The Receipt: I bought a coffee and the receipt listed my "Remaining Life Balance." I have three dollars and twelve minutes left. I’m spending five of them writing this down.
The Mirror Maze: I entered the carnival attraction alone. Ten minutes in, I found a version of myself that looked much happier. We traded places. I don’t think the mirrors will let me back out.
The Silence: One day, the world simply lost the ability to make noise. We became a civilization of gestures. The first person to rediscover a scream was executed for "disturbing the peace."
The Tattoo: I got a compass inked on my wrist. No matter where I turn, the needle points toward the person I’m supposed to kill. Today, it started spinning in circles while I sat with my mother.
The Elevator: The buttons went up to 100, but I pressed 0. The doors opened to a prehistoric jungle. A pterodactyl screeched, and I quickly pressed "Lobby" before the doors could snag a vine.
The Baker: She put her emotions into her sourdough. Her "Grief Loaf" was salty and heavy; her "First Love" rolls were so light they floated off the cooling rack.
The Static: The old TV in the attic only shows the view from the moon. Last night, I saw someone on the lunar surface holding a sign with my phone number on it.
The Missing Day: Everyone on Earth woke up on Tuesday, realizing Monday never happened. Our watches skipped it, but our bodies were rested, and our pockets were filled with blue sand.
The Inheritance: My father left me a radio that only plays the thoughts of the person holding it. I handed it to my girlfriend, expecting music or love; all I heard was the sound of a suitcase being packed.
The Bookstore: There is a shop in London that sells books written by people who were never born. I bought a collection of poems by a man who would have been my brother, if the world had been kinder.
The Shadow Market: I sold my shadow to a man in a trench coat for a bag of gold. Now, the sun feels like it’s burning through my soul, and the streetlights avoid me like I’m a hole in reality.
The Last Tree: The robot watered the plastic leaves every day, miming the motions it was programmed for. One day, a real weed broke through the concrete. The robot stared at it until its batteries finally died of "joy."
The Window: I live on the 50th floor. Every night at midnight, a man knocks on my window from the outside. He doesn't have a harness, just a very long ladder and a look of profound disappointment.
The Memory Bank: You can deposit your trauma for a fee. I walked in with ten years of heartbreak and walked out light as a feather. I went home to a woman I didn't recognize, who was crying because I didn't remember her name.
The Reverse Thief: Someone keeps breaking into my house and leaving things. A fresh loaf of bread, a polished silver coin, a photograph of me sleeping. I’m not scared of what they’re taking; I’m scared of what they’re building.
The Ocean's Call: The sea didn't taste like salt today; it tasted like blue raspberry soda. By sunset, the beaches were crowded with people drinking the tide, unaware the "flavor" was a lure for something beneath.
The Spare: I found a spare key in my junk drawer that fits into any lock in the world. I used it on my own front door and walked into a house where I had never left my ex-wife.
The Weight of Words: I found a pen that makes words physically heavy. I wrote "lead" and the paper tore. I wrote "love" and I couldn't lift the notebook off the table.
The New Map: The GPS didn't show roads; it showed regrets. Every "recalculating" was a chance to go back to the moment I should have said sorry.
The Silent Choir: They stood in the town square for forty years, mouths open but no sound coming out. When the first note finally broke, the glass in every building for ten miles shattered.
The Replacement: I came home to find my cat talking to a mirror. "He doesn't suspect a thing," the cat whispered to its reflection. The reflection nodded.
The Old Phone: I dialed my childhood home number. A child answered. "Is this 1994?" I asked. The child replied, "No, it's forever. Why did you leave?"
The Candle: The wick burned downward, but the wax didn't melt; it grew. By the time the flame went out, the room was encased in a white, unscented tomb.
The Star-Gazer: He looked through the telescope and saw his own eye looking back. The universe wasn't infinite; it was just a very large, curved mirror.
The Contract: I signed the paper without reading the fine print. I got the fame I wanted, but every time someone says my name, I lose a minute of my hearing.
The Door in the Woods: It was just a frame, no walls. If you walked through from the north, you were five years older. From the south, you were a memory.
The Clock: Every time I sneeze, the clock on the wall jumps forward an hour. I’ve had a cold for three days, and I’m pretty sure it’s now the year 2029.
The Ghost-Writer: I bought a typewriter that writes by itself at night. Every morning, it produces a detailed account of what my neighbors did in their dreams.
The Rain-Maker: He could make it rain, but only inside people’s houses. He was the most hated man in the drought-stricken city until the fires started.
The Shadow-Stitcher: She mended the shadows of the broken-hearted. If your shadow was frayed, you felt hollow; once she sewed it back, you felt the sun again.
The Unfinished Room: There’s a door in my house I can’t open. Sometimes I hear a hammer and a saw behind it. Someone is still building my life.
The Perfect Crime: I stole a moment of time. Just one second from the middle of a busy afternoon. No one noticed, but now I have a tiny jar that glows with stolen sunlight.
The Sea-Shell: I held it to my ear and didn't hear the ocean. I heard the last conversation of the person who owned it before me. They were screaming.
The Garden: I planted a secret. By spring, it had grown into a tree with leaves that whispered my darkest truth to anyone who walked past.
The Waiter: The restaurant only served your "Last Meal." I ordered a burger, and the waiter looked at me with such pity I couldn't take a single bite.
The Goldfish: It didn't swim; it hovered in the air above the bowl. It watched me sleep with eyes that looked remarkably like my grandfather’s.
The Forecast: The weatherman predicted "a rain of forgotten toys." By noon, the streets were blocked by rusty tricycles and headless dolls.
The Keyhole: I looked through the keyhole of the hotel room. I saw a vast, empty desert where the bed should have been. I decided to sleep in the lobby.
The Portrait: The man in the painting was laughing when I bought it. Every day his smile fades. Today, he looks like he’s about to scream for help.
The Compass: It doesn't point North. It points toward the nearest person who is thinking about you. Mine has been spinning wildly for an hour.
The Vending Machine: For a dollar, it gave you a "New Personality." I put in my coin and became a man who hated vending machines.
The Snow Globe: I shook it, and real snow began to fall outside my window. I dropped it, and the world cracked along the horizon.
The Invisible Ink: I wrote a love letter that only appears when the reader is crying. It’s been ten years, and the page is still perfectly blank.
The Ticket: I found a train ticket for "The End of the Line." I boarded the train, but it hasn't stopped in three days, and the windows are painted black.
The Suit: He wore a suit made of mirrors. People didn't see him; they only saw their own flaws reflected back at them. He was very lonely.
The Echo Chamber: I yelled "Hello" into the canyon. The voice that came back wasn't mine; it was a woman’s voice saying, "Is someone finally there?"
The Library of Dust: Every book was made of ash. If you blew on a page, the story was gone forever. I spent my life holding my breath.
The New Kid: He joined our class mid-year. He didn't have a belly button, and he didn't know what a "mother" was, but he was great at math.
The Alarm: It goes off every morning at 7:00. I don't own an alarm clock. The sound comes from inside my own chest.
The Bridge: It only appears when you aren't looking for it. If you try to cross it, you find yourself back where you started, but ten pounds lighter.
The Collector: He kept the "ends" of things—the last drop of a bottle, the last page of a book, the last breath of a dying fire.
The Mirror: I looked in the mirror and saw the person I would have been if I had stayed in my hometown. She looked much more tired than me.
The Warning: The bird on my windowsill said, "Don't blink." I haven't closed my eyes in three hours. My vision is blurring, but I’m afraid.
The Gift: She gave me a box of "Time." I opened it and felt five minutes of absolute peace. Now I’m addicted and I don't have any money left.
The Elevator: It only goes to floors that don't exist. I pressed '4.5' and found a hallway filled with people waiting for a bus that never comes.
The Statue: It moves when you turn your back. Not much—just an inch. After a month, the statue in the garden is now standing at my front door.
The Radio: It only plays songs that haven't been written yet. They are all about the day the sky turned green.
The Fountain: If you drink from it, you remember everything. Every scratch, every insult, every second of boredom. Most people go mad within a week.
The Shadow: My shadow started wearing a hat. I don't own a hat.
The Window-Shopper: He didn't look at clothes. He looked at the reflections of the people walking by, catching the smiles they dropped.
The Old Man: He claimed he was the one who painted the sky every night. We laughed until he died, and the sun never rose again.
The Message: I found a bottle in the ocean. The note inside was a grocery list written in my own handwriting. I haven't been to the beach in years.
The Tree: It grew shoes instead of fruit. By autumn, the ground was covered in leather loafers and red high heels.
The Silence: She was so quiet that the dust bunnies in her house started telling her their life stories.
The Mapmaker: He drew maps of places that disappeared as soon as he finished the ink. He was the world's most dangerous cartographer.
The Choice: A voice in the dark offered me a choice: "Live forever or know the truth." I chose the truth, and then I realized why no one wants to live forever.
The Archivist of Scents: He kept a basement full of jars containing the smells of things that no longer existed: rain on a dusty Roman road, the breath of a dodo bird, and the specific ozone of a 1950s summer. When he grew lonely, he would open "First Love" and let the room fill with the scent of cheap perfume and nervous sweat.
The Borrowed Face: Every morning, she chose a face from the drawer. Monday was for kindness; Wednesday was for corporate ambition. On Sunday, she wore her own face, but it was becoming so thin from disuse that she could see the skull beneath.
The Static in the Attic: The old television only showed the living room of the family that lived in the house fifty years ago. I watched them eat dinner every night until, one evening, the father looked at the screen, pointed directly at me, and whispered, "It’s your turn to set the table."
The Gravity Thief: He carried a heavy magnet that pulled the "weight" out of objects. He’d tap a boulder and watch it drift away like a balloon. Eventually, he grew so light that he had to tie lead weights to his ankles just to keep from falling into the sky.
The Unfinished Symphony: The composer died mid-note. For a century, the ghost of an orchestra sat in the opera house, bows frozen. Today, a toddler wandered onto the stage and hummed a single "C," and the walls finally collapsed under the weight of the finished sound.
The Memory of Water: I drank from a stream that remembered being a cloud. For three hours, I felt like I was floating, and my thoughts were nothing but white fluff and the distant rumble of thunder.
The Clockwork Heart: When her heart failed, they replaced it with a brass engine. She functioned perfectly, but she had to wind herself every morning. If she fell in love, the gears turned so fast they began to smoke, smelling of burnt oil and longing.
The Map of Scars: He had a tattoo of a map on his back. Every time he got hurt, a new road appeared. By the time he was eighty, he was a walking atlas of a country that didn't exist, paved with every mistake he’d ever made.
The Word Eater: He survived by eating adjectives. A "beautiful" day would keep him full for hours. He grew thin in the city, where everything was just "fine," "okay," or "loud."
The Door to Yesterday: I found a door in my basement that leads to 1985. I go there to buy cheap gas and see my parents before they were tired. I have to be careful; if I stay past sunset, I start to turn into a Polaroid.
The Shadow's Rebellion: My shadow stopped following my feet. It started walking three paces ahead, opening doors for me and picking up things I dropped. It’s helpful, but I’m terrified of the day it decides it doesn't need me attached to its heels.
The Star-Stitched Coat: The old tailor used thread made of starlight. If you wore his coats, you never felt the cold, but you could never go indoors. The ceiling felt like a cage to someone wearing the galaxy on their shoulders.
The Silent Radio: It only broadcasts the things people almost said. "I love you," "I'm sorry," and "Don't go" fill the airwaves in a constant, crackling hum that makes everyone in the room feel inexplicably guilty.
The God of Small Things: He wasn't the god of thunder or war. He was the god of lost buttons and the tiny bit of pencil you can't sharpen anymore. He was the busiest deity in the universe, and his temple was just a drawer in your kitchen.
The Reflection's Debt: I broke a mirror and the reflection didn't shatter. It stayed in the frame, staring at me with Seven Years of Bad Luck written in its eyes. Now, every time I look at glass, the reflection is a second late, waiting for its revenge.
The Paper Plane: I threw a paper plane out the window. It didn't land. It joined a flock of others, circling the city like white birds, waiting for the wind to carry them back to the trees they were made from.
The Baker of Dreams: His bread didn't just taste good; it gave you a specific dream. The rye gave you flying; the sourdough gave you memories of the sea. One day he baked a "Nightmare Loaf" by accident, and the whole town woke up screaming for water.
The Infinite Hotel: Every room was numbered '1'. No matter how far you walked down the hall, you were always at the beginning. You could hear the other guests through the walls, but you could never find the lobby to check out.
The Sandman's Strike: The Sandman went on strike. For a month, no one slept. The world became a haze of hallucination until the leaders of the world agreed to give everyone an extra hour of "dream-pay" every night.
The Last Secret: I found the last secret at the bottom of a well. It wasn't a world-ending truth. It was just a small, silver key that opened nothing, because everything worth opening had already been found.
The Color-Blind World: Suddenly, the world turned grayscale. People panicked, trying to remember what "red" felt like. Only the artists were happy; they finally had the perfect lighting for every sketch.
The Clock in the Forest: There is a grandfather clock in the middle of the woods that ticks once every thousand years. When it strikes twelve, the forest will turn into a city, and the city dwellers will wonder why they feel so leafy.
The Compass of Desire: It doesn't point North. It points toward the thing you want most. For me, it keeps pointing at the trash can, which is how I realized I really needed to throw away my past.
The Ghost in the Machine: My laptop started writing a novel while I slept. It’s a thriller about a man whose computer is trying to kill him. I’m currently on Chapter 12, and the protagonist just realized the 'Enter' key is a trap.
The Rain of Coins: It rained pennies for an hour. No one was rich; everyone just had very sore heads and a lot of copper that the banks refused to count.
The Soul-Swap: For five minutes every day, everyone on Earth swaps bodies with their nearest neighbor. It was chaotic until we realized it’s a great way to find out who’s been stealing your lunch from the office fridge.
The Library of Smells: Every book in the library had no words, just scents. You didn't read "The Great Gatsby"; you smelled gin, old leather, and a faint hint of fading perfume.
The Shadow-Puppet: A man discovered he could control other people’s shadows. If he made your shadow dance, you had to dance too. He was eventually defeated by a man with no shadow at all.
The Echo-Less Room: I built a room where sound doesn't bounce. If you speak, the words fall to the floor like dead flies. It’s the only place I can finally hear myself think.
The Star-Eater: A small boy kept a star in a jar. He fed it sugar cubes and whispers. By the time he was a man, the star was a sun, and the jar was a galaxy.
The Time-Traveler's Wife: She waited for him in 1950, 1980, and 2010. He always arrived late, smelling of dinosaurs and gunpowder, asking if he’d missed dinner.
The World-Building: I found a box of Lego that builds real buildings. I built a castle in my backyard, but now the neighbors are complaining about the dragons in the HOA.
The Silent Singer: She had the most beautiful voice in the world, but it was so high-pitched only dogs could hear it. She became the world's most famous performer for golden retrievers.
The Memory-Cleaner: For a small fee, he would vacuum your brain. He’d suck out the embarrassing things you said in middle school, leaving your mind as clean and empty as a new hotel room.
The Gravity-Flippers: Every Tuesday at noon, gravity reverses for ten seconds. We all have nets on our ceilings and keep our coffee mugs with lids. It’s the only time the clouds feel like home.
The Invisible City: There is a city that only appears when you're lost. If you have a map, you'll never find it. If you're hopeless, the gates open and the bread is always warm.
The Tattooed Future: My tattoo changes every day to show me how I’ll die. This morning, it was a picture of a banana peel. I haven't left my bed yet.
The Moon-Light: I caught a moonbeam in a bottle. It doesn't light up the room; it just makes everything look like a dream you can't quite remember.
The Word-Limit: The government passed a law: only 100 words a day. By 10:00 AM, I’m usually down to "Yes," "No," and "Please feed the dog."
The Reflection-Thief: Someone is stealing reflections from mirrors. I looked into mine today and saw only the wall behind me. I feel like I’m disappearing one look at a time.
The Pet Cloud: I kept a small raincloud as a pet. It was great for the plants, but it made my living room very humid and always wanted to sleep on my head.
The Clock-Watcher: He sat in front of the clock, waiting for the "tick" that would end the world. He waited for eighty years, only to realize the "tick" was actually his own heartbeat.
The Dream-Journal: I found a journal that records other people's dreams. My neighbor is currently dreaming about being a giant penguin, which explains the squawking through the walls.
The Key-Maker: He made keys that opened people's hearts. He stopped when he realized most hearts are just full of old receipts and half-finished thoughts.
The Rain-Dancer: Every time she danced, it rained. She was a hero in the desert until she caught the flu and flooded the entire state of Arizona with a sneeze.
The Shadow-Dye: You can now dye your shadow different colors. I chose neon green. It’s hard to hide in the dark, but at least I’m festive.
The Message-in-a-Bottle: I found a bottle in the ocean with a note that said, "Stop looking for bottles and go home." It was signed by me.
The Memory-Tree: I planted a memory of my first kiss. A tree grew with leaves that blush pink every spring and sigh whenever the wind blows.
The Last Cigarette: The man smoked the last cigarette on Earth. As he exhaled, the smoke turned into a grey bird that flew away, taking the 20th century with it.
The 150th Story: The narrator sighed. "I'm only fifteen percent done," he whispered to the screen. The screen flickered, and a thousand more shadows began to dance in the margins.
