Latest Pulp Modern Flash Stories

PulpModern

Pale Hands by Max Thrax

My fifth gin and tonic. Clinks from the ice, blue lights on the wall. Car doors slam. I told them where to look. All week their detectives sniffed around, asked questions, so I made their work simple. One more sip and I’ll be ready. *** I met Teddy in Cambridge. …

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Crime and Punishment by Michael A. Raithel

“My concern is that the timeline seems to be a bit off here,” said Detective Gonzales with a sympathetic smile. He was the good cop; fortyish, fit, and neatly dressed in a sportscoat over an open-collar blue shirt.  Gonzales was probably a family man, indulged his wife and kids, went …

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Legends of the West by John M. Floyd

Southwest Kansas, May 1879 The lone rider was half a day east of Dodge when he saw the covered wagon. It was bumping along the flat prairie north of the road, pulled by two mules and driven by two men. The rider reined in and watched them approach. At first …

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The Curio Shop by Arthur Davis

Could the sun shine any brighter, the day be any warmer than perfection? The scent of every crop and flower mushroomed with abundance, filling the air of Welcome, Tennessee, where everyone smiled and nodded as they passed, polite and welcoming as could be. Howell Rogers, the blind mayor of Welcome …

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The Coffee Shop by Jonathan Worlde

“Mr. Acurso, I’ve got an idea you’ll want to write,” said a teenage kid, his quavering voice cutting through the calming background noise of Acurso’s favorite coffee shop. The award-winning writer always started his mornings working at his laptop on his Mars-detective series. The barista had served him with her …

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These Dead Amongst Us Again by Richard Barr

A shift in the paradigm occurred while they took their breakfast. Online influencers saw their stock value skyrocket before lunchtime. Instead of police on their beat, people artlessly began to handle their own affairs, sometimes at the end of a writ, sometimes at the end of a cudgel, sometimes from …

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Dead Memories by N.B. Turner

It was a wet January morning when my late wife called. She wanted to meet me for a drink. “It would be good to catch up,” she chuckled through the phone. I agreed to the sentiment, as well as when she wanted to meet. It’s impolite to refuse the dead, …

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All the Shit Eaters by Stephen J. Golds

It was the smell that hit him first. Halfway through a yawn, walking down the hallway and into the kitchen, he’d expected the comforting morning scents of percolating coffee, slightly bronzed toast. What assaulted his nostrils and caught scratching at the back of his throat instead was the fetid stench …

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Credit Reapers by Eric Farrell

Mortimer Deignsfree stalked a path through the starving souls left in the skids, his vantablack cape sucking the last light out of the neighborhood. He wielded a campfire spade, wrought iron sharpened to a fleur-de-lis. It swayed in front of him, violence threatened to the weary eyes watching. Mortimer listened …

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