·100 words·1 min
Flash Fiction Deadlines For Writers
Pulling on a jacket, Tommy sucked in the crisp March air, and ran towards the abandoned estate at the end of the road. His friends had found a carriage house deep in the woods on the property. One day he had noticed a glint beneath the floorboards.
Now alone, he wrestled a board loose. Nestled in the dirt was a pocket watch. Popping it open, he spun the stem.
Sounds of laughter rang outside. Confused, he opened the carriage house door. Hot air flowed around him as his friends stared blankly.
“Where have you been?”
“Tommy, it’s July!”