2026 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 5
Write a piece of flash fiction each day of February with the February Flash Fiction Challenge. Today’s prompt is to write based on the line “Nothing really matters.”
Some first-week reminders:
1. There is no sign-up. All you need to do is visit WritersDigest.com every day this month and click on the day's prompt.
2. You share your works in the comments section. To find the comments, just scroll all the way down to the bottom of the page, write your story right in the text box or copy/paste (whichever you prefer!), and hit submit.
3. You don't need to share your work to participate. A lot of writers aren't comfortable sharing their work here. That's totally OK! The main thing is that you're writing something every day.
4. The system will occasionally flag stories for review. There is nothing wrong with your work; our platform does it randomly. We will be going through and releasing stories periodically between the hours of 9 a.m.–5 p.m. EST Monday through Friday. If your story is flagged, just sit tight. It'll be released!
For today's prompt, write a story based on the line “Nothing really matters.”
(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)
Here’s my attempt at a story based on the line "Nothing really matters.":
Sinking Into Skin
When she’s at her lowest, she can convince herself that she’s just a body. Just a sweaty, twisting creature in a crowd, lights pouring over them and away, over and away. Her mouth is buzzing from too-sweet alcohol, and all their hands are the same, all their lips taste like beer, all their beds are unmade and smell like body wash and heat.
But then there’s a moment when he doesn’t sit there awkwardly while she hunts around for her underwear, keeping an eye on the Uber’s steady approach. He’s already asleep, arm curled around her stomach like stay, like mine. His hair is curly, and he laughed when she bit him hard enough to bruise.
The streetlight is filtering through his uncovered window. She should get up. Instead, she tries to breathe deeply and not feel the rise of grief behind her ribs, choking off her air, her control.
“This doesn’t matter,” she whispers. “Nothing really matters.”
He hums and pulls his body closer to hers before settling again. His mouth is against the round of her shoulder. If she turned her head, she could kiss the top of his head.
She lays there and doesn’t. Even if she wants to.
