The Last Frame

Fun with Flash Fiction by Barry Sandrew, Ph.D.

Lena hadn’t spoken to anyone since her mother’s funeral. The basement, sour with mildew, held her mother’s film collection—and her secrets.

During a blackout, Lena found a rusted reel canister, “1947” in her mother’s scrawl, a note pinned: “Do not watch to the end.” Her mother’s journal, tucked nearby, warned: “The film took her. Don’t let it take you.”

Lena, craving her mother’s truth, threaded the reel into the projector. It hummed like a trapped wasp.

The film flickered. A woman—Lena’s face, her hollow eyes—fled through a rotting house. Shadows writhed like drowning things, swallowing light.

A whisper rasped from the projector: “Finish me.”

Lena watched again, hands shaking. Over three nights, the house twisted—doors bled, clocks wailed backward. Her dreams hummed static, her mirror’s reflection flickering with the woman’s gaze.

On the third night, her room smelled of celluloid ash. Shadows pulsed in her walls, mimicking the film’s. Lena, desperate for answers, pressed play.

The woman stopped, turned to the lens, and hissed, “Lena, you watched to the end.”

The projector choked silent. A cold breath seared her neck.

Lena spun. The woman stood there, her smile jagged as torn film. “You’re my ending.”

The house swallowed her room—walls oozing tar, air shrieking with reversed time. Lena’s skin frayed into silver grain, her scream a projector’s dying whine.

The woman’s voice coiled: “Roll camera.”

Shadows wove Lena into the reel, her face now the film’s, running forever as the next viewer waited.

 next

__ __ __

Authors Note: Flash fiction isn’t easy. You’ve only got a few hundred words to pull the reader in, build tension, and land a payoff. There’s no room for rambling or slow setups. Every sentence—every word has to do something.

That’s exactly why I’m drawn to it. It forces me to think differently. I’ve got to hint at character and backstory instead of spelling it all out, and I’ve got to trust the reader to meet me halfway.

I’m having fun experimenting with how much psychological tension I can squeeze into the smallest space possible. My hope is that these little stories stick with you longer than their size would suggest.

Would love to get your thoughts about this unique style of storytelling.