I knew an old printer’s tray filled with tiny treasures could lead us in a hundred different directions, and you all proved it. This week’s stories transformed those little compartments into a home for impossible memories, a grandfather’s loving tradition, a supernatural warning, a hiding place for family history, and even a noisy neighborhood whose residents come alive when no one is listening.
This week’s prompt was an image:
› The Printer’s Tray
What struck me most was how often that empty space became the heart of the story. Sometimes it held something lost. Sometimes it waited for a new generation. Sometimes the objects themselves had far more to say than anyone imagined. The same tray inspired tenderness, humor, mystery, horror, and magic—and each writer found a completely different story tucked inside it.
Thank you to everyone who shared your imagination with us. Whether you wrote, read, or supported the authors with a like or comment, you helped turn this collection of tiny objects into another wonderful week of storytelling.
Browse the stories in the Flash Fiction Archives, or below.
A big thanks to everyone who participated and took on the challenge this week!
Table of Contents
- The Empty Compartment by Neviena Dēls
- A Gentle Sadness by Kathy Goddard writer
- Family Treasure by Jesse R Traynham - Author
- They Never Stop by Mark Traynham
- Stained Red by Mary Zuelke Author
Likes: 5
Words: 200
The grandfather clock struck one in the morning. The floor creaked as I tiptoed into the hallway.
I had studied the printer's tray my whole life. Things were always being added. One item always puzzled me. Drove me mad.
The tray held dozens of memories. My grandmother's thimble. A toy truck from my uncle. A lighthouse from our trip up the coast. An hourglass. A pewter dragon. A compass.
I wasn't interested in any of that. My square was in the middle section at the bottom. A key.
I grabbed the key to examine it. Like a divining rod, it shot forward, pulling my arms along, as if to find water. It pulled me all through the house and into the garage.
The old street light on the corner spilled through the window. A shelf began to pulse with yellowed light. I removed a bunch of old high school yearbooks to find a hidden chest. The key flew from my hands and unlocked the chest.
I slowly opened the chest to find some of my old baby clothes, my brother's bronzed shoes, our baby albums, and even some old toys.
I was so disappointed. I was hoping for Blackbeard's gold.
by Neviena Dēls
Likes: 4
Words: 186
Every object in the printer's tray came with a promise.
The brass key unlocked no door that still existed. The toy truck drove across a road erased by floodwater. The feather belonged to a bird declared mythical two centuries ago. The snow globe held a village that appeared for one winter every generation, then vanished before spring.
People arrived with their offerings, always older than when the Keeper had last seen them.
"What will happen to it?" they asked.
"It will be remembered," the Keeper replied.
That was enough.
The tray became heavier with every impossible thing entrusted to it. Lost kingdoms. Forgotten loves. Miracles witnessed by only one pair of eyes. Each object anchored a truth the world had abandoned.
Only one compartment remained empty. Visitors often pointed at it.
"What belongs there?"
The Keeper never answered.
One evening, a child entered carrying nothing at all.
"I've forgotten my mother's laugh," she whispered. "Can you keep it from disappearing completely?"
The Keeper looked at the empty space and understood why it had waited so long. Some things arrived only after they had already been lost.
Likes: 3
Words: 200
They said the old newspaper building was haunted; no one went near it. Yesterday Terence laughed about it.
Simon asked, “How do you know? Were you there?”
Terence shut up—face reddened. “If you’re curious, you go. I dare you.” Everyone went silent.
Heat slid down Simon’s neck. “Yeah, why not?”
**
Andy groaned, “Jesus, Simon, why’d you agree to it? Someone was murdered there.”
“Relax, it’ll be a piece of cake.”
At ten, the boys stood before the building.
“Dad said most of the work happened in the basement.”
“Come on then.”
Andy tried the door. “Locked.”
Simon dangled a key with a smirk.
Inside, darkness hung heavy around them until Simon’s flashlight cut through.
“Look, printing press.”
“What’s that?” Andy pointed.
A printing tray hung on the wall; red ink stained the letters.
The beam shook, finding meaning in the randomness.
Ar3u af@id
“Cheap joke,” Simon whispered.
“Wait.” Andy nudged the light.
You’77 8e n3xt Creek
The boys crashed together.
“Go! Just Go!”
“Grab a letter. Terence wants proof.”
They flew.
**
Where’s Simon?
“Didn’t you hear? Had a frickin’ asthma attack. He’s in the hospital.”
“Chickened out, eh?”
Andy dropped the letters. They rolled like dice.
UR N3%T
Likes: 1
Words: 200
My grandad was a builder by trade, but his real passion was carving wood into miniature flowers, animals and even people.
For my fifth birthday he gifted to me an old printer’s tray he’d found in a junk shop. I asked him to carve a wooden frog for me every birthday and Christmas until it was full. Rather than ridicule it as the daft idea of a child, he shook my hand and solemnly promised that he would do his best. Gradually each space was filled with a whimsical carving; frogs playing sports, driving cars, or dancing, performing perfect pirouettes. He knew my sense of humour and his gifts were never a disappointment.
The one remaining gap isn’t an irritation, but the ache of a gentle sadness. He never had the opportunity to complete the collection, and decades later I still mourn his loss.
‘Happy birthday, Gran. I’ve made this for you.’
It’s a pyramid of tightly packed spheres. My beautiful sixteen year old grandson watches me run my fingers over the smooth surface.
‘It’s frogspawn, to represent new life. I thought…’
He looks towards the empty space. It seems he’s inherited my grandad’s woodcarving skill along with his looks.
Likes: 1
Words: 200
"Hey, stop!" shouted Cubicle Seven.
"Look at me. What’s all the commotion?" asked Space 24.
"They never stop, just walk on by."
"I know, right?"
"Remember when they placed us here? They said we were memories."
"Remember when they told me they loved me?"
"You sound like a Karen Carpenter song."
"Hey, don’t be saying nothing about Karen Carpenter," shouted Cube 84.
"Zip it, Boomer, don’t make me come down there."
"Oh, I’m so scared, Sock Monkey, come on down here and I’ll show you a sock to the snozola."
"Why can’t y’all be friendly and fluffy like us rabbits?"
"Oh, speaking of that," said Push Toy, "where did all these rabbits come from?"
"Well, you know how rabbits are," said Cho-Cho.
"Hey, now, let’s not get tacky," chorused the 39 rabbits.
"Well, it’s not my fault," said Turquoise Rabbit. "They’ve got me in a dome, and I can’t get out."
Fighting and shouting broke out in the hallway.
"Ow!" I shouted, stepping on a ceramic rabbit.
"What is all this stuff on the floor?" she asked me.
"Oh, look, I just love this one. Remember when you gave it to me?"
"That was back when we were dating."
When Colton Travers was just four months old, a runaway horse on Bent Oak Road caused a car wreck that left his mother dead. His father survived, then vanished. Raised on family stories and faded photographs, he never questioned the past . . . until a worn shoe box of old clippings surfaced with hints of a darker truth. Now, drawn into a fifty-year-old unsolved case, Colton must chase a trail gone cold, where memory holds the clues, time keeps the truth, and justice demands satisfaction.
Stargazing at the June Bug Ranch
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