Secrets, regrets, and a longing for redemption—what if one choice could change everything?
Life rarely unfolds as planned, and every choice you make shapes the person you’re becoming. Will you choose wisely or let regret define you?
In these eight captivating stories, relatable characters grapple with unexpected twists and moral dilemmas. Will their choices mirror your own—or challenge what you think you’d do?
Inside, you'll find:
• The secrets a hotel room door lock might spill if it could talk.
• A world without cash, where every misstep is tracked.
• Memories imprinted on your cells—could they transfer to someone else?
• The ultimate test: Would you rise to heroism or falter?
• What price would you pay for love, success, or wealth?
From award-winning author Francesca Flood comes Short Stories with a Twist—a collection of provocative tales exploring morality, humanity, and the unexpected paths to redemption.
Each story challenges you to reflect on forgiveness, second chances, and the choices that shape your life. Intriguing and thought-provoking, this collection will fire your imagination and leave you wondering: What would I do?
Secrets, regrets, and a longing for redemption—what if one choice could change everything?
Life rarely unfolds as planned, and every choice you make shapes the person you’re becoming. Will you choose wisely or let regret define you?
In these eight captivating stories, relatable characters grapple with unexpected twists and moral dilemmas. Will their choices mirror your own—or challenge what you think you’d do?
Inside, you'll find:
• The secrets a hotel room door lock might spill if it could talk.
• A world without cash, where every misstep is tracked.
• Memories imprinted on your cells—could they transfer to someone else?
• The ultimate test: Would you rise to heroism or falter?
• What price would you pay for love, success, or wealth?
From award-winning author Francesca Flood comes Short Stories with a Twist—a collection of provocative tales exploring morality, humanity, and the unexpected paths to redemption.
Each story challenges you to reflect on forgiveness, second chances, and the choices that shape your life. Intriguing and thought-provoking, this collection will fire your imagination and leave you wondering: What would I do?
I wouldn’t have struggled against my demise if I had known it would turn out this way. Corrosion would have been my friend. I would have allowed the rust of age to eat away at my inners - welcoming the bliss of destruction.
You cannot fathom the images I have been forced to witness—staring with no lid available to shield my eye. Granted, not every scene was macabre. I have watched loving and miraculous moments. Yet I shudder at the times too terrifying and painful to recount.
When I emerged from the mold filled with molten bronze, I concede I was self-absorbed and quite conceited. Unlike my contemporaries, the lines of my plate curved with filigree. My keyhole was sharp and crisp. And yes, admirers used the word stunning more than once. I admit the engraving tool hurt a bit, but it was not dissimilar from today’s tattoos. I was ornate for my time, but the Gilded Age was a time for opulence and grandiosity when wealth needed to be flaunted. You must appreciate that I would not be installed in just any manor. I was destined for the new Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
A jolt of pride surged through me when they cut into a unique door and smoothed its edges to accommodate me. Beautiful Door, with his deep-grained mahogany and majestic presence. Solid to impress the visitors. Strong to discourage intruders and undesirables. Joined in 1905, our bond was unimaginable. I, an intricate part of Door, and he to me.
With the building complete, guests started to arrive in 1907. They prepared us. Slathering oil rolled across Door, emphasizing his color and grain and leaving a lemony scent. Polishing cream and rubbing brought out the luster of my bronze. Like tickling fingers, the key twisting in my lock spread pleasure across the face of my plate and fluttered inside my mechanisms. Even Door would swear the vibration traveled through his wood.
Early on, Door and I reveled in the honeymooners basking in their love, tourists awed by the city’s sites, and families luxuriating in a hotel stay. Their smiles and laughter made us proud. Occasionally, businessmen would imbibe too much and invite a guest. Door and I suspected they weren’t family members. “Wow! Did you see that?” My endless questions to my patient companion. Or “That guy’s lucky he found his room.”
We witnessed a pregnant woman give birth despite her protestations, “Oh no. No. No. It’s too early.” Still, the little human arrived squealing. Another time, a woman kept referring to a man as her customer. Door shuddered when the man demonstrated his unhappiness with his purchase and slapped her several times. That man would have been in trouble if Door had come off his hinges.
As maids polished Door, a ripple of silent chuckles flowed through him, almost causing my face plate to shimmy. The maintenance men oiled his hinges and even spared a drop or two for me. We couldn’t have been happier playing our hospitality roles until one night.
The day had started cloudy, but even then, a speck of light always managed to peek through the cracks in the drapes. The rain poured all day, and the dampness swelled my companion’s form, sticking whenever he closed. A bit of arthritis settled in my locking mechanism. No tickling sensation happened when the key twisted. A woman wobbled as a man dragged her into the room by the arms. He beat her like the maids thrashed the rugs. We watched purple flowers blooming all over the woman’s body, and her cries stopped. The man rolled her up in the bedcover, and two other men came and carried her out in a trunk.
Of course, Door and I didn’t possess a sense of time. We might have been in the hotel room for ten years or a hundred. But management seemed to rethink our aesthetic. A giant human arrived with a screwdriver and hammer. After endless banging, they lifted Door from his hinges and removed him from the frame. Hammerman shoved a screwdriver under my faceplate, the pain excruciating. Despite my efforts to cling to my friend, the tool pried me loose, denting one of my corners.
That hurtful man tossed me into a crate with other keyholes intertwined like worms waiting to be baited. Pushed between slots on a trolley, they wheeled Door away. I shuddered to think what became of him. My innards ached. Our parts would never be joined again.
It was dark, cold, and musty. The cardboard box that held all the plates and keyholes became moist and began to sag. You cannot imagine how rust crawls through you like a flesh-eating amoeba. With all of us plates entangled, rusting was contagious. My demise was inevitable until a giant hand lifted me from the container.
The giant possessed such skill and craftsmanship to clean my mechanism and re-lubricate the inner workings with detailed attention. Shined and repurposed, I cheered my good fortune, heading to a new life of service. The new door awaiting me was nothing like my Door. Barely covered with white paint, the brush strokes exposed composite wood. So much thinner than my Door, whose presence exuded strength. This door with her eight panels might have looked decorative, but she was hollow. A slight knocking uncovered the flimsy nature of her construction. She had been refitted from a circular knob to a rectangle slot readied for my mechanism. She whined and protested as the man filed and filed away the thin veneer to ensure my snug fit. Once inserted, I introduced myself. Silence. “Hello, door.” I tried again.
“I’m not Door,” her tone brusque. “I am Entry.” Her composite wood attempted to shrink and pull away from my plate. “What were they thinking when they installed you, an old piece of junk as the door lock? I’m almost new, bought from Home Depot. Where’d they find you?”
There was no answer. Where had I been? It didn’t matter. Entry was not interested in me. Unlike the relationship between Door and me, this new association was in constant friction. Regardless of how well my locking system worked, Entry clasped onto my bolt a bit too long, so the owner jiggled my handle. Her sabotage risked my position. The woman complained. “Honey, that lock sticks. We can’t have the girls trapped in their room. Better replace it.” Chance smiled on me because Honey never made replacement a priority.
Entry and I remained mum, witnessing two tiny humans playing endless games, rifling through clothes, and sleeping. Their small hands did not reach the key; one day, they turned the key, and another day, they never returned. The house became silent.
“Entry?” I asked the door that was now my prison guard. Silence. Time passed as the room’s wallpaper faded, then slid down and disintegrated into powder. “Entry?”
“What!” Her tone was defiant and annoyed.
“Where are the humans?” I asked, not trying to conceal the fear in my voice.
“They’re gone. Vines are crawling up the windows. Don’t you see the floorboards coming loose? Gosh, you’re dumb as a doorknob.” She tittered.
“But what does that mean?” My innards twisted with angst on their own accord.
“It means we’re stuck here until all the destruction takes us with it.”
“I don’t want to die here.” My voice squeaked. Silence.
I couldn’t say if twenty days or twenty years had passed. If possible, my one wish would be to have a lid to cover me so I didn’t have to witness the crawling rats and decay. We waited, perhaps wishing for something expedient to end us rather than this torturous and endless fate.
Loud voices blared up the steps and grew louder and louder. Entry said, “Do you hear that?”
“Yes,” I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “Humans. They’re back.”
One human kicked Entry as they pushed their way into the room. I knew it hurt as an ugly black scuff mark stained her. She shuddered as they slammed us shut. We couldn’t make out what these three people were up to until one of them sparked a flame. Tremors of terror ping-ponged between Entry and me. We both understood the danger of fire. The humans passed a pipe and stuck themselves with needles. Despite how worn Entry and I appeared, the humans’ gray skin was the worst. They rolled on the floor, babbled without expression, and slept, repeating this day after day. One day, they didn’t return.
“Do you think they’re gone?” Entry’s voice was timid.
Entry’s turn to be curious arrived. Her bottom panel bashed in and splintered beyond recognition.
“Those humans were mean, just for mean’s sake,” I informed her. “They tried to fidget with my lock, but I froze it, and they grew tired of me. Or at least I hoped so.” I meant it. “I’m sorry they hurt you, Entry.”
“Thanks for freezing your lock so they couldn’t slam me.”
Entry and I would never be as close as Door and me, but we reached a new level of relationship—silent witnesses. A thick crust covered the windows, allowing minimal sunlight to filter in. The noise of squeaking rats and stone silence alternated throughout our days and nights. Then, one night, a loud rumbling sound and screech woke us from our stupor.
Murmurs of crying clung to the walls downstairs as Entry and I waited. Men’s shouting voices shook the building. Lighter-than-usual footsteps tripped up the stairs. “Get in here!” a man barked, shoving a tiny human into Entry and falling onto the floor. He held a flashlight whose beams caught scampering rodents running hither and fro. One small human let out a squeal. The man smacked him.
Six miniature humans huddled together. Why? Another man brought in buckets and a bottle of water. He threatened, raising a fist, “Don’t drink it all. It’ll be a while before we bring more.” His black eyes appeared like pools of tar.
Their little faces were covered with dirt. The tracks of tears resembled sled lines going down a snowy mountain. The bigger man of the two held some type of gun and, without warning, bore an enormous hole into Entry just above me. “Grab the deadbolt,” he ordered the other man, who tossed the object.
The deadbolt was round, solid, and silent. Could Entry still support the weight of this device? The man shoved the lock into the freshly cut hole with dreadful force. I thought Entry would come off her hinges. He screwed a plate onto her already worn jam, shut Entry, turned a key into the lock, and bolted us closed. “That’ll work.” He said with a hint of pride in his voice.
“What about the lock underneath?” The second man asked.
Drillman poked a finger into my keyhole, checking to ensure the latch retracted. “It’s junk. This here will secure the door.” He assured, twisting and retracting the key into the compliant new lock.
They shouted warnings at the tiny humans and left. When the room emptied, the small people began to sob and tremble. “I want my mommy,” a girl whispered, and another girl hushed her.
“They’re going to take us far away from here.” A boy whimpered.
Entry asked, “Mr. Bolt. What’s going on here?”
Thick as a log, the bolt grunted. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Entry and I realized it was futile to ask him any more questions. We listened as the little people sniffled and the rats scampered.
A beam of light pierced through the grime-coated window. Entry shuddered, “They’re back.” As if sensing the same danger, the humans moaned. The footsteps grew louder as the two men approached. With Mr. Bolt holding us, Entry remained closed. Drillman took a key and shoved it into the upper lock. The rod retracted without protest. He turned my knob. My fastener held firm. “The bottom lock is stuck!” His voice carried a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. He rattled Entry and shook her in the frame.
“What’s wrong?” The second man barked.
“Lock’s stuck.” He said as he shook and shook my knob and pushed and pulled on Entry.
“Kick it in,” the second man ordered.
Rushing toward Entry with his shoulder, the first man smashed against her.
We rattled, but neither of us budged. No matter how many times they twisted to retract my bolt or smash Entry, we held steady and hardened into place. The banging continued. Drillman raised his leg and planted his foot against Entry. Still, the wood I once believed flimsy held like fortified steel.
So distracted by trying to break through the lock, the pair failed to recognize the flashing lights outside. A woman and a man dressed in uniform came running up the stairs. “Police. Hands up!”
The little humans shouted and cried. “Help. Help. We’re in here.”
“You idiots made so much noise; a neighbor called us.”
One officer took the men downstairs. The other shook the handle of my lock, which was frozen and could not be retracted. I had held it in place with all my might and had no more strength to move. He shouted to the female officer, “Lock’s stuck. Bring the axe.”
Entry whispered, “I’m sorry. I was so mean to you when you first came. I’m glad we became friends. It will go fast now.”
I understood and breathed easier.
“Stand back,” the man yelled to the room’s occupants. He swung the axe. Splinters and shards of wood flew through the room like meteors. Entry ripped in two. My bolt shook, separating from the jam. When it dropped to the floor, it pulled my knob and face plate loose. A chunk of Entry fell to the floor, covering my keyhole. At last, a lid. My time as a witness ended.
***
Author Francesca Flood leaves readers with plenty to ponder in her new collection, Short Stories with a Twist. Well-written short stories are such a treat to devour, and Flood’s eight quick-hit, poignant pieces have staying power.
From sentient furnishings, Big Brother, and broken people to reincarnation, redemption, and retribution, Flood ushers readers through tales that intentionally force reflection upon us. Whether it’s a what-if scenario or an unsettling realization that the author’s fictitious art mirrors real life, satisfaction is guaranteed in Short Stories with a Twist.
“I invite you to ponder the possibilities that linger in the spaces between the lines. The story ends, and your imagination begins.” – Author Francesca Flood
Short Stories with a Twist starts with the Introduction, which tells readers what to do and how to feel and interpret the forthcoming stories. Perhaps this is because she anticipates some will be unhappy or uncomfortable with the open-endedness of each story’s conclusion. However, placement at the end of the collection would have let us read outside the author’s framework.
As the title implies, each tale does have a delicious and unexpected twist that delights. Author Flood has a way with words and sprinkles just the right layer of figurative language to create worlds and evoke feelings.
The first story, award-winning “Witness,” is a reminder of the impact of bearing silent witness and how little control any of us has. Yet, it shows that even the most minimal efforts can make all the difference.
“So, people just took your post as fact and ran with it?” – from “Picasso”
“Picasso” should feel like science fiction, but it seems all too plausible that government could take technology to the next level and that social media gone wild could have deadly consequences. “Echo” goes from creepy and unsettling to a thoroughly satisfying end that gives rewarding affirmation.
“Like the rest of him, his mouth had become a gaping maw of desolation.” – from “Seed”
“Seed” seriously tugs on the heartstrings and ends with a gut-punch and the most startling ending in the collection. In “Redemption,” readers will go full circle alongside the main character who’s forgotten her roots but finds them in a bittersweet come-uppance.
“There are times, Lord, help me. I’d wished some folks gone from this earth. But if we want a better world, we must start by seeing each other—the hurts, the love, the drive to make life better. That’s where change begins.” – from “Willis”
“Transplant,” set in Austin, Texas, is chock-full of familiar places and bits of foreshadowing to entice. “Willis” is amazing, offering the most quotable gems that sadly, still resonate today, despite the piece’s time range. And one small sentence at the end implies a whole different realm. WOW.
The final story, “The Boy in Room 212,” perfectly finishes Short Stories with a Twist. It is outstanding as it forces readers to think and rethink. It contains so many lessons and so much relevance, and again, that theme of redemption crosses the page and makes a huge, thought-provoking impact.
In Short Stories with a Twist, there is a smattering of typos and errors, which typically would take a discerning reader out of the stories. It’s a nod to the author’s talent for storytelling that they did not in this instance. I assume these will be corrected in the final copy.
“As we come to a greater understanding of ourselves and our place in this world, we judge less, love more, and seek to leave our fingerprint by making this place better.” – Author Francesca Flood
Adding the word “should” to the author’s concluding statement would make this a perfect quote. Whether one accepts the spiritual implication or not, understanding ourselves and our role should be about the needs of others and not ourselves. Even so, the author’s intention, as stated in the Introduction and again in the concluding Author’s Notes, succeeds. All eight of the stories are engaging, and time is well-spent getting lost in the pages of Short Stories with a Twist. Highly recommended reading.