Blog Archives

The Masked Ones, by Joy Essien

31/1/2016

The masked dancers arrived raising a dust haze. Twirling in colourful robes, accompanied by a motley band of drummers and other musicians they moved to centre stage at the village festival. Excited children scuttled around in search of the best view.

Angela, a feminist had heard that the masquerade dance would feature both male and female dancers, a novel occurrence as ancestral spirits were supposedly all male. Those in the know stared at feet and ankles trying to guess the names of the dancers. Angela studied the group intently with widened eyes. “All I can see is them”, She grumbled.

Thin Blue Line, by Eric Smith

30/1/2016

“Why’d you get into this line of work?”

“I wanted to help people.”

“Really? You could have been a firefighter or enlisted in the Coast Guard. They help people who’re in the jackpot.”

“Yeah, but they’re specialized. We never know what’s going to happen. Whenever someone’s in any kind of trouble, they call us.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“It’s the attitude I don’t like. You guys always assume the worst about everyone—automatically you figure we’re lying, guilty, lowlifes.”

“Yeah, but that’s the job. We deal with the worst every day, all day.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

The Other, by Ann-Louise Truschel

30/1/2016

“Chief, you wanted to see me?”

“Eileen, I have an assignment for you. It could be dangerous; it could also earn you a Pulitzer.”

“When do I leave and where do I go?”

“You’ll be embedded in Syria for six months. You leave tonight.”

“What can I say? Of course I’ll go.”

She leaves, high on excitement. Shortly thereafter her husband Mel comes into the Chief’s office.

“You’re sending Eileen into Syria, Ralph? Is she coming back?”

“Her cover will be blown shortly after her arrival, and, unfortunately, she’ll be killed.”

“I love you Ralph.”

“I love you too, Mel.”

Playing Favorites, by Russell Conover

30/1/2016

“It’s a simple question, Tom.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is. Just tell me who your favorite past coworker is.”

“When four of them are standing right in front of me?”

“That’s the job.”

Tom gulped. He knew he risked unleashing hell if he said the wrong name, and he had a three in four chance of doing just that. He spoke very carefully.

“I can’t pick just one. They are each a favorite in their own way.”

His subtle wink was at Mary, now that “they” could be singular, and only she noticed. She tried to contain her smile.

Leann Marie, January 29th 2012, by Jo Oldani-Osborne

29/1/2016

We faced each other in matching Pink Hope shoes. Five years, five anti-cancer walks.

We weren’t here to walk.

“I asked you out here because Doc said I have to get my things in order,” Leann rasped, haltingly.

She asked to meet early, alone. “What would you like me to do, Lee?”

Instinctively, I reached to comfort her. She blocked my embrace.

“Take care of Mom. The kids. And – um.” I heard resignation. Regret.
“About visitors. I hate tears.”

“Okay. If they can’t keep it together,” my hope exhaled.

“That’s all.”

The shoes sit on my shelf.

A Sandwich at the End of the Night, by Emma Baird

29/1/2016

Nell and Digby met at university. She was a student and he was a young entrepreneur, flogging sandwiches to students staggering out of the uni disco.

Thanks to an earlier white-out, she was ravenous. Thanks too to that white-out she was skint.

“I’ve no money,” she wailed. Digby’s assistant dismissed her. Digby made a sandwich up anyway.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Directness contributed to Digby’s entrepreneurial success.

She took her time answering. The term end beckoned, as did Camp America. No point in beginning something.

She took a bite of the sandwich. It was heavenly.

“No,” she smiled.

The Boot On The Other Foot, by Gordon Lawrie

29/1/2016

Amelia, a second-year history student, reviewed books for the student magazine.

Seeing an advert in a local bookshop, she’d signed up for a free author event offering pre-event wine and requested a free review copy.

Not taking to the author – a distinguished academic publishing her first novel – Amelia admitted in her scathing book review that she’d been biased accordingly. However, she was entitled to her opinion.

Months later, it transpired that the academic/author worked part-time in the history department, had marked Amelia’s exams and – not thinking them much good – had failed her. Naturally, she too was entitled to her opinion.

A They Walks Into A Bar..., by Gordon Lawrie

28/1/2016

More nonsense inspired by the 'they can be singular' fiasco.

They cut an imposing figure in the bar-room doorway; from their mouth they blew a giant pink bubble. When it popped, everyone spun round to look.

“Goodness,” the newcomer said. “They’re playing our song.”

The pianist was playing ‘Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby’.

Suddenly, the newcomer became animated. “Which of you is Spartacus?” they said.

One stood up immediately. “They are Spartacus!”; then another “No – they are Spartacus!”; then another until all the bar was yelling “They are Spartacus!”

The newcomer sighed. “Doesn’t matter,” they said, drew their sub-machine gun and despatched everyone. Even the pianist.

They, by Amy Friedman

27/1/2016

In the week that 'they' was declared an acceptable singular pronoun in order to avoid using male/female alternatives:

Did you know you’re now “them?”
Me?
Yeah. If you don’t want to pinpoint gender in writing, you now can use “they.”
No kidding.
Washington Post says so. It’s part of their style now.
Can you refer to non-people as they?
What do you mean?
Well, you just did.
Huh?
You called the Washington Post “they”.
Oh man. Are you gonna nitpick me on that?
I can’t believe they want to toss out gender pronouns.
And there you go – you’re using they!
Think they’re gonna come get me for it?
One never knows, do one? It’s definitely gonna save time

Eric Smith added this comment:

I saw that article, Amy. After all those years trying not offend anyone; pluralizing things to avoid him or his or his/her; watching helplessly (what goes around comes around?) as people decided all editors are women--who cares, I thought—they referred to themselves as she and her. I even read articles in the seventies in which people devised new pronouns, such as izer and ir, so nobody would get pissed. Now this. It doesn't matter after all. My elementary school teachers (all women) used to say, "Does everyone have his pen?" Now it doesn't matter. They're dead anyway, right?

Caught, by Elizabeth Miles

26/1/2016

'The camera can't lie' he said, proffering the photograph.

I took it, hands shaking I looked down and saw them. He, with the familiar wide grin and she, a fresh faced smiling beauty beaming up at me. Understandable why he had preferred to spend time with her lately.

'Well?', the photographer's voice interrupted my thoughts, 'I think we have it nailed.'

I felt the tears well up, 'Yes', I said. 'There's no denying it. I have the most beautiful granddaughter and most handsome husband in the world and they deserved to win your 'Photograph of the Month' competition.

Popularity, by Russell Conover

24/1/2016

Jim, quite the ladies’ man, had a world of trouble on his mind. He’d been thinking about seven different women, all of whom wanted him, and he couldn’t take the pressure anymore.

“Take it easy,” he told himself. “This will work out somehow.” He tried to think of a way to keep them happy while not letting his wheels drive him crazy.

Suddenly he heard footsteps. Glancing back, he saw the women pursuing him.

Before long, the women had plastered themselves on his truck’s hood, grinning like idiots. He sighed. “A lover who won’t blow my cover. Like THAT’LL happen.”

Jackson and Glen, by Eric Smith

22/1/2016

When I was in Winslow, Arizona—I was probably only near it where the Greyhound Bus stopped. Anyway, there were no corners in sight—just a road stretching into nowhere surrounded by dirt—no buildings, houses, or even fences. So when I hear that song I think, "Jeez, how could the protagonist be standing on a corner?" And I always have trouble with a guy having seven women on his mind simultaneously. He did classify and group them for simplification, but still, seven? Three I could see. Then again, turns out Winslow was somewhere else and it did have corners.

Stardom, by Roshanna Sidney Evans

22/1/2016

Slamming the door of her bedroom after another bitter confrontation with her parents, Pedra pulled a rotary spin through the air and dropped onto her bed with a splash and a sigh.

“Hey,” she said to the stars in the sky, “I wish I was you.”

Snuggling into the moonlight, just so, she let go. Seconds later, Pedra was flying inside their universe, stardust tickling her skin.

“May I pick you?” she asked.

One protected her heart. Two, on her shoulders. Two on her feet.
They tucked her deeper into sleep.

“Please handle with care, humankind,” they whispered. "Priceless."

Birth Of A Legend, by Gordon Lawrie

22/1/2016

On a corner in Winslow, Arizona, two singers were arguing over who should sing the song.

“Look, I wrote it,” said one. “I should get first shot.”

“Wrote WHAT?” said the other. “It’s only a half a song – you need more.”

“I know, I know, smart-ass. Any smart ideas?”

Just then, a passing flatbed Ford slowed down to look at the two squabbling singers. She leaned out of the window, calling out “Take it easy, boys,” trying to calm them down.

“That’s it!” said the first. “I’ll have the flatbed Ford and you can have the song.”

“Deal,” said the second.

The Hanging Judge, by Gordon Lawrie

22/1/2016

In the dock, the prisoner stood, ready for the inevitable. The judge studied him sternly.

“Prisoner,” she said, “you have been found guilty of failing to write a story for Friday Flash Fiction today. Have you anything to say?”

“No, ma’am,” he bleated.

The judge excitedly fumbled for her black cap.

“In that case, I hereby sentence you to be hanged by the feet in the public square until you’ve thought something up.”

Someone in the gallery cried ‘No!’. The prisoner bowed his head, knowing that as a kilt-wearing Scot, his darkest secret could no longer be kept hidden.

An Unexpected Audience, by Emma Baird

22/1/2016

The diary writer wrote with no expectation of ever being read. She didn’t censor and she didn’t make any effort to hide her self-obsession. Why would she?

After her death, her niece packed up all the journals and stored them in her attic. The diary writer’s great niece read the journals – early 20th century life and the changing status of women was the theme that prevailed.

Fascinating stuff!

An editor agreed. The diary writer’s musings became public – her words mulled over by book groups and critics.

Introversion and privacy had been the diary writer’s watchwords. She spun in her grave.

Tracks II, by Eric Smith

21/1/2016

Now the second one...

The big veins in Paul’s long, skinny arms bulged out with brown bruises.

“Look how ugly those needles make my body look.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying the body is the temple of the Lord, and He must be telling me not to tie off and shoot up no more, that’s what.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think if you’re so bible-thumping as you make out, then you shouldn’t live on junk the way you do.”

”Maybe I’ll clean myself up tomorrow.”

“Right, makes sense, like I believe that, big guy.”

Tracks I, by Eric Smith

21/1/2016

Two quite separate stories, each with the same title. Almost, anyway.

The morning after this latest snowfall, Joe made out sets of tracks in the otherwise pristine crust. He went to investigate. He saw cat tracks, taking their time up the drive and onto the back deck, where they stopped. How could that be? Oh, the cat had jumped onto and over the rail, curved around the side of the house, skittered past the front porch, and disappeared in the distance. Joe approached two sets of deer tracks—they hadn’t wasted any time—running and leaping breakneck for the woods. The final set was a single rabbit hopping toward the barn.

The Next Big Thing, by Jane Reid

20/1/2016

Pluto, now with even less prestige

Fred hurried in the door shouting. “Hey, Arlene. Pack your boots and overcoat. We’re going to Planet Nine.”
“Pluto? Nobody goes there any more.”
“Nah, Pluto’s a has-been. This is way beyond Pluto. And it’s big. Plenty of room for everyone.”
“It sounds awfully cold.”
“Sure is. No more worries about climate change.”
“Are you sure someone won’t come along and demote it, just like Pluto?”
“No, the same astronomer who put down Pluto discovered this. He wrote a paper. He’s invested in it.”
“Wow, he saw it?”
“Nope, he hasn’t seen it yet.”

Cuffs, by Eric Smith

19/1/2016

Sandy threw June against the SUV’s sliding door and tried to slap the cuffs on. Crushed under his weight, June grunted and struggled to keep her hands away.

“Hey, asshole, I’m not under arrest, you know.” He might’ve been trying to cop a feel—she couldn’t tell. Her mind raced—how had everything gone sideways so fast?

She screamed, “Dave, your kid’s gone crazy. Get him off me.” Startled, Sandy backed away, but the sheriff emerged from the house in time to see him push off her, cuffs in hand.

“Son,” he shook his head, “that’s more than enough.”

Warming, by Eric Smith

19/1/2016

Slumped in the rocker, Cotter stared at the same sentence on the page. The novel he’d long wanted to read disappointed him. He looked outside across the field—a snow sky. Of course, everyone insisted it no longer snowed—the climate had warmed. Then the first flakes floated down. He’d have missed them except they stood out against the red side of the barn. They began in earnest, small ones, knifing down first diagonally as he stared, mesmerized. Then they became larger, greater spaces between them, falling straighter now, but dancing as they did. The book slid onto the floor.

Pragmatic Parenting, by Hannah Nissen-Ellison

19/1/2016

Dad taught me every reason not to do a thing.

‘You’ve got to think it through.’

‘That’s pretty cool,’ he said, holding up my pet dragon. ‘But see the wings? They’re too small. They couldn’t hold the body up in flight.'

He handed me back my sketch and my dragon, his destiny curtailed, landed back on the page.

A Colorful Carnival, by Russell Conover

16/1/2016

Betty, four years old, looked around with glee. Her first carnival!

The blue roller coaster looked frighteningly fast yet invigorating. The yellow flames flickered from the sticks the showman was juggling. The clown honked his red nose as he joked with kids. The green Ferris wheel seemed to stretch into the sky, inviting Betty to soar into space. All this occurred under the deep orange sunset.

Her eyes sparkling, Betty grinned ear to ear. She’d never seen so much vivid color in one place, and she’d only just entered the carnival. What other treasures awaited inside?

“C’mon, Mom. Let’s go!”

By One Very Lucky Person, by Jo Oldani-Osborne

16/1/2016

The key thing to know here is that Jo worked professionally with David Bowie.

“I, I can remember (I remember)
Standing, by the wall (by the wall)
And the guns, shot above our heads (over our heads)
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (nothing could fall)
And the shame, was on the other side
Oh we can beat them, forever and ever
Then we could be heroes, just for one day.”

The mega-star in the mega-show didn’t moondance, or break guitars. He sauntered, singing with candor, with a beautiful presence, telling a story. The fans became quiet and listened. There was no better place in the world to be at that moment.

Hello, by Roshanna Sidney Evans

16/1/2016

My cell phone rang. I picked up as the caller hung up. Wrong number? Immediately, it rang again. I picked up.
Hello.
Dead silence.
This time, I hung up. Prankster.
Three minutes later it rang again. I waited five rings.
Hello.
Static. I hung up.
Text message alert. I tap the App. The message is blank.
I look at the sender. It says Me, but It wasn’t me.
I text back. Who are you?
Text says Me.
The name of sender is Me, again. Me?
I text back. Why would I text myself?
Response. Who are you?
I reply. Me.

<<Previous

"Classic"
100-Word
Stories

So that our judges can make their own minds up, we've switched the comments off until voting ends.

Friday Flash Fiction
Rules

Kinda obvious, really...

Fiction only
Stories of 75-100 words only
Don't be nasty or cheat
Include your name and a story title

Since Friday Flash Fiction began in September 2013, 100-word stories have remained its 'beating heart'.

Normally, 100-word stories are scheduled for 07.00 BST (GMT in the winter) on the following Friday. However, where a large number of stories (more than 25) are due to be published on the same day, we publish a second batch around 10.30am.

Recently, we've welcomed a lot of newcomers and found that even two batches doesn't cover them all. Wherever that happens, we'll simply be publishing 'as and when' during the course of the day.

Each week we pick a story or (occasionally) a poem as 'Editor's Choice'.
It's a personal favourite, no more. Do you agree?

During competitions, however, it seems fairer to disable this option. Normality soon!

Editor's Choice

We have a FACEBOOK PAGE where regular contributors can share ideas and discuss stories. Why not join in?

We occasionally send out little newsletters running competitions – and subscribers are also our voting panel. If you'd like to join us, please click the Subscribe to newsletter button below.

Subscribe to Newsletter

No spam, we promise!

"Classic"100-WordStories﻿

Archives

"Classic"
100-Word
Stories