Blog Archives

At the Pearly Gates, by Kim Favors

31/1/2020

Saint Peter continues with his questions.

“Ever on Facebook? Instagram?”

“Raising three children didn’t give me time for any of that.”

“How about an online brokerage account?”

“No, my wife handled our investments.”

“Smartphone?”

“Never wanted one.”

“Let’s see. I have your birth certificate, marriage license, driver’s license, passport and Social Security card. I’m sorry, sir, but we’ll need additional identification before admitting you to Heaven. Cybersecurity protocols require you prove you’re not an android … you might know them as ro … bots bot bot zot beep buzz whir….”

“Saint Peter! Are those lights flashing beneath your robe?”

SnowShovelChicago, by Ted Strutz

31/1/2020

“Hi, Cheryl, it’s me Ethel.”

“Okay, what do you want?”

“Cheryl, why do you always think I want something?”

“Because you always do, Ethel. I can tell by the perky way you say ‘Hi, Cheryl’. So, cut to the chase, what is it?”

“Well be that way, but since you ask, you have a snow shovel don’t you?”

“I do, and so do you. You got one when you worked at Wal-Mart, remember?”

“I can’t find it, I think I let someone borrow it.”

“That’s why I have mine, I don’t lend. Why?”

“My walk, could you shovel it.”

“Hahahahahahahahahaha!”

The Shadowy Figure, by Lisa Miller

31/1/2020

Mom was tall with ash-blonde hair and eyes so blue they sparkled. Her son, short with dark straight hair and almond-shaped eyes. And the differences continued. I never knew my Father until my thirties when I met him for the very first time.

He’d been married twice, no children. Pictures showed a small framed boy with espresso brown hair, but the sameness didn’t continue. His huge light brown eyes were way too round and way too sad right now. Maybe it was my “Uncle” Chen, like everyone said. The dark man who’d knock softly with the only arm he had.

First Days, by Cate Lloyd

31/1/2020

On the dresser sits his first day at school: clutching a navy legionnaire’s cap, wearing an oversized shirt, too-long shorts and Velcro-fastened shoes. He beams shyly.

Alongside it, the growing confidence of his third-grade photo. I wonder what he imagined in that instant, facing a stranger, to look so brightly, shiningly alive?

Then the primary school graduation photo. Stringy hair fronds his eyes. His leaner face doesn’t quite hide his trusting gaze.

Today, I try to capture him, my new high-schooler. He has bloomed over the summer; his feet are enormous.

When I seek his attention, he scowls.

Turns away.

Birth Pang, by Sivan Pillai

31/1/2020

Thank God for last night’s storm, though it almost uprooted me. Every tree wants its seeds to disperse and bring up a new generation. While birds and animals do it for other trees, they are not interested in my pods that provide them with no food. The cement blocks below, on which my seeds fall, will see that they do not germinate. Even the road outside is paver-blocked, leaving no exposed soil.

The storm has carried some of my broken branches to the adjacent vacant plot where, I hope, a new generation will come up soon.

Taking Instruction, by Barbara Gliddon

31/1/2020

She was fond of singling out offenders: “Naomi, Denise, Barbara” always from the side of the pool always dry as we floundered, splashed and kicked until chastened, wet and sore we left the pool and dispersed. I went back for my water bottle and there she was in the water, waving and shouting, but not to me I figured.

The next lesson was held by James, 29 tanned, waxed and nice.

“Where’s the other instructor” Denise asked. No-one knew her name.

“Umm, she had an accident, right here in this pool after your last lesson. Couldn’t swim it seems. Ready ladies?”

When Legends Die, by Don Tassone

31/1/2020

Darnell was shooting hoops when he heard the news.

“Damn!” his friend Reggie yelled, checking his phone.

“What?”

“Andre’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“Car crash.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish,” said Reggie, shaking his head.

He put his phone down. Darnell tossed him the ball. Reggie took a shot and missed. Darnell grabbed the rebound and put it up clean through the rusted rim.

“Man, Andre was the best,” Darnell said.

“Yeah, he was one hell of a ball player.”

“He was a lot more than that.”

“Play to 20?” Reggie asked.

“Naw,” said Darnell. “I got homework.”

Homeless, by Julie Achilles

31/1/2020

'Any loose change'? you ask a you sit there on the cold, dirty pavement, not making eye-contact.

I throw in a fifty-pence piece into your empty cup, it makes me feel better, not you.

I wonder as I briefly study your appearance and wonder at your age and ask myself 'where is your mother'?

Walking on to work I know I will see you there again tomorrow, and the day after, and I worry that the weather report forecasts snow.

Here Today, Gone Tomorrow, by Doug Bartlett

31/1/2020

He stepped carefully into the shower to get ready to attend his third funeral this week. They were all his friends and his age or younger.

“Why didn’t they take better care of themselves, like I've done?” he thought as he adjusted the water temperature, ”All they had to do was see their doctor regularly, eat right and exercise consistently. It’s worked for me. They just needed to do a better job of taking care of themselves.”

He began to lather up when, for the first time, he noticed a small lump under his left arm.

Funeral Pyre, by Rod Drake

31/1/2020

Geese like black dots fly far away against the gray autumn sky. The lake is still, surrounded only by thick woods, no animals or humans anywhere. Except me. And the corpse on the makeshift pyre, piled high with sticks and wilted weeds.

I light the pyre and shove it off from the bank; it drifts slowly out into the center of the lake. The flames spread and climb up into the cold air as the pyre, in small, charred pieces sinks.

No one will ever find the body. No one will know I murdered him. His death, my freedom.

Retribution, by Bex Gooding

31/1/2020

Renee was frightened and began to cry. Tears ran down her cheeks and she wondered if this was the end.

‘Why? I’m a good person!’

‘But you’re not a good person.’ Hardy said. ‘You’ve never done anything for anyone else. You can’t fool me, I know everything about you and everything you’ve done.’

‘Who are you?’ Renee croaked, her throat dry from crying.

‘Retribution.’

Hardy swung the hammer and connected with Renee’s big toe. Metatarsal versus steel; no contest. The hammer impacted with maximum force and no rebound. The bone crushed like a matchstick and Renee screamed before passing out.

The Gifted Writer, by Mark Tulin

31/1/2020

Winston believed that writing was a blessing, if not a miracle. For he was disabled, and to be able to write each day was life-affirming. Winston had a steady stream of ideas and got the most out of his mental capacities. It was the ultimate satisfaction to breathe his words into the mic and have them printed on paper. His wife edited his poems, sent them to various publications, and some were published. It was gratifying to have his wife read his poetry in a magazine as he sat stiffly in the wheelchair unable to move but an inch.

Eternal Hope, by Michael Deanna

31/1/2020

“Do you ever think of how having a kid has changed you?” I asked.

My friend sat his pint down and leaned towards me. “It’s simple,” he said.

“When I was five, I was terrified of death. I wanted to live forever.

“When I became a teenager, I wanted to create works of art to preserve my ideas forever.

“When I got my first job, I worked to protect the environment so that our natural world could exist forever.

“Now that I’m a father, all I want is for my little girl to be happy. Forever.”

Cock-A-Doodle-Doo, by Marjan Sierhuis

31/1/2020

“Quit sitting on my fence and crowing.” “You are giving me a headache and your droppings are making a mess.”

“This farm is for the use of all us residents so I have every right sit here,” says the rooster with righteous indignation.

“But you are ruining the best part of my day.” “Get outta here, you scoundrel.”

“Make me.”

The pig starts to grunt and squeal. “Here comes the farmer with my lunch.” “We will see what he has to say about the matter.”

“Ok, don’t get your knickers in a knot, I'll leave.”

Freedom of Expression, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

31/1/2020

Their art combined gibberish with colour. Exterior walls and street recycling receptacles became graphic spectacles.

“Let’s see you join us,” they demanded.

“It’s wrong to deface public property,” I replied.

When a recycling truck rolled in, frustration of the driver as to not being able to do his pickup job landed at the school office. The self-appointed artists got suspended from class and were ordered to remove their creations.

“Did you take part in that graffiti?” Dad asked.

“No, I only watched,” I answered, careful to not disclose that they asked me for my artistic advise and I obliged.

MyTube Lover, by Ed N. White

31/1/2020

I saw her singing on YouTube and fell in love. She had sexy eyes, a figure to match, and the husky voice of a fallen angel.

I searched the internet and social media for information—there was very little. I posted glowing comments about her talent and what it meant to me.

I sent a message to her Facebook page completely and honestly expressing my adoration. I got no response.

With nowhere else to turn, I created my YouTube video. I sang my heart out to the music of her songs.

I received one “like.” I know it was her.

End of January, by Yola M. Caecenary

31/1/2020

2018

The cloudy night hindered the “Super Blue Blood Moon” from millions of eyes under. After being nonchalance of my countless vacillations, finally Mum showed an interest in it. Long story short, Mum and daughter anchored themselves watching the rare phenomenon. It was one of my priceless moments with Mum.

2020

Fixing my eyes on the screen while my fingertips hopping on the keys to create a story written and hopefully read, my heart consistently trying to calm my mind, which keeps asking itself what could've be done differently if it knew that in two years everything would be memories.

Last Words, by Dennis Randall

31/1/2020

"Fear? I have none. I will never experience death," Seraina said and stared into his eyes.

"There are no exceptions. None of us get out of this life alive," her lover replied and mirrored her unblinking gaze with his own.

She took his hand and pulled him closer.

"When I breathe my last," she smiled.

"And, in the unlikely event I'm aware I no longer live?" she kissed his lips.

"I will know I'm still here," she caressed his face and whispered, "And if I die and that's the end? I'll be what I was before: An echo of creation."

The Tempest, by Mary Wallace

31/1/2020

There was a storm brewing! He could read it in her eyes, the set of her lips, and the way she slammed the fridge door.

"Heavy weather coming," his eyes twinkled.

She turned ready to do battle.

"You promised me a holiday; there was a time when I was more important than your work."

Her gaze encountered his smile and slowly lowered to the tickets in his hands.

"Bastard," she murmured lovingly.

Dirk and the Droid, by J.F. McKnight

26/1/2020

Lightly constructed of agile minerals, the tall, slick droid waited across the room - two robust blasters attached to its triceps, gently glaring under the neon light.

Lifting its arms in one swift movement, it launched a series of attacks. Yet anticipating the droid’s engagement, Dirk drew his las-pistol to return a flurry of blows before taking to the shadows.

The human slid along the polished ground at the droid’s feet. Dirk fired a ray of green light, frying the creatures neurological-core.

Slowly standing once again, he brushed away the steam from his trusty hand cannon and walked onwards.

Shut Up! by Ted Strutz

24/1/2020

“Shut up!”

Little Sally has stepped into it now. As those two words escaped her lips she froze. Afraid to look at Mother, she pretended to be busy fixing her doll’s hair, knowing full well the boom was coming. That’s what Grandma called it, ‘Lowering the Boom’. Little Sally didn’t know what the boom was, but it wasn’t good. She had had quite a few time-outs after hearing that.

Mother said, “I think I will fix parsnips tonight.” Little Sally hated parsnips.

In a small voice she said, “I’m sorry Mother.”

Mother just looked at her. Worse than a spanking.

Ticking, by Robert Keal

24/1/2020

The world feels wonky today.

He adjusts his glasses. Still out of sync.

It feels like there's a fog hanging over everything. In its grip, the ticks start. Scrubbing his debit card; diary mutilation; opening and closing the fridge, hoping the door will line up properly. He remembers his therapist saying counting would help, but that just gives him more to do.

The work WhatsApp group simmers with typed tensions. A low boil of where-are-yous and are-you-coming-ins. It frustrates him; he knows he can do his job better. If only the blinds weren't tilted so much.

Redhead, by Rosalie Kempthorne

24/1/2020

It’s the same shade of red as her hair.

Plastered across the sky, mottled in amongst shades of blood and purple, ocean-blue and black. The clouds twist and bunch like her curls. A sea of silhouettes – trees, barns, houses, fences – march off into a russet horizon. The blue at the sky’s highest point is a dead-ringer match for her eyes.

God, I miss her.

Disappearing Ink, by Cate Lloyd.

24/1/2020

After ten months, Will had Pedrito’s name, in a heart, tattooed on his right shoulder.

Will summoned up his sister in labour; her brave, focused breathing. As the needle burned, he panted and snuffled; occasionally mooed.

The price of love.

Pedrito watched, benignly entertained; snickering as Will grinned away his tears.

Seven weeks later, Pedrito ruefully smiled his goodbyes.

Will sobbed into his dog’s dark, curly chest.

At the clinic, Will’s sister held his hand as the laser transformed Pedrito into a scar.

Soon, Pedrito would only be visible in harsh light, or when Will faced the mirror just so.

Climb Every Mountain, by Yash Seyedbagheri

24/1/2020

Striding up snow-covered hill, ice pushes. I slip, regain control. Father’s words invade consciousness. You’re weak. World’s a jungle. Give up art.

Ice pushes again, clear and cold.

I take a step. Slow, definitive. This is my new home. My choice. Ice will not win.

I tread ice. Slip. Regain control again.

Pink and pale bathes me in dusk’s shadow. Butter-colored lights encourage me from distant homes where hugs, laughter, and dreams move about. Walk on, they whisper, we love you.

I step, release inhibition. Look forward. Each step becomes straighter. Harder. I walk into dusk, climb a hill.

Home.

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"Classic"
100-Word
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Friday Flash Fiction
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Fiction only
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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.

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