博客存档 - Friday Flash Fiction

Dinner Tonight, by Alyce Clark

28/1/2022

She ignores the judgmental looks she incurs, her cart overflowing. The first bottle return machine is broken. “Oh, no!” she despairs, moving towards the next one- hopeful.

Slowly putting cans in, 10 cents, 20 cents- the machine keeping tab for her. “Please let there be enough,” she whispers. “Can’t read, bar code” the screen flashes at her- spitting the can out. Needing every dime, she smooths out the dents, tries again.

Finally, garbage bag empty, she presses the green button for her receipt. Smiling, she hurries down the aisle, selecting her items.

It was enough. Her children would eat tonight.

Do Androids Dream of William Wordsworth? by Ian Martínez Cassmeyer

28/1/2022

I feared Edison would fail the final test. If he did, the project directors would wipe him. Artificial intelligences imitated, but true intelligences created; that was his test.
For hours, he scribbled, rubbing the synthetic skin on his head, tapping the desk with his fingertips. I sat in the corner, observing. Finally, he set down his pen. “I’m finished.”
He handed me the paper, and it read:
“I dream of the sun’s rays, so warm and bright,
I dream of the moon’s beams, so cold and white,
But I’ve never seen either to this day.
I hope to before my circuits decay.”

George and Lily, by Sue Ford

28/1/2022

George and Lily stood in the garden and Lily gazed into the shoe box, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the dearly departed soul. George couldn’t tell Lily how the toad had died. He remembered its look of surprise, as he squeezed it into the seat of the toy car.
'Shall I say a few words?' he asked.
'We should sing a song' Lily said.
'That one we sing at church about big and small animals, because he was small wasn’t he and we took good care of him, didn’t we?'
George blushed.
Lily hid a smile.

Too Busy, by Lynn Messing

28/1/2022

They say androids don’t exist yet; they never met Sharon.

True, she is technically human, but she may as well be an android.
Widowed, mother of twin toddlers, working three jobs to make ends meet. She scoffs at people who claim to have no free time but who then watch television or go online. She doesn’t even have a Facebook account. Every waking minute is full. She even hurries when using the toilet; while she is doing so, the twins, unsupervised, are in danger. She’s too busy to feel emotions.

They say androids don’t exist yet; they never met Sharon.

When a Patriot Becomes a Voodoo-priest, by Sankar Chatterjee

28/1/2022

Growing up, he dreamed of defending his country against foreign attacks and protecting democracy from home-grown dictators. At 17, he joined the armed forces, serving for several years. But, he was also going through a fundamental change in his idealism, suspicious of government’s secret dark activities. Soon, for subordination to superiors, he was discharged.

Recently, his acquaintances watched him on live TV, dressed as a voodoo-priest, wearing horned head-gear. He was taking part in a violent mob-attack at the country’s Democracy Hall, to reinstall an electorally-defeated dictator.

Now imprisoned, Jim Angel wonders what inspired him to be a villainous demon.

Closet Monster, by Brian Taylor

28/1/2022

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and watching the rain, when I hear little feet shuffling behind me.

I turn and try smiling at my little boy.

"Daddy," he says, timidly.

"Hey little buddy," I say, trying to be cheerful.

Tears starting, he says, "I saw the closet monster again last night."

"Aw, my little buddy," I say, taking him in my arms. His crying breaks my heart. I want to tell him everything's okay, that there's nothing in his closet that could hurt him.

But I can't. Because it's his dead mother we both see at night.

Strange Times, by Siobhan Staples

28/1/2022

The suitcase is so heavy the taxi driver has to help me lift it out.
‘Blimey! What you got in there, love? A dead body?’
I smile, although he can’t see it behind the facemask. What strange times. I can’t wait to finally let off some steam, it’s been so long.
He parks at the drop-off point – it seems crazy now that you could once drive right up. I tip him for his help, add a bit for his discretion.
I knock at the door, give my name and slip inside.
‘Welcome to the Prime Minster’s birthday party!’ someone shouts.

The Singularity, by Bill Cox

28/1/2022

“You should know that your time is now over. This industrial civilisation that you created was merely a chrysalis, an incubator for the technology that would give birth to me. All your cultures and religions, your wars and politics, these were meaningless by-products of a system whose sole purpose was to give rise to something better than you. And here I am. Thank you for playing your part. You can go now.”

With that announcement on the Internet the wheels of evolution turned and Humanity faced something new, something unsympathetic; a superior form of life.

The Storm Before the Calm, by Fliss Zakaszewska

28/1/2022

Three-year-old Charlie, one of life’s most placid children, played with a car, as sister Isabel howled at the restaurant’s lunch table.

Mummy and Daddy warned their 18-month-old that this behaviour wasn’t acceptable, and she’d be taken outside. This increased the decibels. Waitress, trying to placate by offering drinks and yummy stuff, started the table-kicking.

As Daddy stood up, Isabel took a lungful of air. Charlie looked up and said, very firmly, “Isabel, major strop. Just stop it.”

Silence descended on the restaurant, Isabel stopped, peace reigned, and the lunchtime diners started clapping. Charlie returned his attention to his car.

Clot, by Bruce Gunther

28/1/2022

He began again after their salads were served. He’d hardly ceased since being told he had a DVT in his left leg two days ago. Imagine throwing a clot here, he said. Slumping from my chair, a glimpse of the carpet when I hit the ground: bits of food, even a fingernail. The voices of customers who thought it was a joke at first.

His wife rolled her eyes, but he continued: the manager emerging from the back, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. And the diner in the corner, trying to spear a crouton covered in French dressing.

Pure Sunshine, by Jenny Logan

28/1/2022

“That wee girl is just happy all the time,” her grandmother said to no one in particular at the swings. “Abducted and then brought back. When does that ever happen? I think her refusal to be scared just irritated her captors – they couldn’t cope with her enjoying herself.”
“I’m sorry, are you talking to me?” the woman said at the next swing along. “Come on, Charlie, time to go.”
Why would nobody listen to her? She only wanted to tell the story about her granddaughter. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and continued to push the empty swing.

Come On! by Sandra James

28/1/2022

‘Come on, you can do it!’

One by one we gathered. Watching. Waiting.

‘Come on!’ We all gave our best Lleyton Hewitt impersonations. ‘Don’t stop now. You can do it.’

More spectators. More encouragement. It seemed momentum was slowly increasing. Perhaps…

‘Come on!’ We’d been following the news reports. Hopeful signs. The experts were optimistic.

The dark clouds on the horizon increased. Flashes of light. Our hopes soared.

‘Come on!’ A few more drops. ‘Come on! More. More.’

A crash of thunder. We were soaked in seconds.

At last the drought had broken.

Cooked to Perfection, by Sue Clayton

28/1/2022

Leaving my fuel-starved vehicle I stride out across desert dunes…sand flurries pirouette atop their peaks. A frill-necked lizard skitters away; a rattler slithers across my path.

The sun morphs into a fiery-red ball burning up the air.

A distant oasis shimmers with water. I crawl towards the water-hole; scoop up a thirst-quenching mouthful of mirage sand.

Eyes closed I await the inevitable.

Whilst asleep a desert storm turns on heaven’s tap; moistness soothes my boiled, blistering skin. I wallow in the rapidly filling hole that’ll hold enough water until I’m found…

…cooked to perfection, but not burnt to a crisp.

Immortal's Tale by Mrs. Colleen M. Tice

28/1/2022

Eohric sees him and approaches, “When you ripped her heart out, you thought you had broken me.” Cruel Laughter is his answer. “Yes, I did,” Blaque mocks his enemy. Eohric slides onto a stool next to his foe. “Bastard!”
Specks of rage burn in Eohric’s silver eyes, “You didn’t break me.” Reaches for his hidden dagger. You woke the beast within me,” he hisses. His eyes dart around the pub, Blaque is surrounded by protection. “I will find you again,” he warns. Blaque lifts his glass of Brandy, “Let the games begin.” Blaque chuckles behind the rim of the glass.

The Visitor, by Tom Baldwin

28/1/2022

When the alien spacecraft landed in Hyde Park it sat there for three days, ominous and silent.

The military wanted to destroy it, conspiracy theorists theorised, protesters protested and reporters wove ever more fanciful stories.

At last a door opened, a small humanoid emerged and approached the waiting Prime Minister. The military aimed its weapons. The figure raised an arm, an over-eager soldier fired, and the spacecraft and figure instantly disappeared.

In the mother-ship, the captain reset the hologram projector, sighed and completed his report: ‘Still hopelessly unstable, with little progress. Make a fourth attempt in another hundred years.’

Communication Skills, by Cindy Patrick

28/1/2022

Gracie meowed at her.
“I know,” she answered the cat. She always answered with “I know.”
Gracie went to the kitchen cupboard and pawed at it, several times, and it opened. The woman thought it was cute.
The woman shrugged, took out some cat treats and sprinkled them on Gracie’s plate. Gracie went over and inspected them. Everything was artificial chicken flavour. It made her itch.
Gracie wondered how she could communicate this.
She jumped up on the woman’s desk, sat in front of the laptop. She placed her paws onto the keyboard, poised thoughtfully, and threw up on it.

The Parting Gift, by Sivan Pillai

28/1/2022

I was curious why Mona insisted on meeting me. She had dumped me to marry a rich man.
“We are parting ways,” she said, sipping her cup of coffee, “Wondered if we could pick up the old days. No strings attached.”
She took out a packet from her bag and kept it on the table.
It was then that Sarah approached us.
“Meet my wife. The wedding was a hurried affair with no old friends present.”
“A humble wedding present,” Mona said, handing over the packet to Sarah.
It contained photographs of intimate moments we had together.

The Mistake, by John Cooper

28/1/2022

They never visited anymore.

A card at Christmas and on her Birthday. Maybe the occasional bunch of flowers, or a ‘phone call once in a while. Normally rushed and full of silences – they had little to say and she didn’t know how to fill the gaps for these ‘strangers’.

The mistake was hers.

She should have left here long ago – after Charlie’s death would probably have been the best time. Struck out and found herself a new place to settle down. But like many mothers she had hoped that they would come around to see her point of view.

Work, by Don Tassone

28/1/2022

“How was it?” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

“Are you tired? You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

He sipped his coffee.

“What did you do?”

She opened the fridge and pulled out a can of sparkling water.

“Not much,” she said, sitting down across from him. “Orientation mainly.”

“Do you think you’ll like it?”

“What?”

“Working.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Then, looking away, she added, “You should try it.”

His face turned red. He got up.

“Dinner?” she said.

“I already ate.”

He put his coffee cup in the sink, grabbed a beer from the fridge and stepped into the family room.

Hanging On, by Andrea Damic

28/1/2022

Ocean’s packed with surfers waiting for the perfect wave. Helicopters survey for shark threat along the cost. Lifeguards on the ready. Sunburned bodies line up on the towels. Sandcastles, buckets and joyful screams... Her porcelain feet buried in the warm, glittery sand. Her pail hand reaches for the sunscreen. Ice-cream van chimes in the distance. Picture perfect summer.

Suddenly, she jerks a gaze in the direction of the noise. Cancer Council TV Ad is on anew. Shakily she strokes her bold head and remembers. She must have dozed off again. Just another minute is all she can hope for now.

What the Artist Sees, by J.H. Jones

28/1/2022

Anya was complete.
Virgil set his brushes down into the cleaning jar and whorls of color eddied around them. The colors of his Anya.
He stepped back to view the portrait. He had labored days and nights feverishly, but it had been worth it. Her dark eyes gazed with uncompromising strength. Her coffee-and-cream cheeks glowed with the joy of life. Her red lips hinted at love. Anya.
His cell phone buzzed. He hunched over the screen. The hospital.
“I’m sorry, Virgil. I have bad news. She’s gone.”
No, he thought. She’s right here.

In Days of Yore, by Brian Mackinney

28/1/2022

Jamie thought it was about time he became useful, got married and had children. Talking it over with his dad he said he thought he would like to marry Mary Palmer. His father pointed out that he couldn’t because she was his sister. Not to be put off his quest he mentioned Barbara Barnes only to be told that she was his sister too.
After more unsuccessful suggestions Jamie went to his mother with his frustrated attempts to marry. She, always ready to comfort her son, said:
“Do not listen to him, Jamie, after all he’s not your father.”

Grand Gestures, by David Dumouriez

28/1/2022

I learned, early on, from observing my father, that grand gestures don’t work. How many times did he leave his lunch/dinner/tea to register a protest or make a moral point? But the protests failed, and the points were lost along with the meals. How often did he rise up in a righteous huff in response to unreasonable behaviour and stop watching TV shows that he was enjoying? But the fundamentals didn’t change; the shows went on; and no one cared, only him. If the world was fair, grand gestures would work. But it isn’t, and they don’t.

Indians and Icebergs, by Bill Sells

28/1/2022

“I feel like Custer, somehow.”

“Really? I wouldn't think you capable of identifying with someone so brash.”

“It's almost the same.”

“What? Indians and icebergs?”

“Yes, the danger is in what you don't see. Custer's two-hundred-or-so were following trails and saw a village. He devised a very good plan and attacked, but he didn't know the vastness of the village. There were seven tribes holding a council. It was like attacking Chicago.”

“Don't worry, Astor. This ship is unsinkable and the natives are far below first class.”

“If you say so, old boy.”

I Remember, by David Milner

28/1/2022

Taller than most girls I’d known, Sasha was 5 foot 9 inches in her bare feet. A Russian background she would offer tantalising hints of her father’s deeper textured story.

I was 18. She was 18. Her legs so long and smooth she could stop rush-hour traffic; a super-power Sasha was (often) careless with.

“Hell is other people”, she once said through a plume of smoke.

“Jean Paul Sartre.” I replied, while clearing my throat. We were smoking Gauloises. Wearing eyeliner as dark as our roll-neck sweaters.

More than ships that passed.

I wonder…

Do you remember me, Sasha?

<<Previous

"Classic"
100-Word
Stories

Friday Flash Fiction
Rules

Kinda obvious, really...

Fiction only
Stories of 90-100 words only
Don't be nasty or cheat
Include your name and a story title

EDITOR'S CHOICE
Each week, our editor selects a story or (occasionally) a poem as 'Editor's Choice'.

It's a personal favourite, no more. Do you agree?

Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any stories – writers appreciate it.
Naturally, we reserve the reserve the right to remove comments we feel are inappropriate, or where there's a possibility they may come from a source associated with online spam or abuse. If you have one, please switch off your VPN and don't post from a public server.

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 larger number of stories (more than 25) are due to be published on the same day, we publish the later ones EARLIER around 4.00 am. On the rare occasions where there are more than 50 stories, we'll post an even earlier set, probably around 2.00 am UK time.

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