博客存档 - Friday Flash Fiction

Snowdrift, by Jennifer Duncan

26/1/2024

Gordon's Choice

Frothy, fat flakes fell from the frosty sky. I slowly shovelled the steps, being mindful to take my time with the chore because of the cold air. The snow muffled the world around me, cozy and comforting.

It had been a difficult week with doctors' appointments and stressful tests. I would have to make decisions about treatment and how I would manage my recovery time.

I walked into the yard, into the foot-deep snow. I sat down, then lay flat in the comforting softness. I closed my eyes, feeling the cool splats of flakes on my cheeks, drifting, drifting, drifting.

In the Interrogation Room, by David Sydney

26/1/2024

The Chief was upset. He demanded nothing less than a confession. However, the suspect offered no information but his first name.
Otto: I have rights.
Chief: What?
Otto: You know, to remain silent.
Chief: Oh, you mean Miranda?
Otto: I suppose.
The Chief took a bat from beneath his desk. On it was written in black marker, 'MIRANDA'.
Chief: So you see, Otto, you've got your Miranda, and I've got mine.
He lifted it menacingly.
Otto: Huh?
Chief: Now, are you going to confess, Otto? Or do I have to Miranda it out of you?

End Times, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

26/1/2024

During that same day a unique global event occurred: they all died. It was similar to Bubonic plague or Covid-19, however, only world leaders had been infected. Wars ceased, missile threats disappeared, and terrorism vanished. Reporting agencies were bereft of news so classical music filled the airwaves. Borders were left unguarded; people remained at home.

Everyone prayed, hoped, and wondered. What would happen next? When nothing did, a peaceful calm entered hearts and minds. Residents eventually came out of their houses. Neighbors spoke quietly clustered in small groups. After a time, humanity continued about its business and problems realized solutions.

Morning Words, by Nancy L. Glass

26/1/2024

I sit down at my desk to write, hoping for inspiration, the sun streaming in through the window, nearly blinding me until I adjust the shades. My coffee mug sits, steaming, to the right of my laptop. It feels like a random day of pulling words out of the ether, sliding them into yesterday’s essay, until a movement catches my eye: a raccoon perched on the outside window ledge, peering in. Fat body, a broad striped tail, a robber’s mask on his face. I stare. He stares. He does not turn away. It’s obvious he’s come to steal my words.

San Francisco Sidewalk, by Vera Tyler

26/1/2024

Her smell hits me before I turn the corner. Sitting on the sidewalk, she stares at a stuffed plastic bag between her legs. Taking a half empty shampoo bottle from the bag, she tosses it aside while caressing her matted streaked blonde hair. Every strand a fading testament to better days. She reaches deeper inside the bag and slowly pulls out a lacy hot pink bra. Her mouth opens wide. With a dreamy look, she slowly swings the bra from her fingertips. It makes me want to scream “keep it!” but I don’t. That would require some kind of hope.

Teeth, by L. J. Caporusso

26/1/2024

The vet finishes inspecting my cat’s teeth. Then looks at me.

Have you been brushing?

I frown. Why?

Well. There’s quite a bit of plaque.

I glare at him. So, he finally got to you, eh?

The vet looks at my cat just as she starts yawning.

Then back at me. I’m sorry, what?

Playing dumb, eh? Slick. All right, how much is he paying you?

What?

To spy on me. What’s he paying?

Who?

Who indeed. I chuckle. You know who.

The vet stares at me.

And I shake my head. I gotta change dentists. Guy’s got spies everywhere.

If Only, by Allison Symes

26/1/2024

Haxrin smiled at her iced cake with magical decorations representing the wildlife she often fed.

The squirrel ran up the oak decoration. The robin and sparrow raced around the border. Red and yellow flowers opened and shut petals.

If only the Fairy Queen hadn’t banned magic for baking. Magic was allowed for decorating but with a compulsory time limit. Her Nibs didn’t want anyone consuming magic. Food was prepared manually.

The magic ended.

Haxrin sighed as she binned her handiwork. It wasn’t fit for anything else.

She hadn’t yet mastered the art of not burning the fruit cake underneath.

The Proposal, by Sivan Pillai

26/1/2024

A few days before their wedding, John's body was brought home from the battlefield.
Days later, when she was waiting at the usual restaurant with a vacant chair opposite her, a young man approached and sat on it.
A friend of John, he introduced himself.
"Let me order for you," he said and ordered her favourite dishes.
"I'm a bit different from John when it comes to my food," he said while going through the menu.
One day, after a few such meetings, he stood up, offered her a red rose, and proposed.
John's perfect replacement, she thought.

Pot Pie for Dinner, by Sherri Bale

26/1/2024

Times were tough in our house that miserable winter after my father left. Our family of seven was subsisting on potatoes, frozen blueberries we had gathered last summer, the few eggs our chicken, Cinderella, occasionally laid, and scraps of meat the butcher gave my mom. He felt sorry for us kids.

One night my mother served us a steaming hot pot pie. What a treat that was! We had blueberries on toast for dessert.

The next morning, I headed to the yard to see if Cinderella had laid any eggs.

Mom said, “Don’t bother. There won’t be any more eggs.”

The Garden, by Don Tassone

26/1/2024

The old man raised the mattock high and brought it down hard into the encrusted earth. His back hurt and his arms trembled, but he had to go on.

Fifty years earlier, he had broken up this patch of land in their backyard for her. For nearly 50 years, she planted and tended flowers here. Aside from her, that garden was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

But the land had lain fallow for three years now, while he tended to her. He simply had to restore her garden. It was his only way to see her again.

Separate Table, by Alan Moskowitz

26/1/2024

Waiting for the evening meal the Diner found a Stranger staring down at him.

Said the Stranger: It is my table now.

The Diner responded: I have had this table since forever.

Said the Stranger: But you must give it up.

The Diner insisted: There’s so much I’ve yet to taste. I demand to speak with the Maître D’!

Said the Stranger: At your service.

Defeated, the Diner begged: Is there nothing you can do?

Said the Stranger: You were given everything.

The Diner asked hopefully: Will there be more?

Said the Stranger: No one knows.

The Perfect Shot, by Bex Gooding

26/1/2024

‘My favourite?’ Z said taking a sip of his whiskey. ‘Head shot.’
‘Great minds think alike friend.’ J replied. ‘Subject face on, ideal conditions, nothing else comes close.’
‘And, with the latest technology you don’t have to be up close and personal.’

Z and J were strangers and circumstances had put them in the same bar on the same lonely highway.

‘Thanks for the drink.’ J said finishing his vodka, ‘and the conversation.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Z replied.

The photographer and the assassin left the bar, neither one knowing the other’s occupation but both agreed a head shot was the best.

Macrescence, by Linda LeBlanc

26/1/2024

(Photo credit: author)

I headed back to the barn after a snowy walk through the blue-black hemlocks and was spooked by a sound breaking the quiet. Shoosh, shoosh, shoosh. A cross-country skier glided by on the adjoining trail. We waved our arms, and I shouted hello, but he kept on. As I stepped out of the trees and turned west, pumpkin-colored leaves drew my eyes back to the forest: a few curled beech blades, so translucent I might read a love letter through them. Somehow the low winter sun had penetrated the dark and found them, and passing through them, had found me.

Boring, by Malvina Perova

26/1/2024

Another air raid, another house bombed, more photos of the burning flats, bodies carried from under the ruins, screaming headliners, hating posts… She scrolls the news with a deadpan, slightly bored. It gets tiresome to stay shocked all the time, and she’s fed up with being scared for her future.

Sometimes, she forgets it’s a war in her country. Bills have to be paid, dinner cooked, job done.

Unless something more boring comes up. Like her brother asking for help with his house redecoration. “Well, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Lev.” She sighs woefully. “You know, this war…”

The Poetry Competition, by Christa Loughrey

26/1/2024

It was truly a piece of literary genius. The expert judge commented on the perfect placing of enjambment and caesura within the iambic pentameter; the clever use of pyrrhic and trochaic substitutions to subtly move emphasis; the proper respect paid to grammar, punctuation and capitalisation.

The layman judge knew nothing of these things. He chose a different poem, one which was loosely laid out like fragments of a dream scattered gently on to a sheet of paper. It spoke to his heart; tugged at his emotions; made him cry.

Only one poem could win – but which one?

Scuttle What’s-His-Face, by John O’Keefe

26/1/2024

We only knew him by his absolutely ridiculous nickname, Scuttle.

He was a character. In our little Arizona town everybody rooted for the Cowboys or the Cardinals, only Scuttle was a Giants fan. The educated and rich were Democrats and the blue-collar pale faces Republicans but Scuttle was a proud social libertarian. What’s a social libertarian? you ask. We suspected even Scuttle didn’t know.

And the most weird: during Halloweens he’d give candy bars to the grownups, never to the kids.

Now that Scuttle’s gone, we all miss him because he was the only one who’d give us candy.

Switch, by S. Anand

26/1/2024

It's getting late for office and my right shoe is missing. I place the left shoe by the shoe rack and start looking. Under the cot, inside the cupboard, behind the curtains, inside the refrigerator, everywhere. Where's my right shoe?

Ah! There it is. By the shoe rack inside the mirror. I lean forward and using a pole with a hook at the end (used for plucking mangoes), I carefully lift it and pull it out of the mirror. Let's get going. Oh, but where's my left shoe?!

Ah! There it is. By the shoe rack inside the mirror...

Shiver, by Amita Basu

26/1/2024

Lisa's Choice

Shivering from drugs, bloodloss, and fasting, she lay on white sheets – the monster, razortongued, coldeyed, who’d shadowed my childhood, who’d bound me since. For how can you escape someone till you’ve beaten them? Finally I was free to stride away.

Shivering she lay, bleached and shrunken after her knee-replacement surgery. Soon she’d be awake and warmed with soup. Now I could desert her, as, time after time, she’d deserted me.

But I had a choice. I clasped Ma’s hands, massaged them, weeping, with resentment, mostly. For to have a choice how to behave is to have no choice at all.

Breaks, by Teri Wright

26/1/2024

“Nice holiday?” Babs asked as she cut Sheila’s hair.

“Smashing. Apart from breaking my right big toe on the last day. And the taxi home from the airport had to be towed. Then I arrived home to find the side fence had blown down in the storm. And the boiler had stopped working. And I’d been burgled. And there was a card from John saying he was annoyed I’d gone on holiday without him so he’s now dating someone else. Other than that, everything’s fine. I might pop to the travel agents after this appointment and book my next holiday.”

Sweet Tooth, by G. Lynn Brown

26/1/2024

"This is my favorite part of the fair." Jackie inhaled deeply as she passed the food vendors. "That funnel cake sure smells good, but so do these sausages." She stopped at a concessions tent and pointed to the menu. "What are you in the mood for?"

Shelley noticed the luscious hunk of a man spinning cotton candy in the next stand over, threads of pink sugar encapsulating him like prey in a spider's web. "I was thinking of chicken on a stick." He glanced her way, nodded and winked. She grinned. "But suddenly I've got a hankering for something sweet."

Old Friends, by Philip Andrew Lisi

26/1/2024

I visit Thelma in the skilled care unit at Willow Valley. I have brought her the homemade lasagna she loves so much. When she sees me, she smiles and intends to say, "Thank you," I think–but instead says, "You came all this way to give me this? That was dumb." I sit beside her. She glances toward the window and muses, "I like to listen for the Amish horses and buggies passing by." We wait together. In a while, we might play dominoes or gin. I will watch her oxygen levels and listen for the sound of hooves.

The Cholula Dialogues, by Tony Covatta

26/1/2024

Gino ordered eggs, over easy, and ham. Order up, but—no hot sauce. “Cholula?” The waitress delivered a bottle. A generous dollop engendered ecstasy.

As he slowly savored bites, the diner two stools over received a mouthwatering omelet. Looked good, but where’s the hot sauce? Passing waitresses ignored his hesitant glances.

Should Gino give him his bottle? He couldn’t decide. Both continued eating slowly. Finishing first, Gino acted. He quietly edged his Cholula toward the neighbor.

As Gino rose—not before—the neighbor reached over for the Cholula. Neither spoke. But exchanged broad smiles as Gino headed for the door.

Much Too, by Libby Belle

26/1/2024

They’re at it again. Bickering, throwing things. Hear that? I think they threw the dog!”

“We’ll never fight, will we, Harry?”

“Of course not. We’re much too in love.”

“Much too mature.”

“Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, yeah that’s us.”

“Time for a chick flick, popcorn, chocolate!”

“Uh, can’t wait, sweetie.”

“Harry! Did you eat all the chocolate?”

“What? Me?”

“You did, didn’t you? You’re so inconsiderate you even left the wrappers behind!”

Wrappers are thrown, the door slams. Harry is all alone.

From under the sofa, he pulls out a bag of M&M’s, smiles, and streams the movie, Terminator.

January Rain, by Russ T Mann

26/1/2024

“I miss you,” the note reads, blue ink rain smeared. “How do I fill these days alone? How do I go on? Love you. Always.”

Discarded among detritus revealed during this January thaw, I save the note, folding sloppy cursive writing inside itself, protecting these bird-bone delicate, sledgehammer painful words. January rain intensifies driving home.

Inside, my Emma greets me with a smile, silent when I read the note. I hold her. Hug her. Kiss her. After placing her on the mantle with my other pictures, that blue ink smears a bit more. Sometimes, January rain happens inside, too.

<<Previous

Forward>>

Snowdrift, by Jennifer Duncan

In the Interrogation Room, by David Sydney

End Times, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

Morning Words, by Nancy L. Glass

San Francisco Sidewalk, by Vera Tyler

Teeth, by L. J. Caporusso

If Only, by Allison Symes

The Proposal, by Sivan Pillai

More Than Marital Problems, by Dart Humeston

Pot Pie for Dinner, by Sherri Bale

The Garden, by Don Tassone

Separate Table, by Alan Moskowitz

The Perfect Shot, by Bex Gooding

Macrescence, by Linda LeBlanc

Boring, by Malvina Perova

The Poetry Competition, by Christa Loughrey

Scuttle What’s-His-Face, by John O’Keefe

Switch, by S. Anand

Shiver, by Amita Basu

Breaks, by Teri Wright

Sweet Tooth, by G. Lynn Brown

Old Friends, by Philip Andrew Lisi

The Cholula Dialogues, by Tony Covatta

Much Too, by Libby Belle

January Rain, by Russ T Mann

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