The storytellers’ group sat in a circle, listening politely to the visiting speaker. He’d spoken for well over twenty minutes. Most of them were beginning to feel their eyes glaze over as he’d outlined his past history, then gone on to read some of his work. Some of the group were beginning to shuffle in their seats to relieve the discomfort in their behinds.

But a small number who were paying the greatest attention had begun to notice subtle changes in the appearance and behaviour of their guest.

Then they realised he had stopped speaking and become a giant penguin.                  

The writer had once been a journalist. The training involved discovering how to tell a story in as few words as possible.

This worked against the writer when he embarked on a novel. At first anyway. Then the words SPILLED out of him; a veritable word vomit in fact. Journalism had suppressed so many words they now recycled themselves into the novel. Appropriately in places, inappropriately in others.

The agent recommended brevity. Knock 20,000 words off, she advised, and we may consider it.

The writer refreshed the word count for the hundredth time and sighed. 6,500 words to bury still...

The presenter sat in his radio studio, smugly enjoying the moment. The previous day he’d managed to trick a local author into passing over a copy of his new book, much to the author’s annoyance. Now he was about to read from it to kill ten minutes of air time, illegally of course.

The book’s title – “Mysteries Of The Printed Page” – had intrigued him, but he hadn’t bothered to check it out.

He opened the book and prepared to read. Suddenly, what he saw on the page struck him dumb and blind; he never spoke or saw anything ever again.

“Defiance can be attractive”, thought Alfie as he blew perfect, smoke rings. Shocked, the woman in the seat opposite him recoiled.

Alfie was smoking on a bus. She stared at him confused. “Why does the cigarette’s side glow?” she wondered. “Is it a Shisha pipe?” she asked herself.

She shifted in her seat, consternation furrowing her brow. “These uncouth youth,” she muttered, “Doesn’t he know it is against the law to smoke on a bus?”
Alfie knew his actions were wrong, but so what? No one was going to get hurt. After all, it was only an electric cigarette. 

Later that day Greg looked like a standard issue businessman walking through the San Francisco International Airport. He was dressed in a dark two-piece suit sporting a splashy Jerry Garcia silk tie, carrying a brief case, a carry-on bag, and a cup of Starbucks.

The carry-on and the brief case were pressurized nano-bot dispersal systems crammed with billions of odorless, tasteless, virtually invisible bots. The brief case and the carry-on would never have made it past security, but they didn’t need to. Greg had already reached his destination.                  

Duncan lit his fag off Malcolm’s. Sporting five day’s growth, they sat on the curb, staring ahead. They needed a lift across town. Already an hour late, Fiona had her phone off. Malcolm and Duncan had mad crushes on her. Fiona never reciprocated, which was just as well since it would have complicated their friendships. It was awkward enough determining who sat where in her car. She always ignored their theatrics, acting oblivious. 

Finally Fiona texted Duncan: She wouldn’t be coming that night or ever; she’d met someone “special.”

Malcolm and Duncan stood up and walked in different directions.

Once upon a time a child woke with light in her eyes and joy in her heart. She hugged the sky and thanked the sun, wind, and rain for being there. Her step was graceful. Earth massaged her feet and she reciprocated the kindness with a back rub before she returned home to share her happy circumstance only to find stony faces and stiff, unhappy bodies at the table. They ignored her joy and ordered her to work; their voices were stern. She had to write lots and lots of lists of tasks that made it impossible to go out anymore.

These two parts of the same story were posted on the same day, and it's stretching the rules to allow it, but it's a good tale all the same which triggered a number of comments and responses within the LinkedIn thread.

Part I

Bill’s desk was clean, nearly antiseptic, holding a stapler, a rolodex and a computer. He had always believed it represented his efficiency, and thus his value. That and his expertise with the Infamous system. By now, he was its resident expert. Surely that guaranteed job security.

He had recently seen others “let go” during the current downsizing, but he knew he was safe. Until he tried to log on to his computer:

LOG IN FAILED. SYSTEM DOWN.

Then Jim from HR rapped on the door, stuck his head in.

“Bill, can I see you in my office for a minute?"

Part II

“I’m sorry it has to be this way, but the company’s been downsizing for some time now…” the HR representative droned on. He stopped listening and stared at the curtain fluttering at the window.

After eighteen years, no retirement, no “golden parachute,” just a man saying something about “references” and “severance pay.” References? For what? At 58, who would hire him? He was alone; no children, his wife dead five years.

He began to listen again. Heard “… let you go,” and, at the word “go,” did just that – ran to the open window thirteen floors above a concrete sidewalk.                 

“And now for the final question of our game!” George the host smiled. “Do you want to risk all of your $35,000 winnings so far for a chance at a million? You do have your Expert Panel resource if necessary.”

Sue hesitated. “Oh, I have faith in the Panel today. I’ll go for it!”

“Excellent! For how many years has the United States been an independent country?”

Sue did the math in her head. “238.”

George paused for effect. “YOU’RE A MILLIONAIRE!” Sue squealed, dancing around the stage.

Experts Baird and Lawrie bowed their heads, feeling unneeded.

He came through the door of the living room carrying the foil-wrapped package she craved so badly. She felt her pulse quicken in anticipation of the coming hit.

He held it in front of her, just out of reach.

“Bastard,” she yelled. “Give it here!”

“Cash on delivery. That cost me money,” her supplier said slyly. Power. She threw some cash at him, snatched the package, unwrapped it greedily.

Within seconds, the effects coursed through every part of her.

Then: guilt. As always, she swore she would make this her last time. But she knew chocolate was winning the battle.

Even though they didn’t speak much Uncle Louie became the closest thing Kevin had to a friend at the compound. One day Uncle Louie sat down next to Kevin and said 

“I have a gift for your journey; it’s a power song that came to me from the ancestors in a dream. They say they;ve tried to send the song to you but your ears are filled with all the white noise of the white man, and you can’t hear them.” Kevin gave Uncle Louie a curious look. 

“Don’t worry” Uncle Louie said “even if you’ve forgotten who you are the ancestors haven’t."

This story from Ann-Louise Truschel may not qualify as it is apparently true!  But it's worth reading:-

I had fallen off my horse and was hospitalized with six broken ribs, a fractured scapula and a collapsed lung. Although I had called my neighbor Tom and left several messages asking if he could feed my cats, he hadn’t called back. Another neighbor checked for me and learned that Tom had called, but no one answered. Obviously my phone wasn’t working. I asked the nurse for another phone but she said there were none. A short time later, she brought one into my room. “I took it from the patient down the hall. He’s in a coma …”

“What do you want from me, Amy?” she demanded.

“Don’t be silly. You already know,” the brown-haired woman’s voice was syrupy and snide. “Work for me. It gives you a tie to the outside world and gives me a first-class photographer.”

The blonde narrowed her eyes, furrowing her brow as she spoke, “That’s not what you’re really after.”

“Come now, whatever else could I want?” Her eyes darted to Jessica’s intricate lion ring, tipping her hand.

As Jessica shouted, her teeth elongated and her nails turned to claws, “The pride!”

Unprepared, the hybrid died, grasping a tuft of blonde fur.

Because nobody could afford to host the 2022 Winter Olympics, the newly-independent Scotland had agreed to step in to fill the gap. Running the entire event using Skype, Wie and Dance Mats, none of the competitors even had to leave their native lands.

Sadly, the host nation were as useless as ever, claiming their first gold medals only on the last day. From living-room armchairs in front of their televisions, they won both men’s and women’s curling gold medals, beating Canada in the final each time.

Next day the Scots were all disqualified, testing positive for a banned substance: Irn-Bru.

“Order, order!” A bossy woman with a loud hailer had entered the hall.

The Tales for Children section jumped to attention. Half-formed sprites, fairies, devoted pet dogs, adventurous boys, plucky girls and a few orcs tried to curb their excitement. The moment was finally here...

Clorinda grinned widely. Tales for Children was considered an easy ride for most character placement. Happy endings were a must, surely?

Her name was called and her story assigned. The bossy woman sighed to herself. Clorinda was off to be a stepsister. Later versions of the tale would be kinder; this particular version of Cinderella meant Clorinda was to be put in a barrel of spikes and rolled down a hill.


Gordon Lawrie added this sequel the same day...

“Order, order!” A bossy woman had entered the hall, bearing the results.

The Friday Flash Fiction section jumped to attention. Pastors, ex-teachers, display-cabinet-copywriters, proposal-writers, screenwriters, editors and media directors tried to curb their excitement. The moment was finally here...

Emma grinned widely. She’d considered Tales for Children an easy subject for flash fiction. She must win the competition, surely?

The winners were announced but her name wasn’t called. The bossy woman sighed; Emma, it seemed, had exceed the wordcount by 16. And the mandatory penalty was to be put in a barrel of sharp criticism and rolled down a hill.

Funnily enough, some of Scotland's fashionistas had yet to decide which way they would be voting in the forthcoming Scottish referendum.

“Take the iconic Union Jack dress,” said one. “Would we ever be able to use it again if we were not part of the UK?”

Earnest nods ensued. “Perhaps a whole range of Saltire-type clothing could fill the gap? And we could be ahead of the fashion pack with our whole-hearted embrace of the white-crossed blue?”


Earnest nods again. And then Kate entreated them to stay with the UK. The fashion pack found themselves flummoxed. What to vote now?

Coghlan drove the rickety 1954 Ford wagon with Michaels riding shotgun. Surrounded by pines and engine roar, they had the road to themselves. Coghlan pushed the pace: when they hit eighty he began yelping and eased past eighty-five and ninety. Michaels was surprised the old car could cruise that fast. Coghlan kept yelping as the needle hit 100 as the hood began bouncing violently. The needle flew up to 120, dropped back to 100, and then flew to 120 again. The hood tore off and Coghlin fought the wheel as a front tire blew and pines closed in on them.

James finished editing Sue’s piece. It was shaping up. It didn’t really “sing” yet, but it was close. He rubbed his eyes, saved his work, and posted the latest version of her section on the collaboration portal.

The next morning James spied Sue standing by her truck in the far corner of the back parking lot. It was still dark. 

“Everything okay?” he called.

“Can you help me?”

“Sure.” James walked over—she was holding a tire iron.

“Did you get a flat?”

When he looked down, she hit him flush on the temple. Words are personal.

The woman climbed onto the ledge outside her window. She was wearing a nightgown and looked like an angel, or fairy. For a brief moment, the palms of her hands met in front of her heart before spreading into wings as she fell forward into space. The nightgown fluttered as her soft body fell quietly through the air and then bounced, the way limp dolls do when they fall, a small hiccup and then stillness. What a waste. And, how stupid of her to jump without knowing how to land; maybe she thought Tinker Bell would catch her. Fairytale, dummy.

I’ll drive you there.

I opened my bag to check that I had everything I needed. This was the trip of a lifetime that would change everything and it was going to be long. The thought both frightened and excited me.

Sleep did not come easily that night. We left at 6:00am and drove in silence. Unspoken good-byes to familiar buildings echoed in my head.

I felt nervous as I stood in the queue waiting my turn. My fears melted when I finally reached the counter and a friendly face greeted me.

Good morning and welcome to our gym.

He was shy but I knew it was just a matter of time before he asked me out. I logged onto Facebook to post something and noticed that his relationship status had changed. Posts congratulating him were flowing thick and fast.

"Will you be posting pictures?"

"Already have."

Heart pounding and very aware that I had not taken or share any pictures with him I clicked on his new album. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at the couple.

How could he do this behind my back? But I wasn't complaining. We looked the picture of happiness!                  

Jane Reid posted a two-part story, albeit as two separate FFF stories, on the same day:-

OUT AND ABOIUT

Carlos was getting cabin fever. He had left the hospital with a crutch, a cast, and a prescription for physical therapy. Now he finally had his doctor’s OK to drive. Although his neighbors had been kind, he wanted groceries of his own choosing. And now that his right hand was stronger, he needed shaving supplies.

He also remembered he had a courtesy call to make, to thank the woman whose dog had saved the dog show. Carlos wasn’t sure how about dogs; he hadn’t been around them much. Still, he was grateful -- and the woman had looked interesting.

FRIENDS

Beulah didn’t recognize the bearded man at her door until he thanked her for how her dog had averted disaster at the community dog show. Then she relaxed, and Flora, alertly at her side, began wagging gently. 

Blushing at her own forwardness, Beulah invited him in for coffee. A little wary of Flora, Carlos accepted. While Beulah went to put on a pot, Flora chose to sit at his feet. She put a paw on his knee and looked at him with her big brown eyes.

That did it. Flora was his new BFF.

She was standing by the screen door, gazing into the twilight. A stranger opened the door and without a word walked in. She grabbed him by his lapels and backed him out, slamming and locking the door. She ran to lock the back door, thinking, the damn recklessness of the newspapers, revealing the necklace's worth. She was just about to bolt the basement door when she saw Therese's husband.

He invited her to sit in the lamp-lit room. She described the intruder.

She watched as he stretched nonchalantly, and grinned.

“That was my cousin. He's on security duty.”                  

He had carefully chosen the hotel, even specified the room, and was carrying an armful of roses down the hall. Desire made his pace quicken and his hand tremble as he slowly unlocked the door. He could hear the shower running, so he placed the bouquet on the table in the center of the room.

Before he could undress, she emerged from the bathroom clad only in a towel. She beamed when she saw him, stretched her arms to him.

“Darling!”

“Sweetheart!”

As they embraced and passionately kissed, he slipped the gold band from his finger and into his pocket.                  

The store was empty at that hour. The clerk turned around, eyes wide; Jack trained the gun on him.

“Empty the cash drawer, sir.”

The guy complied.

Bugs hit the Bel Air’s windshield as they flew down the two lane, high beams on, needle stuck on sixty, recently fired thirty-eight between them. Zack drove; Jack rode shotgun. At twenty-one, they still wore the same flat tops, glasses, clothes, boxers, shoes. Only their mother and sister could tell them apart. Okay, Jack had done it while Zack waited; but nobody’d ever sort it out—if it came to that.