Blog Archives

City’s Famous Cheesesteak, by Sankar Chatterjee

28/2/2018

The judge opened the court with the case of mayor soliciting bribe from a contractor, secretly taped. He allowed the prosecutor to begin with audio:

Mayor: “Hello.”

Contractor: “Any more thought on that permit, Sir? Driving near “Pat’s Cheesesteak”. Any foot-long one for you?”

Mayor: “Sure, load-up with onions, hot peppers and ketchup.”

Prosecutor stopped the recorder: “Cheesesteak coded for cash, others for watch, jewelry, and football-tickets.”

Defense lawyer jumped: “Objections! Mayor just liked city’s famous cheesesteak.”

Prosecutor turned on the projector: the contractor was seen emptying out his briefcase all those items on mayor’s desk around noon, same day.

Birth Of An Addiction, by Adrian Slonaker

27/2/2018

In all his twelve years, he'd never tried coffee, yet just before the school bell rang, he spent his allowance on an iced mocha and felt proud as he sipped it. With their chilled bitter mouthfeel, iced espresso droplets jolted him as he discovered a new, grown-up elixir. The clock moved too quickly, like everything else. He dropped abruptly to his knees, and his fingers nimbly darted over his shoes, playing hide-and-seek with laces. He became irrationally irritated as he thought “Knots, please don't fail me.” He felt odd, like pebbles in quicksand, despite the heady bliss.

Revenge Runs In The Family, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/2/2018

Rupankar, a newly-minted law-graduate was visiting his uncle Shubhankar Mitra, a science professor in a university, nestled in scenic Himalayas. Over tea, conversation began:

Uncle: What’s next?

Nephew: An internship.

Uncle: Any girlfriend yet? No more lawyers in the family though. Remember Shakespeare: "… let's kill all the lawyers".

Rupankar, in love with a fellow lawyer, remained silent.

He returned to Calcutta carrying Prof. Mitra’s research proposal for government funding and intentionally submitted the package, past deadline. Prof Mitra received a rejection letter. His phone rang: “Do you need a lawyer to fight your case against the government?” asked Rupankar.

Pink House, by Don Tassone

27/2/2018

It was an old, two-story house, three stories if you count the stand-up attic. High on a corner lot, it caught your eye because it was pink.

They lived there together for 30 years. She was gentle and kind. He drank too much and worked too hard, and he could be rough.

He had no interest in painting his house pink. But she liked the color and asked him to do it. And so he did, climbing a ladder, scraping and painting every few years.

It was his way of trying to make her happy and making amends.

Remember How We Played Together, by Raewen Bassett

26/2/2018

You and me, best friends forever. Walking our dolls in tiny strollers, playing hide and seek, swimming in the pool in your backyard, climbing trees only to be rescued by your father, reading Enid Blyton books to each other, drawing hopscotch squares on the path to your front door. We did everything together. Well, almost. Waiting outside the movie theatre, watching you scarper through traffic, late as always, our eyes met one last time as you were tossed high in the air, landing with a thud on the road. Then you disappeared. Forever.

When The Strongmen Cry, by Sankar Chatterjee

26/2/2018

Lt. Aadi Sen, a US naval officer was standing on the deck of his destroyer, slowly cruising on the Black Sea in dark. Soon his mind started to wander off imagining him joyously celebrating amongst thousands of jubilant fans in his hometown. The football championship finally arrived.

Jim Sheppard, a junior shipmate while passing by, inquired “Are you OK, Sir?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Tears are flowing down from your eyes.”

“We just won a great battle.”

Perplexed, Mr. Sheppard asked “In which war-theatre, Sir?”

Wiping tears Lt. Sen replied “In the football-stadium of Texas, crushing our eternal enemy Boston.”

The Final Step, by Adam Smith

26/2/2018

Dirk heard dripping, but there was no way into the chamber beyond. Cracks in the stone allowed light through, and a breeze was evidence that a room existed. The witch doctor told him this quest was pointless, but did block his way. He stumbled, tripping on a long white bone. Lowering the torch, he realized the entire floor was made up of crushed bones. It would have taken thousands of skeletons to provide enough material! The air began to smell sour and Dirk turned to flee. It was too late. Some day another intrepid adventurer would step on his bones.

Southern Justice, by J. J. Landry

26/2/2018

The old Kentucky rifle lays in my arms as I prepare to serve some southern justice in her sullied name.

The wind sweeps across the river, causing tall blades of grass around me to sway from side to side.

My sights are focused on the doors as people begin to exit the train. Men with big beards and women wearing colorful hats step off first; then I see her killer – the highwayman.

The afternoon sun shines brightly, and a glare reflects off of his wheel gun.

“Just breathe,” I whisper, then pull the trigger – once.

“This is for you, ma!”

The Forgotten, by Robin LeeAnn

25/2/2018

She laughed at my joke like normal, but that laugh could unwind me. I didn’t realize how much I missed it. She leaned back in the bus seat. “You’re such a weirdo, Chase. Do you know what would be better though?”

“No.” I tried to control my emotions, but my stomach flipped. My chest tightened. “What would be better?”

“If I was actually here.”

She disappeared. The old bus seat stayed empty beside me even as more students gathered on the bus. The air dropped too. Or perhaps I just noticed how freezing the air was.

I forgot she died.

Mailman, by Justin Wall

25/2/2018

I navigate the corridors, scarcely making a sound. My presence is inconspicuous as I carefully listen with intent. From the high echelons of power, to the bile spewed by sycophants, nothing has ever escaped my attention.

I have seen the ascent of the chosen and been present at their fall from grace. I have witnessed sordid actions fulfilled by the adulterous, blissfully unaware that every innuendo and indiscretion has not gone unnoticed. No act is without consequence, all secrets will be exposed.

I am abstract.

I am resolute.

I am judgement with a satchel bag, and I’ve been watching you.

A Guilty Conscience Needs No Accuser, by Fiona Jones

24/2/2018

When you already have a criminal record and the worst happens in a drunken fight, you must choose between confession and hiding the body where nobody will look.

High up in the gorselands, inaccessible to all but sheep, well off the usual path of walkers—the soil is shallow, but you do your best.

Then you worry: Water erosion... landslide... foxes' paws... crows' beaks.... You go back to check. Again. And again.

In the end it is your footprints, and your scraps of cloth and skin on the gorse bushes, that tell the tale.

Confession would have cost you less.

Little Sister's Sacrifice, by Adam Smith

23/2/2018

Jennifer squatted. A bullet ping-zinged past.

She hoped her brothers had gotten home with the loot.

She squeezed off two shots.

A return shot skittered on the pavement, sending sparks up.

She felt an explosion of heat in her shoulder and fell to the ground.

As she lay motionless, panting, she noted thick grayness at the edges of her vision.

She didn't see the cop kick her gun away, or feel him roll her onto her stomach and cuff her wrists.

Her phone beeped, "Mr. Bunny is in the hutch," it announced.

She died content, knowing her siblings were okay.

Lester, by Gordon Lawrie

23/2/2018

Every few hours Lester posted links advertising his book. Lester's book was about the meaning of life, but he also wrote about marketing books about the meaning of life.

Lester posted on Instagram, LinkedIn, Twitter and Facebook, in fact every social media outlet available. Weak, sweet-natured managers generally tolerated his posts and let him carry on.

Too late, they realised that Lester's posts were taking over the internet, that only Lester's posts would be visible. Lester's meaning of life book was full of blank pages. Lester didn't actually write any fiction, because Lester himself was fiction; Lester was an algorithm.

Enemy Within Us, by Sankar Chatterjee

23/2/2018

Prof. Ken Roberts of Harvard was looking absentmindedly at his Nobel medal, awarded for discovering a breakthrough medicine to alleviate the pain in cancer patients. During research, he uncovered that by tweaking the molecule, it could become a potent addictive street-drug. The thought “What if?” terrifies him. His phone rang. Prof. Max Weinberg from Stanford just lost his son in a mass-shooting in a mall. The perpetrator began the process by pulling down the red fire alarm and then targeted fleeing shoppers.

“Did Nobel ever think his discovery be used as a weapon in wars and terrorism,” wondered Prof. Roberts.

Progressive Society, by Fliss Zakaszewska

23/2/2018

The gun pointed unwaveringly at his head. “Where is it?”

“Sorry, I don’t have it…”

“You were told. This was your last chance.”

“I’m sorry, please…”

The man glanced up as a bell rang. “Saved by the bell,” he snarled. “Bring it tomorrow – nine a.m. sharp.” He strode towards the door.

A woman met him at the door. “My office now, Mr Brown.”

She walked away, Brown in her wake.

In her office she sighed. “The President armed teachers, so they could protect students, not threaten them.”

“Really Headmistress? Shame. Perfect behaviour from classes since I started carrying a gun.”

Ring! Ring! by Robert Bermudez

22/2/2018

The Ice Cream Man!

I can still hear those magical tones all these years later.
Just about 7:30 every night, while the sun was just starting
to set. In fact, the sound brings with it a vision nearly as strong,
one of orange and pink skies and lengthening shadows and baseball games heard through open windows and the staccato rhythm of sprinklers on mowed lawns.

Every night another fleeting moment of magic before the magic inevitably goes away.The magic of being a child on a Summer's evening.

Ring! Ring!

The Surgeon, by Guy Fletcher

22/2/2018

"I want a divorce, my love has died."

The normally calm, smug surgeon was shocked. He had only been used to success in life. He poured himself another double whisky, although on call, and then the hospital rang.

It was a fairly routine operation for a man with his expertise but he severed a main artery. He listened to the sickening doomed electronic sounds and peered in horror at the blood on his hands.

He correctly blamed himself. He was in no fit state, mentally or physically to operate.

He would never be able to wash the blood away.

Height Of Fashion, by Archana Nagarajan

21/2/2018

She opened her door to find a package. Eagerly, she tore open the box and pulled out a pair of black leather pumps with four-inch stiletto heels and a pointy toe. Just like the ones her friends wore.

Slipping on the shoes, she stood up tentatively. She took dainty steps around the room, wavering, staggering, almost losing her balance at one point, but within the hour, she had the stilettos under her command.

Satisfied, she took off the shoes. Her feet, lower back and calf muscles screamed. She wondered why women did stupid things in the name of fashion.

You Know You Want Me, by Russell Conover

21/2/2018

Frank was walking through the grocery store as usual. He passed by the donut display, determined not to surrender. “They're tasty, but I don't need 'em,” he told himself. He continued on.

“EEEAT me,” he heard a voice say. He stopped, looking around. Was he losing his mind?

“Give into TEMPTAAATION. You know you WANNNT to.”

No one was nearby. His eyes shot up when he saw faces on the donuts. “We are your FRIENNNDS.” One winked at him.

Frank knew he'd gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. “That's it. No more food after midnight.”

Best The Better, by Adam Smith

20/2/2018

Verne swallowed hard and blinked.

The barrel of his gun kept dipping, directed from the chest of the man before him down to his waist. He'd raise it again and swallow, blink, and the whole scene would repeat itself.

He looked at the gun pointed in his direction. It did not waiver. The man before him did not swallow hard, did not blink.

Verne knew he was outmatched and that this could only end one of two ways.

He fired, and this time, when the barrel of his gun dipped, he fired again, and again.

Water Skirmish, by Diana Keschner Henning

20/2/2018

‘Hey! I saw those water bottles first.’

‘Oh no you didn’t, move away.’

The people are thirsty. For three long years, the draught has persisted and water supplies have dwindled. Potable water cannot be used for anything other than drinking and cooking. The plants are drooping, swimming pools stand empty and flower growers have closed down. Toilets are stained yellow as flushing is not permitted.

Day Zero is rapidly approaching. All taps will be turned off and water will be collected from allocated points.

Anger simmers, punches fly and precious water soaks away into the parched earth.

Broadsmile, by Adrian Slonaker

20/2/2018

I called her Broadsmile, and she's vanished. In the chill before gentle daybreak, she'd served my tea in a cobalt-coloured cup but drank something too bitter to be java. We discussed Sartre, the Simpsons, predestination and neon pinwheels. She promised to make up her eyes like Cleopatra someday. I crashed. She researched all night. Her note suggests she's haphazardly crisscrossing the continent. From her seat, the trees vibrating with blazing hues of autumn may resemble a garden of vivid flowers. Maybe she'll live with her carnival glass upon a windswept, weather-blasted rock, and I'll never know what she was thinking.

My Home, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

19/2/2018

“Billy, be ready tomorrow in your radiation-proof.”

“Where are we going, Daddy?”

“A million miles from here.”

Cutting through a thick layer of smoke and soot, we landed at a place characterized by countless heaps of rubble, withered vegetation, and pathetic sunlight. Our android guided us to a bleak spot where hundreds of things in twisted shapes lay scattered. “Do you see some toys around, android?”

Android said nothing.

Confused, my son asked, “So horrible! What’s this place?”

“This place? Oh, it had been my home before two greats went mad on the same day and at the same hour.”

The Great Crate Mystery, by Susi J. Smith

19/2/2018

“It’s a ghost, in a crate.” My brother bounces up and down, his gestures dramatic.

“It isn’t real, James.” My voice is firm.

James calms, his smile faltering.

“Larry lied.”

He sighs. “Thanks Melanie.”

As he heads upstairs, I slip out the door and run over the road. Larry answers on the third knock.

“Why did you tell James about the crate?”

Larry towers over me. “He has a right to know what’s in his
house. What it did to your Mum.”

I run, my tears escaping into the wind. But the memory remains, in a crate, under my bed.

Glint Of Hope, by Jane Reid

17/2/2018

Smithson’s Dairy Farm was not thriving. Nothing seemed to be wrong. But milk production was down, and there were no new calves this year. Old Ronaldo loitered in the upper field, swishing his tail but apparently not feeling sociable.

“We’ll have to sell out,” Ed Smithson said. “We can‘t make it through another winter.” Ma teared up looking at her pet heifer, Julie.

Still, Ed called the vet. Doc checked out the herd, spending time in Ronaldo’s field. “I think he got into a bad weed,” Doc told Ed. “Fence off that northwest corner. But did you know Julie’s pregnant?”

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

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