Blog Archives

Trust Your Instincts, by Alison McHarg

12/3/2016

Scrambling up the gate, knapsack on back, he looks... dodgy.
I watch, then call: “What are you doing?”
“Windows,” terse reply.
“Why are you climbing a gate?”
I am the nosy neighbour I always vowed I’d never be!
“Got to get around the back,” he justifies.
“Are they expecting you?” I gesture to the front door.
“Yeah, told them I’d be here today.”
“Ok, just checking, there’ve been a lot of break-ins around here.”
I go back inside but something snags in my brain.
No car, no bucket, no water sloshing.
Is that glass breaking?

Rules, by Eric Smith

12/3/2016

Her life wasn’t the greatest—dead-end job, dead husband, dead daughter, and a son always into something. On the other side of the ledger, she had a nice place to live and sometimes somebody to get close to, although she had only a few years left to carry on with that sort of thing. And she did have rules: no married men; no divorced guys with reputations for beating wives—no matter how great they seemed, that type always started up on their new girlfriends eventually. Oh, and all guys had to be over fifteen years older than her son.

Swallowed, by Emma Baird

11/3/2016

They watched the water levels rise, deciding on the sensible option of moving upwards – spending the day carting sofas, book shelves, TVs, the fridge and a small stove upstairs.

The water, however, didn’t look as if it was going to stop rising. They wondered if it might reach the sky – clouds and waves colliding and swallowing up the land.

What’s going to happen to us, he said. She shrugged. The house on the hill had always seemed impregnable.

Maybe we’ll develop gills, he suggested. Evolution was going to have to kick in fast. Water was now lapping at the landing.

Sharan Challenges Sponge Bob, by Joy Essien

11/3/2016

The photo on the left inspired this story. It is pure fiction but the author thought it would be nice to explore the reasons for this hairstyle.

Sharan’s acerbic wit was legendary. Friends and enemies alike were wary around him. One day, we went to Tiny’s bar with pals. Sharan’s friends flattered him spitefully; praising his intelligence, Sanjay suggested that he symbolize his wit with a fashion statement. Puffed up and merry, Sharan accepted the challenge.

Suddenly, a new friend, Sanjay, piped in with his high pitched voice. “I know what you can do!” He smiled maliciously, “Why not cut and dye your hair to match your wit?”

Slightly sozzled, Sharan did just that. Quick as a light, he visited Manu the barber with his style idea.

Shower, by Gordon Lawrie

11/3/2016

Standing in the shower, Louise sighed. For months, her husband David had acted strangely, spent a lot of evenings out, their sex-life had been non-existent. Eventually she’d followed him several times to a house in the next town where he’d been ‘warmly embraced’ each time by the same negligée-dressed blonde.

David didn’t deny anything when confronted, just promised to sort things.

The shower seemed to be getting hotter – suddenly there was a further gush and she screamed in agony: acid. Louise actually disappeared quite quickly down the drain.

David told the neighbours that she’d gone to visit relatives in Australia.

The Water Rights And Wrongs, by Jo Oldani-Osborne

10/3/2016

“Papi, that’s against the law.”

Luis wore a UC Davis baseball cap but it didn’t provide the ventilation or protection of the straw hat that his family had worn working in these fields for generations. Jorge Villagras opened the power panel that controlled the multiple canals that awaited their water delivery from The Water Gods in charge of the California Aqueduct.

“Oh yes, Mijo?,” Jorge pulled up his tablet and through a few commands he opened the canals and hijacked the precious resource to the alfalfa that needed it’s water now.

“ A week is the difference between a crop and dead grass.”

Reverse Decortication, by Amy Friedman

10/3/2016

“Why did everyone laugh at avocado and harvest gold?”

“You are soooo YOUNG.”

“No need to insult me!”

“Look: Avocado and harvest gold were the most popular decorating colors in the 1970s. Everything - refrigerators, stoves, phones, bakeware and dishes – pretty much only came in those two colors. Ugh.”

“Even cell phones?”

“There weren’t any cell phones in the 1970s!”

“I thought you said there were car phones.”

“Well yeah, but they all came in black and were the size of shoe boxes.”

“So, are harvest gold and avocado a go or no?”

“No. Not if you want your job.”

Wisdom About Women, by Eric Smith

10/3/2016

“I’m quite the ladies’ man.”

“Meaning?”

“I know a lot about women.”

“For example?”

“You can’t mention their new hair-do or outfit unless it’s complimentary.

“And?”

“You can’t ever, repeat ever, mention they look as if they might have gained weight.”

“And?”

“You never tell a woman she looks like a movie star—particularly a star as she looks in a given film.”

“I’ll bite, why?”

“She might hate that actress—maybe not her looks—but her personality as portrayed in the press, or she might hate the character the actress played in the film.

“I think you’re onto something.”

Morning Runs, by Kira Compton

10/3/2016

Moving to the city had been the right choice. Things were different, though. Running in the city was different, especially for a girl who had been raised in the woods.

She misses those runs, sometimes—the swell of trees, the rush of wind, the smell of dirt in the morning. She misses it.

Still, moving to the city had been the right choice. It had. The runs are just different, not worse. Grey concrete. Rushed crowds. The smell of nothing much.

Moving to the city had been the right choice, she tells herself, and slowly stops running in the mornings.

Do It The Right Way, by Eric Smith

10/3/2016

Slim and Rusty climbed into the F-250, the bed bursting with rolls of barbed wire and stakes. They’d thrown their sledges back there, too. They’d stuffed pairs of King Ernest gloves in their back pockets. When they got to the fence line, Slim jumped out; Rusty, 25 years older, moved a little slower. You could tell he was stiff. Slim went right to work, except he was stringing only three lines of wire between the posts.

“Hey, Slim, do it right. String four.”

“You want four, do it yourself old man.”

Rusty felt like the world had passed him by.

Nuptual Nuances, by Jo Oldani-Osborne

8/3/2016

Stella had been engaged for five months. Every night after work she updated her folks on the latest decisions. The first calls were exciting. Now, Ginny and Dan braced themselves with increasingly drier Martini’s.

Dan fluffed the latest bunch of sheer squares.
“Aw, Sweetie, just tell her you like the Light Pink!”

Ginny sniffed. “But they’re ALL light pink.”

The phone rang: “The swatches for the bridesmaid’s chiffon?”

(Ginny dove deep into the well of feigned excitement.)

“They’re lovely: Betty’s-blush, Nearly-nude, Champagne-flush, Meekly-mauve, Penny’s-Peony? Oh crap! I give up”

“Right?” Stella laughed, “ I just want a ‘ light pink.’”

The Flying Dunce, by Bobby Warner

8/3/2016

Dolbie Grucks sat on a stool in the corner wearing a dunce cap. He had failed to answer every question, and made a zero on his quiz. He was the class dunce.

Horsy Wiggums clomped into the room. "I betcha a quarter I can make you fly!" he said.

"Can't neither," said Dolbie. "People can't fly."

"You stand right here," said Horsy, who stepped to the window and opened it. He came back, stood behind Dolbie and let loose a mighty kick.

"See," said Horsy as Dolbie sailed out the window. "You're sure enough flying--and I win the quarter!"

The Exhibit, by Roland Tye

7/3/2016

The statue formed the centrepiece of the Pharaoh’s tomb a thousand years before the birth of Christ. An enormous bust of the feline Bast. Shortly after the Roman annexation, grave-robbers spirited it across the Mediterranean to sit in the courtyard of a provincial governor. Centuries later the Savoys gifted it to Napoleon. And in 1943 Hitler sequestered it. For decades tourists lined up in London to marvel at its magnificence before it was taken to another museum far away.

“From that new planet we colonised,” muttered one green creature to the other before moving on to the next exhibit.

The Reappearance, by Russell Conover

6/3/2016

“Hey--you’re back! Where have you been?”
“Don’t ask. In the middle of two six-day weeks on the new job.”
“Wow. That’s intense.”
“Yeah. Things are going OK, though.”
“Just what do you DO for work, anyway?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Really? I’ve heard that a million times before.”
“Can you afford to take the chance?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know who I work for, and what I’ve seen daily on the job.”
“Now I’m intrigued. Give me SOME details!”
“Fine. I banish late Flash Fiction posters to Hades.”
“You’re one to talk!”
“Oops. Right.”

A Very Different Color, by Amy Friedman

5/3/2016

“Aunt Jane!” Jason yelled, hugging my knees. “Come see my new pet!”

Smiling indulgently, I let him tug me down the hall into his room.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Jason said, throwing his little arms wide proudly. I didn’t see a thing.

“Incredible,” I said, hunkering down. “What is he?”

“A zombie unicorn!” he said, eyes shining.

“How do you know it’s a zombie unicorn?” I said.

“He told me,” Jason said.

“Will he let me pet him?” I said.

The air heated suddenly. A white horse with a golden horn shimmered into solidity, its eyes black pits.

“Brai-ai-ai-ai-ains,” it whinnied.

Orbis Inferior, by J. A. Connelly

4/3/2016

The last pod floated from the docking station leaving bubble-stream as it accelerated towards the surface.

The colony had reached capacity, but she didn’t mind crowding. Three family homes were noisy and warm. But while extra bodies were fine, leaking water and flickering power were not. The crumbling, century-old sphere would not wait for complete surface recovery.

Water pressed against colony walls, bubbles searching for gaps and weak spots to exploit. When the southernmost district collapsed the boom reverberated through the colony. Crowds pushed towards evacuation docks.

She crawled from the rubble and watched the pod disappear into the dark.

Black Cat, by Gordon Lawrie

4/3/2016

Three in the morning: two drunken teenagers stagger out of a nightclub towards where a black cat sits on the street corner.

The cat meows for attention. The youths approach, then one suddenly sends the cat flying with his boot. The cat returns, but now the other youth kicks it, forcing the cat to retreat across the road.

Deciding it might be amusing to continue playing cat football, the louts stagger after it – right in front of a passing car that kills them both outright.

The cat licks its lips in satisfaction. Mission accomplished; two down, six billion to go.

Choices, by Barney MacFarlane

4/3/2016

Joe Blanchflower was one tough guy – always chose the steam room rather than the sauna at the baths.

Until forced to make a really tough choice.

It was at the Grand, Eastbourne, the only five-star coastal hotel in the UK. Guest of his mother-in-law Jennie darling, the appellation bestowed upon her despite the fact everyone loathed her. Even her husband died young to get free.

Joe – “Joseph dear,” Jennie darling whined – perched on the rim of a sumptuous chair. “What will you take with your tea? Victoria sponge or passion fruit cake?”

Quel choix! Not so tough now, big boy.

Job Satisfaction, by Emma Baird

4/3/2016

The baker did her best. She sourced artisan flours from organic wheat. She hand-kneaded dough and left it to prove for a long time – often overnight.

She nurtured a sour dough starter, lovingly tending it and feeding it ever day so that she could produce the most delicious bread, rich and chewy its flavour fizzing on the tongue.

Naturally such bread did not come cheap. Her loaves were four times as expensive as supermarket squishy sponge as she referred to it.

Did you go into the business to make money, her friends asked?

No, only to make dough she was able to reply.

Low Noon, by Bobby Warner

3/3/2016

They're stalking up the street, faces hard and set in stone, trying to avoid the worst puddles and horse droppings. They're coming for me. I thought I could sneak out and grab a few quick snorts before they woke up. Reckon I stayed too long in this old saloon. Wall clock says 12:17 PM – Low Noon – and they're right outside: my old lady Ellie with her broom and my boy Big Josh with his baseball bat. They're marching through the swinging doors, and I'm caught red-handed with no place to run. Farewell, boys, 'cause I'm a goner – for sure!

The Mohel And The Fly, by Amy Friedman

3/3/2016

A competition was held to find the best swordsman in Japan.
The three finalists: two samurai and a mohel.
The judge released a housefly.
The first samurai drew his sword. “SHWIP SHWAP!”
The fly was neatly quartered.
Then a second housefly was released.
The second samurai drew his sword. “SHWIP SHWAP SHWOP!”
And the fly fell to the ground, its wings and legs neatly severed from its body.
Then came the mohel’s turn.
A third housefly was released.
He drew his sword. "thwip".
The housefly flew off.
The crowd booed.
The mohel bowed and smiled. “Ah, but he’ll never reproduce.”

Eliot's Flea Market, by Vincent Barry

2/3/2016

Ishmael had his sea. I have Eliot’s Flea Market. It’s where I go whenever the otherwise dull and careless melody of my life turns dark and sad. Which is to say: whenever I find myself studying my reflection in store windows or my shadow in puddles. Or when some undercurrent from some half-opened window somewhere makes me shiver with a quiet melancholy. It’s my way of fleeing that disagreeable draft. Of finding fragments to shore against my ruins.

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