Blog Archives

You Will Cast All Our Sins into the Depths of the Sea, by Bill Cox

26/3/2021

He stands at the edge of the sea, his bare feet sinking into the damp sand.

The weight of the past is upon him. He wonders what it would feel like to just walk into the crashing waves, to be free from guilt and remorse.

He considers it for a moment, but then looks back along the sandy beach and sees that his footprints have been erased by the advancing tide.

He ponders, then turns away from the sea and walks back up the beach, his face illuminated by the purifying rays of the golden sun.

Proud To Be American, by Brian Mackinney

26/3/2021

On the coach tour of New England the American guide was keen to impress the foreign tourists of the longevity of the national history.

Wearing the costume of the time she took them back to the early days punctuating her sentences with the vital historical dates. By the fifth day the British were shuffling in their seats, idly chatting and staring vacantly out of the window.

On reaching Fairbanks House the guide announced that they were looking at the oldest house in America. Built 1640. A voice from the back piped: “We’ve a church older than that in our village.”

Being There, by Jim Woessner

26/3/2021

I’ve noticed it every day for a week. A golden poppy growing through a crack in the pavement. Incomparable beauty surviving insane traffic, the stink of asphalt, unbreathable air, impossible odds. Seeing it standing there, my impulse is to ascribe to it superhero attributes like courage, defiance, strength, fearlessness. I desperately want to identify with this Rocky Balboa of plants, use it as an example to help me navigate the cracks in my own pavement. But I can’t. The only attribute for this tiny flame that makes any sense is sweet ignorant bliss. And perhaps that is the perfect lesson.

Tick, by Ian Gough

26/3/2021

Tick. Slumped with his back against the wall, Ben looks at the peeled skin on his knuckles, then to the patch of blood on the door. His outburst futile, that dam ticking picks at his brain. Tick… Twenty seconds and it’ll all be over. A life full of potential snuffed out because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tick... The fluorescent numbers continue counting backward, grating at his nerves over the faint whirring of the mechanism. If only he’d done what they asked. If only he’d listened, if only…tick three, tick two, tick one….

Creative Reading, by Swapan K Banerjee

26/3/2021

A college girl appeared unannounced at the writer’s retreat for a TLS-type interview.

Is writing a daily ritual for you?

One’s in flow only when in the mood.

When you’re hit by a dry spell…

One turns into a binge writer!

Are you a plotter or a pantser?

Sometimes, when I write freely, things come home, unbidden.

Do you think of publication when you write?

You simply brush the thought aside.

Any writer you take with you wherever you go?

Kazuo Ishiguro.

Finally, how does one deepen one’s prose?

Copy out remarkable passages from Ishiguro’s works and read them aloud!

No Love Lost, by Jonathan Hunter

26/3/2021

By donating my DNA to the world dating bank I met my best possible life partners.

Larissa from Texas was sweet, but Sam from North Antarctica was the one. I teleported back home to East Kamchatka deeply in love with her.

“She’s not bad” I winked at Morris my house robot. Lifting me from my wheelchair into bed Morris muttered “I shall clean the flat for her living here then”.

“Certainly, for tomorrow” I blurted,

I reassuringly told a forlorn looking Morris

“Sam’s robot Mavis is already reprogrammed to love you. No one goes lonely in the 22nd Century”.

A Love Story, by Sue Clayton

26/3/2021

Maggie Maguire, felon, stole a blanket for warmth. Sentenced to five years; transported in 1790 on the Lady Juliana to the Parramatta Female Factory, NSW.

Percy Langrove, a settler sheep farmer in need of a wife. Applies to the Governor, scours those Factory convicts predisposed towards marriage.

“You’ll do.” He chooses.

“Thank ‘ee, sir.” She bobs a curtsey.

Maggie toils hard amid the sheep, gives him ease, gratifies his fleshly desires.

Percy wraps her in a security blanket of warmth.

Lambs and progeny abound.

A mossy headstone stands in a cemetery.

Bonded by love read the ancient carved words.

Expiration Date, by Amy Carlisle

19/3/2021

Typical garage sale item: an old Brownie camera and some film. Ten bucks and it was mine.

I headed for the backyard to try it out, not expecting much. Only one roll hadn’t already expired.

The prints came back. First batch was in the middle of some farmer’s field. Next set was our backyard, but our maple was barely a sapling, and the house behind us was missing.

The last roll looked like x-rays: milky black, with skeletons instead of people.

That film was dated next week.

I don’t expect there’ll be a week after.

How to Apply Makeup, by David Croll

19/3/2021

After she applied the primer, she warmed the moisturizer between the palms of her hands before applying it. She did this slowly as she liked the warming sensation.

Once she was done with the moisturizer, she finished the cover up process with a flesh-toned concealer. After the foundation, she finished with blush and highlighter to bring attention to the cheekbones.

When she was done, she studied the makeup job. She folded the hands on the chest, making sure the sleeves covered the scars on the wrists.

The undertaker knew this is the way the family wants to remember their daughter.

Thinly Veiled Anger, by Don Tassone

19/3/2021

Masked shoppers queued up in a self-checkout line that stretched back to the toilet paper.

Other shoppers needed to get through the main aisle, but nobody in the self-checkout line budged. Trying to squeeze through, a woman clipped a man standing in line. He wheeled around and shoved her cart.

Somebody pushed him. Somebody yelled. Somebody threw a punch.

The self-checkout line broke up. Masked shoppers began running out of the store with items tucked under their arms. Somebody knocked over a clerk. A security alarm sounded.

The manager had to call the cops to restore order.

Don't Forget That Comma, by Gordon Lawrie

19/3/2021

Tethered to posts and shaking with fear, the pair of them were now faced with five ready and willing volunteers with rifles. The purpose of the sandbag-lined wall behind became clear.

The Officer read the charge sheet. "You are charged with failing to complete the form completely, not including your name – or THAT COMMA! – after the title – and with writing your name or title in capitals. Have you any last words?"

They shook their heads. The woman opted for a blindfold, the man did not. The Officer pinned targets to their chests.

Then, with two words, it was all over.

Many thanks to those who, week after week, make the effort to fill out the form correctly. As you'll gather, however, there are a few serial offenders – Ed.

A Friend in the Mirror, by Marie Johnson-Ladson

19/3/2021

Carrie was 4 years old and wanted to play outside but her Grandmother was tired and didn’t have any energy to go outside.

Carrie didn't mine because she had her friend Jean to talk to while she played. She started talking more and more about Jean.

Carrie's Grandmother said “sweetheart you really don't have a real friend named Jean, it's make believe.”

Carrie insisted, ‘yes, she is real, I talk to her all the time and can even see her sometimes.’

Carrie said, ‘come let me show you,’ she looked in the mirror and said ‘see Grandma, there she is.’

No Witnesses, by Peggy Gerber

19/3/2021

The wind howled ferociously as Jack raced from his car to the doctor’s office. He put on his mask before entering the elevator, grimacing when he noticed a jerk not wearing one. He bellowed, “Hey, get off this elevator.”

“Screw you,” the jerk replied as the doors closed.

Without warning, the elevator lurched to a halt, and the jerk began coughing out giant, watery droplets. People started screaming and pounding the walls in panic.

Jack silently put his hands around the jerk’s neck and squeezed tight. When the fire department arrived, they found a dead body. Nobody knew what happened.

Unforgivable Sins, by Mary Wallace

19/3/2021

Dora read the Facebook post. Score one point for everything you haven't done.

Five, she thought, smiling a little guiltily. She had got a ticket, done drugs, skipped school. Dora was still waiting for that Limo ride, but she was happy to have missed Ziplining and Skydiving.

Sam she noticed was less adventurous and had scored six. She ticked off the ones she knew.
Skydiving
Ziplining
Not been arrested
No piercings
No tattoos
Not sung Karaoke
No one night stand

That was seven, Dora thought, was it Karaoke or a one night stand? She could forgive neither.

The Call, by Pamela Kennedy

19/3/2021

At first, I didn't want to hear so I didn't listen. I didn't want to see, so I didn't look. Let it be I told myself until the wise words of my mother pierced through me, "Sins of omission are just as evil as sins of commission. To stand idly by as another suffers blights your soul."

"Emergency Hotline, how may I help you"?

"HURRY...please send the police to 15 Wyndam Place, Apartment 8C. There seems to be a domestic disturbance turning violent. HURRY, please HURRY"!

Dear Lord, don't let it be too late.....

Next to That, by Brian Taylor

19/3/2021

She walks into the bar. She's beautiful. Shiny black hair, sparkling green eyes, cherry lips, and her red dress showcasing her curvy figure. Every man stares.

The guy next to me whispers, "Man, can you imagine waking up next to that?"

I could tell him I have; that many nights she came to bed with dirty feet, that she ate disgusting things like sardine sandwiches in bed, that she farted and snored even worse than me. All that and more.

But I don't. All I say is, "Yep, it'd be something," before I take a longer drink of my beer.

Snow, by Jeffrey Griffiths

19/3/2021

Vic’s neighbour Jim has brought out his snow blower. Jim will clear Mrs. Jenkins sidewalk and driveway if her son doesn’t come by first. If Mrs. Jenkin’s son does come by Jim will clear Mrs. Matheson’s sidewalk and driveway, but he never does both places. Vic cannot figure out Jim’s snow clearing dynamics. He’d bet a similar pattern takes place on suburban streets across the country. Quiet men with their dreams buried deep inside that have enough spare time to clear the snow from an entire neighbourhood but stop before they do too many favours.

The Dialogue, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

19/3/2021

The Earth beckoned the welkin-wanderer to have a dialogue. Surprised and humbled, the invitee promptly descended to respond. The Earth opened up, “Let me express my deep indebtedness to you for all your favours. You are just indispensable to me. Without you, I will be nothing but a parched, starved, and barren being of minerals. Certainly, you deserve a huge reward.” “Oh! But I do get my reward every year. Can there be a reward more precious than getting to repose comfortably in the mother’s lap as a newborn babe after a long, circuitous, tiring journey?” the Cloud replied fondly.

The Wild Woman in the Woods, by Elizabeth Smith

19/3/2021

When the newspapers caught wind of her, people flocked from near and far. They watched her forage for berries, nuts and mushrooms, which she ate with wild rice from Waitrose. A local company donated a Portaloo.

But as time passed, people grew dissatisfied. Was she really wild? They suspected she was eating food left behind by the tourists who had pillaged the wild fruit. And did nuts even grow here? She was spotted in Tesco buying hair dye; the next night youths vandalised the Portaloo.

All that remained when she finally departed was a neat rectangle, like a stripped bed.

Losing a Child, by Susan Fairfax Reid

19/3/2021

Mr. and Mrs. Boxwood clung together in the snow covered graveyard. Mrs. Boxwood's head barely reached her husband's shoulder. Snow covered their green coats.

A blizzard, packing winds of up to 50 mph, had moved through the Boxwoods' home in the cemetery, leaving a wake of death.

"I never thought a storm would kill our child," Mrs. Boxwood cried to her husband. The winds had scattered the child's broken limbs among the tombstones. Its roots had been yanked from its birthplace. It's green leaves lay dead in the snow.

Losing a child is heart wrenching, even if it's a tree.

Final Shot? by Yejun Park

19/3/2021

As he ran across the court, dribbling the ball, his heart was racing. There was only 15 seconds left and the score was 103 to 104. He rushed the ball to the front court and passed it to his teammate in the corner. He glanced at the time and there was only a mere 7 seconds left. As his hands were shaking, he finally broke free of his defender. He shouted at the top of his lungs for the ball and before he knew the ball was floating in the air. … Swish ...

At The Graveyard, by Virginia Ashberry

19/3/2021

Jeff inherited the job of groundskeeper at the church graveyard from his father.
Every day he starts plucking weeds and raking debris by Dad’s stone at plot #23-18. Visitors to other graves have their rituals too.

A Tim Hortons extra -large double-double appears on the base of the stone at #47-10 twice a month, and Jeff had to speak to the wife of the man in #33-19. She’d come every week to spray glyphosate over his grass to kill that too.

When Jeff finally caught her, she agreed to just leave bird seed and let their shit be her statement.

Nature Fights Back, by Padmini Krishnan

19/3/2021

When Mal reached down to pick a rose, thorns sprouted out and stung him. He winced, pulling back. The rose bush looked threatening with thorns on all sides, preventing him from repeating his misadventure. As Mal walked past a palm tree, a coconut fell on his shoulder, causing him to stagger down. An image of his declined orchid plant now flashed before his eyes. Mal marveled at how fast news traveled in the natural world. “I promise to care for my other plants," he thought. At this, the roses pulled back their thorns and the branches gently breezed in approval.

The Writer Interviews Herself, by Kim Favors

19/3/2021

What’s our next story about?

—I dunno. Suggestions?

Something unusual. That doesn’t include animals, dreams, or people, real or imaginary.

—Guess I’ve been emulating Jo March (“Little Women”): Write what you know.

Well, since we’re (I mean me) trying to move beyond the same old stuff, what else motivates you?

—Inner journeys, experimental storytelling, the unknown, among other things.

Are you writing for yourself, or for your FFF peers?

—Both.

This still doesn’t answer the question of what we’re writing next.

—I know. What if we take a nap, then decide?

Sounds good to me. Now about that fudge brownie…

Homemade Socks, by Jennifer Duncan

19/3/2021

The knitting needles followed their well-worn path, row after row. Donna knew the pattern by heart: ribbing at the top, cables down the leg and over the top of the foot. She used the same grey yarn for every pair. She spent countless hours knitting the socks and donated them to various homeless shelters.

One cold winter night at a shelter, a worker gave a troubled man a pair of Donna's socks. As soon as he saw the pattern, tears filled his eyes. His mother always knit him socks in that particular pattern in that special shade of grey.

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