Blog Archives

Gang of Thieves, By Mark Tulin

26/4/2019

My nightmare became a reality one night.

When I approached the entrance of the dimly-lit parking garage, hundreds of swarming rats flowed out of an empty fountain like a horrific waterfall.

Once the vermin spotted me, they began their chase, clamoring at my feet, gnawing at my arms and legs. I barely grabbed the handle of my car door and pulled myself to safety. I checked to see if all my digits and limbs were in order. Breathing a sigh of relief, I watched the gang of thieves recede into the darkness, knowing I’d finally conquered my worst fear.

Meanwhile in Bordeaux, France, by Sankar Chatterjee

26/4/2019

It was the annual wine-testing day for local residents before León Winery’s new products hit market. At noon, the owner appeared on stage and announced that a new protocol had taken place throughout past year in production of twelve different varieties. Each bottle was maintained in exactly similar condition of temperature, light, and length of time with one exception. Individual sample was subjected to continuous waves of a particular musical sound, be that rock, hip-hop, operatic, and even the sound of Indian sitar and African drums.

To jury, it was no contest at all, Adele over Beyoncé, in all categories.

Let’s Be Honest, by Paul Grippi

20/4/2019

One frigid night, Oscar knocked on Edwin’s door.

“Excuse me Sir,” said Oscar. I’m starving. Can I have some food?”
Edwin said, “No, I can’t help you. Get lost.”

A day later, a cat laid down on Edwin’s porch for three hours.
Eventually, Edwin brought the cat a bowl of milk.
Later that evening, he brought the cat inside.

The next morning, Oscar knocked on Edwin’s door again and asked, “How come you’ll feed a cat but you won’t feed a person?”
Edwin replied, “Because I like cats more than people”

A lot of people are like Edwin. That sucks.

Hill of Beans, by Don Tassone

19/4/2019

Bob watched his company’s stock price like a cook watches a pot.

As CEO, he was supposed to be running things, but at some point he became fixated on the stock price.

“Bob, we really need you for the strategy review,” one his executives said.

“Later,” said Bob, noticing a sharp uptick of 17 cents.

“We need you to sign off on the Van Camp’s deal,” said another.

“Tomorrow,” said Bob, looking worried as the stock slipped 49 cents.

This continued for months, and sales slowed like molasses.

Soon, Bob got canned. Now he counts inventory in a bean factory.

Neighbors Watch, by Lisa Miller

19/4/2019

Walls up dividing and separating us. “…Ugh! Enough.” Anna pulls on her tye-die hoodie with sequins spelling out LOVE and LAUGHTER. “Why not just step toward people instead?”

Her neighbors are friendly, sorta middle-class with well-kept older homes and sidewalks. But, there’s a doormat saying: Unwelcome, nearby as she swirls buttery pasta with a fork to her mailbox. Across the street, three semi trucks pull out of the Lopez’s RV parking lot. Each month, full of immigrant children? Anna’s eyes meet knowingly with the surrounding neighbors, going back inside. The last truck turns the corner bending the Neighborhood Watch sign.

Mistaken Identity, by Diane Clark

19/4/2019

Nita squirmed anxiously, waiting to learn whether her teacher had liked her book report.

“Good work, Nita.” Mrs. Grimes smiled and handed her the paper with a big red A marked at the top.

“Teacher’s pet,” hissed Billy from his desk behind Nita.

The bell rang, and Nita gathered up her books and supplies. On the way out, she dropped her paper into the wastebasket beside the door.

When she reached the car, her mother asked, “How’d you do on your book report?”

“It sucked,” said Nita, avoiding her mother’s eyes.

The Scent, by Arthur Chan

19/4/2019

I was snapped out of daydreaming when the scent caught me out of the blue. So familiar, so dear. For three years I’ve lost her, lost the love nourished by that luring smell, but never the memory of how her brown eyes smiled, how her whisper tickled my ear, how she kissed and sighed. The fragrance, her signature, always lightened my spirit, touched my soul, soaked my heart.

Irresistibly I pulled up my nose, hurried after the dress, but the face mismatched the scent.

Sank.

Three years ago, one month after we married, she was knocked down by a van.

The Newcomer, by Marjan Sierhuis

19/4/2019

Aisha and Cerah are curious, but unsure if they want to share their indoor exhibit with another orangutan. They have had run of the place for such a long time.

“What do you think about this new development?” asks Aisha as she stoops down beside Cerah. A bottle of water balances against her leg as she ogles the newcomer alone on a nearby platform.

“I’m not sure what to think,” says Cerah as she gestures with her hands and stares at the newcomer with the shaggy reddish-brown hair.

“Let’s give her a chance.” “She looks friendly enough,” says Aisha.

Three Days in the Life of Pontius J. Pilate, by Gordon Lawrie

19/4/2019

Friday

Citizens! Today, Pontius J. Pilate, delivers on yet another election promise. I'm gonna deal with these immigrants! (Crowd roars)
I'm making an example! (Crowd roars)
We're gonna execute an immigrant!! (Crowd mega-roars)
OK, so maybe he's not an immigrant, but he is their leader. Who cares! (Crowd roars)
We'll put him in a cave and we'll make them pay for the stone! (Rest of speech lost in noise, 'Make them pay, make them pay'...)

Saturday

Don't bother me. I'm on the golf course.

Sunday

He got away? Musta bribed someone. Maybe that God guy. But I didn't promise anything...

The Crossroad, by Fliss Zakaszewska

19/4/2019

I adored Jamie from afar. We were thirteen. Other boys called me Tank, but he was kind.

Then I lost weight, became pretty, but feared Jamie’d be mortified if he knew ‘Tank’ idolised him. One night, a group of us sat in the pub. Me and Jamie talked all night. The group walked to the crossroad. They went right, I, left. Someone said, “can I walk you home…?”

“Cuppa, Mum?” asks Tim.

Bill, his Dad, walked me home. It didn’t work out, and I haven’t seen Jamie in twenty years. I’ve got my sons, but Jamie’s always in my heart.

Piece of Cake, by Doug Bartlett

19/4/2019

She, once again, walked apprehensively onto the high school campus. Every fiber of her being dreaded this moment. She paused, working up every ounce of courage for what she was about to endure. She would soon be jostled about in the midst of a most unruly crowd, the air laced with profanity. The moment was finally over and she had done it once again. She had retrieved her mail from the faculty lounge and quickly exited. Taking a deep breath, she smiled, knowing the rest of the day working with students would be a ‘piece of cake.’

Over the Hill and Far Away, by Kim Favors

19/4/2019

My friend Jim was a teacher who loved singing and playing with his kindergartners. He even joined them on the floor mats to watch cartoons on television.

Sadly, brain cancer sent him home to involuntarily relive his own childhood.

As he regressed, we would sit on his bed singing, watching cartoons and laughing.

His last words to me were “All ducks are five.”

On an anniversary of his death, it came to me in a dream that he was recalling his beloved nursery rhyme.

I wish that I could have said, “And they all came back.”

Daddy's Death, by Nicky Johnson

19/4/2019

When Janie killed that pervert, she also murdered her father. She could explain away the black eyes and bruises. Finding her own food and utility shut-offs didn’t bother her. Unattended school functions were excused. But when that man was invited into her bedroom, her heart broke.

Her adolescent body collected composure as she walked out into the filthy living room. Daddy lay on the couch, shaking in withdrawal. She clutched a bloody knife, hidden where teeth once lay after the Tooth Fairy never came. Handing him the pedophile’s wallet, she left, and he was no more.

The Runner, by Julie Achilles

19/4/2019

Stella ran every morning before work and every evening- without fail. She was fast, she was dedicated.

Stella did not run for fun, or to keep fit, or because she could, she run because it released all the pent-up anger, all the hurt, she run away from all her emotions.

Exhaustion meant she could sleep, it meant her body hurt and so her mind never got a look-in.

One day Stella stopped running, she had taken enough- she sat on her porch, she cried, she screamed and she howled.

Stella still runs- sometimes - for fun.

The Drink King, by Alex Z. Salinas

19/4/2019

Abstained for 21 years, then the Post-Grad Party.

“Loosen up,” said my then-girlfriend.

Lil Wayne blared through the speakers.

“You know I don’t imbibe.”

“Puh-lease.” Hard eye roll.

Later, testosterone crowds parted.

There He was. Red toga. Half His golden face concealed by a white mask.

“Dip, my Son,” He commanded, hand on my head.

He dunked me into the punch bowl. Reluctantly I gulped.

Faded.

Five wet years have passed—snuck by.

Haven’t seen Him since.

I remain a disciple of thirst. Thirst unquenchable.

I search for my elusive King.

When I find Him, He will know His work.

Secrets of the Universe, by Rod Drake

19/4/2019

Albert Einstein sat on his Princeton’s cottage porch in his rocking chair, slowly rocking and thinking, enjoying the beautiful spring day.

A man walked across his lawn and up to him. He changed from a nondescript human to his true form, a green, antennaed alien with enormous black eyes. “You are getting close to understanding the universe; that is not allowed for primitive earthlings,” the creature hissed, claws raised menacingly.

Einstein smiled. “Ist dat so? I sink not.” Then he pulled a German Luger out of his pocket and killed the alien invader with one well-placed shot.

Perfect Candidate, by Bex Gooding

19/4/2019

John had given his usual spiel of why he wanted to work for the company and hoped it was enough. How could he tell them the real reason?

The bus ride to the interview had taken his last pound, he was three months behind on the mortgage and the food bank had fed his children for the past week. Thankfully his feet were planted on the floor so they couldn’t see the hole in his shoe. He really needed this job.

‘I think we have everything we need Mr Wells. When can you start?’

John breathed a sigh of relief.

Them, by Brian Taylor

18/4/2019

Yeah, I know about them. I’ve known almost from the start.

What's worse is my wife knows I know. And him...I think he knows I know, as well.

I’m watching them right now. Are they aware? Shameless as they are, it’s possible.

They’re disgustingly happy together.

If I screamed at them here in public, would they be afraid? Finally feel guilty? I’d like to think so, but…

Wait…they’ve seen me! They’re actually smiling, goddamn them!

He’s coming towards me now!

He's here where I stand!

He's going to speak to me!

"Hi, Daddy! You gonna play with me and Mommy?"

Og and Egbert, by Mark Tulin

15/4/2019

While having a morning coffee at the Bistro, a friendly man struck up a random conversation. I took another bite of my scone and gave him complete attention.

“Do you like W.C. Fields?” he asked.

“Why yes, born in the same city.”

“I would rather be living in Philadelphia?” he quoted.

“Let me test your skill,” I said. “What’s the name of the town where they shot The Bank Dick?”

“Lompoc.”

“You’re good,” I said.

He smiled proudly, “My mother named me after the W.C. character.”

“Egbert?”

“Yes.”

“What a coincidence,” I said. “My name is Og Oggilby.”

Actor, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

14/4/2019

She moved to fulfill theatrical aspirations. Degree tucked in resume. Portfolio empty.

The new city inspired creativity. Refined her attire with whimsical style and vibrant colors. Not unlike her, parents would say. Their girl was daring. In her element whenever she performed a new act.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I found a suitable job.”

When they announced their booked flights to visit, she became worried. Looked to creativity for help in forming an explanation.

Of how her stage ended as a street curb and her acting was that of a clown luring prospective customers to a pizza outlet

Nan, by Julie Achilles

14/4/2019

He sits drinking tea with earphones in- he leaves for work.
Silence.

I defrost a chop for his tea.
He sits drinking tea with earphones in- he leaves for work.
Silence.

I defrost a pie for his tea.
I lay in a hospital bed, machines bleep and a hand I know grips mine. 'Please dont leave me nan, I need you', he says.
He sits drinking tea - pulls out his earphones -
'Bye nan I love you', he says, smiling.
Silence.

I defrost a piece of chicken for his tea.

Sleep and Lists, by Barbara Gliddon

14/4/2019

Can’t sleep? Count supermodels: Kate, Naomi, Linda.
It worked for me
Until one night, a name escaped me: Kristy, Kirsty, Kirsten, Christy?
Disappointed, wide awake, I moved on: the big five African animals: Elephant, lion, rhinoceros, leopard and…?
Minor members of British royalty: Sophie? Tara? Lawrence? Too many.
I gave up, and got up, sipped some whiskey my ex-best friend left here, it tasted rather dusty, but was effective.
Soon, I was dreaming of Christy and Prince Edward hunting African Buffaloes together.
My recommendation for insomnia? Skip the lists and reach for the whisky: Irish, Scotch, rye, or malt.

No Fight, by Don Tassone

12/4/2019

The boy followed the thin trail down to the bank of the creek and rested on a large rock overlooking a pool at a bend in the water. The trees were thick and blocked the sun, and he sat in the cool shade and listened to the birds and breathed in the sweet scent of moss, and he felt safe, away from voices and hands raised in anger and those he had once trusted. This is the place for me, he thought. The trees, the water, this rock—they are happy I am here. They have no fight with me.

Rose-Coloured Glasses, by Bex Gooding

12/4/2019

Statistics say 80% of people know their killers. Katie knew hers, intimately.

She’d ignored the warnings from family and friends. They’d tried to convince her to walk away, but Katie was in love.

Completely captivated, Katie began sleeping late, eventually losing her job. She stopped seeing her judgemental friends.

Katie stared in the mirror at her own reflection, the face of her killer, one she knew well. A twenty year, abusive relationship, she knew this time there was no recovering from her injuries.

Pouring the last of the wine down the drain Katie sighed.

It was too little, too late.

The Boy Carries His Mother in His Pocket, by Rahad Abir

12/4/2019

The boy carries his mother in his pocket. Two days… she stinks, doesn’t smell motherly anymore. It was the other night when gunshots and armaments sounded a thunderstorm. Yet as a stray shell tore apart their home, they slept. He alone made it out of the jumble of rubble. As morning broke in ravaged Aleppo, he spotted his mother’s ring aflame with sunlight. Her severed finger! Mother had sold everything to feed them but this wedding ring. He took her, carefully pocketed her. The rescuers came, collecting dead bodies. But his mother—her finger, stayed with him.

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

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