Blog Archives

Show Me Your Tattoo, by Sanchyeta Srivastava

30/6/2015

“This is your fate!” Antonio, the king of a small island, laughed as he beheaded his impostor hiding in the castle of Emily, his fiancée.

Emily smiled, waving to Antonio, who joined her in the garden.

“Dear, didn’t you miss me?” Antonio was thrilled and kissed her desperately.

Emily struggled and stepped away from him. Trembling, she shouted, “Who are you?”

“Dear, I’m Antonio, your fiancé!”

“Show me your tattoo!” Emily’s eyebrows frowned.

“Oh! Weren’t you with that crook in disguise?” Antonio’s heartbeat soared.

“Scoundrel! Guards!” Emily, in shock, hurried away.

“Are you blind?” Antonio followed her.

"You aren’t Antonio!”

Can You Hear Me Now, by Russell Conover

29/6/2015

“Captain--it’s an emergency! All communication has been lost!”

The boss furrowed his brow. This was NOT good. “Are we receiving any notices at all?”

“Well, we WERE being notified when people responded to our writing. But no more notices now.”

The captain sighed. Why did he agree to be placed into this testing group? Wait--he never did. Whoever decided to shove individuals there without their consent? He just wanted to smack ‘em.

“Sorry, crew,” he announced. “But the risks are just too great. Our space trip to Pluto is cancelled until further notice. No traveling without regular interaction.”

Unintended Consequences, by Gordon Lawrie

29/6/2015

Initially it seemed a great idea.

Genetically modifying salmon with osprey cells was intended to improve salmon leaps, facilitating their return to spawning grounds. Furthermore, since salmon formed a large part of ospreys’ diet, scientists believed they were limiting knock-on effects for other species.

Instead they created a race of winged carnivorous superfish which quickly devoured every aquatic species. Then, desperate for food, the starving superfish invaded homes via sewers and domestic toilets in search of human flesh, striking at most vulnerable moments and causing worldwide terror.

Please fight this menace by joining FFF (Fight Flying Fish) at http://www.fridayflashfiction.com/now.

It's Just the Price I Pay, by Emma Baird

26/6/2015

"Jealousy," said the actor. "You can’t even begin to know what jealousy is! It has plagued my every waking hour since I heard that talentless floozy was being considered for the next James Bond."

"That’s nothing," said the singer. "I can’t believe those tone-deaf morons have managed to hit the top of the charts with their sentimental bilge."

"Ha!" exclaimed the artist. "Did you even SEE The Turner Prize entrants this year? I rest my case."

The writer sighed. These idiots knew NOTHING. Writers’ jealousy was the worst of all!

In The Barn, by Bobby Warner

23/6/2015

The dead man was in the barn. We smelt something, dug in the hay, saw his hand sticking up, then uncovered him. He was pretty far gone.

The sheriff came out, then it all kind of went away. They couldn't tell who it was, and figured some bad guys had killed him.

Daddy said nothing when folks started talking about how Mama took up with a stranger that passed through earlier. They hinted that that was the dead man.

Mama took us away. Six months later, Daddy drank himself to death, and Mama didn't seem to care.

A Warm, Peaceful Place, by Bobby Warner

21/6/2015

Guards rousted him from the barracks. It was freezing outside but the Research Building was warmer.

They bundled him in a flight suit, took him into a room where stood a tank of icy water. "Put him in," said Dr. Volker. "We shall see how long he lasts in this suit."

He had constructed a memory of the old homeplace; as they put him into the water, he drifted back to his youth, sleeping in a room with the rest of the family; a warm fire burned all night. As hypothermia took him, he slept peacefully, surrounded by his family.

Luke's Mother, by Bobby Warner

21/6/2015

Luke came into the kitchen and drew a glass of water.

"Where you been, Lukie?" his mother asked.

"Down to the river, Ma. Like you told me."

"Oh, I forgot. Sent you after your pa, didn't I?"

"Yes'um."

"Well, where is he? I told you to bring him back. It's near suppertime."

"He wasn't there, Ma. But you know where he is, don't you?"

She looked bewildered; a tear ran down her cheek. "I forgot again, didn't I? You're pa's been dead and in his grave for a year, hasn't he? Oh, Luckie--how could I forget again so quick!"

Aliens, by Russell Conover

20/6/2015

Lights shone from the spaceship as it lowered itself to the streets. Blue aliens with four arms and four legs exited and started snatching people. “Stop--have mercy!” they begged. But, their pleas only seemed to fuel the aliens.

“We have to stop them,” a man gasped. “But how?”

A woman was trembling with fear. “No idea. They’re powerful, and conquering them seems impossible.”

Before their eyes, an alien wrapped its arms around another victim, despite (or because of?) his screaming. The bystanders had frozen in fear, having no idea what to do.

Never had their situation looked so bleak.

Written Expression, by Russell Conover

20/6/2015

“Boy, they sure have a font for every occasion, don’t they?” Roger mused.

Andrea nodded. “Sure seems like it. Bookman is for those scholarly writing types, who like printed newspapers.”

“Comic Sans seems like a passing trend,” Roger added. “Nice if you’re a teenager, but afterwards ... ”

“Times New Roman and Arial are safe bets in most cases, if not the most expressive.” Andrea yawned.

“Hey--you know what would be the most popular and helpful font?” Roger became excited.

Andrea shrugged.

“A Sarcasm font. Imagine the use it would get these days.”

“It’s a miracle we don’t have one yet!”

The Produce Beat, by Amy Friedman

19/6/2015

Grapefruit, orange, apple, banana, nectarine, pear.
A necklace of succulent, plump jewels ringing my desk.
My little knife was ready to pare and slice.
But: which to eat first?
I palpated the yellow apple. Nope. Time to take it home and make a tart for one.
The orange? Might be a bit past its prime.
I reached over and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“OW!” I yelped, dropping the fruit.
Since when do oranges have thorns?
I glanced at the orange.
With a fruity chuckle, it bared its white teeth and orange gums in a malevolent grin.
My lungs froze.

The Tomato Thief, by Ann-Louise Truschel

19/6/2015

I’m growing six tomato plants on my front porch wall. The young tomatoes are very considerate, ripening one at a time. I watched to make sure I picked the first one at the peak of ripeness. However, it had a big hole pecked into it – as did the second and then the third one.

Turned out that a very tame road runner, hanging around the front yard, was the culprit. The foot-high bird stood on the wall, guarding “his” plants when I came out. I had to shoo him away to get my own tomatoes. He never said, “Beep, beep!”

Careful What You Wish For, by Emma Baird

19/6/2015

“I’ve only got 100 words left to create excitement. Help!”

In the library, heads raised in annoyance as the writer expressed her dilemma. There were several shushes and a few tuts.

Character number two got out of his chair and walked to her desk. “You need excitement hen?” he raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“Yes!” she hissed. “Tonnes of it and now!”

Character number two leaned in closer, cupping her face in his hand.

“I can offer it by the bucket-load,” he whispered, his words sending jolts through her body.

A flash of gold. She noticed the wedding ring too late.

A Catty Tale, by Laura Ogryzko

19/6/2015

There’s always been three in our marriage: me, my husband, and Mabel. My husband adored Mabel’s sparkling green eyes and her sleek raven hair. He used to bring her everywhere with him, even on our honeymoon to Cornwall. He still carries a photograph of her in his wallet which he thinks I don’t know about. He was inconsolable when she eventually left him after 19 years so he propped her up in a cabinet next to the TV. Her green eyes have been replaced with glass ones now, and, despite her stiffness, he still admires her more than me.

On The Pensioners' Bus, by Jane Tulloch

19/6/2015

“Everything comes to those who wait,” said one old woman sagely.

“But a watched pot never boils,” responded her elderly friend.

“It never rains but it pours,” cut in the woman in the row behind.

“Aye there’s many a true word said in jest,” the old ladies agreed.

In the row behind, a youth listened to the wisdom of his elders. Were these the old wives who thought up tales? There’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle he found himself thinking. Then, oh no, I’ve caught it. This is the last time I travel on pension day.

Undue Influence, by Gordon Lawrie

19/6/2015

“So, Mr Tramp, you want to be King of ‘England’?”
“Yeah, sure. How much? Five billion bucks do it?”
“...Things don’t really work that way here, Mr Tramp.”
“Sure they do. Money buys influence.”
“You think so, Mr Tramp?”
“I KNOW so. I’ve got ten billion. Governments do what I say.”
“You reckon you can buy influence in government here, Mr Tramp?”
“Sure, I do it all the time. Say, what did you say your name was? Cameron?”
“Yes, Cameron. Police Superintendent Cameron. And you’re under arrest, Mr Tramp.”
“OK. How much does it cost to get out of jail?”

Cryptanalysis, by Eric Smith

18/6/2015

Laconic Linda shook out a Marlboro and rolled the pack back into the sleeve of her t-shirt. She lit up, holding the smoke down deep. Linda was the only “girl” on the hall of analysts. Like the rest of us, she’d learned her trade in the Army. She looked like Patty Smith—you know, the celebrity you most resemble—dark, chopped-off hair—except she had a much tougher aura than Patty though she too was pale, built like Olive Oil. After six months Linda disappeared. I heard she moved to California with her boyfriend. Boyfriend? I’d never have guessed it.

Calibri, by Amy Friedman

12/6/2015

I hate Calabri.
You hate Calabrians?
No, Calabri. It’s a font.
Of wisdom?
Not a fount. A FONT!
You don’t have to be rude! I can hear you fine.
Fonts have nothing to do with founts.
What is it, then?
It’s a typeface.
What type of face? Round, square, oval?
A TYPEFACE.
I think you need lessons in grammar and spelling.
I think you need to shut up till you get a clue.
Make me.
Oh lord. This is starting to sound like Who’s On First.
What?
He’s on second.
Now what are you talking about?
Oh jeez, never mind.

About Bloomin' Time, by Emma Baird

12/6/2015

Here comes the sun – and about bloomin’ time too!

The earth had been playing tricks on its UK inhabitants. Years of experience to the contrary had not taught those optimistic souls that good weather was in anyway guaranteed just because there wasn't an R in the month.

But earth had been a little naughty, and carried on with wet weather, gale-force storms and single digit temperatures well into June.

So what’s your point Mama Nature, the moon mused loftily.

Nothing in particular, she shrugged. Just thought I’d make them all the more appreciative of summer when it comes.

Written Expression, by Russell Conover

12/6/2015

The New Social Mores, by Gordon Lawrie

12/6/2015

The execution of four citizens for political incorrectness profoundly affected the entire nation. Immediately, millions of names were altered by deed poll, and language, pronouns, even sexual manners changed overnight.

The following weekend, Jamie, Lindsay, Evelyn, Chris, Sandy and Lee all hit town. They passed a busker covering Mx Cash’s ‘A Person Named Sue’. At least they could all go to the toilet together. Moreover, before setting off they’d signed the standard countersigned sex-contract agreement – albeit that would leave Evelyn alone.

It worked out fine. In no time Evelyn was in the arms of a new friend, Dana. People adjust.

Importance, by Russell Conover

6/6/2015

“So, what’s important in life? Really?” Steve looked at his wife.

Jill returned his gaze. “Well, I’d say health, family, friends, food, shelter, and so on.”

“Yeah, all true,” Steve grumbled.

“What’s bugging you?”

“Ever feel like you’re cut off from the world? Like someone else decides the importance of communication?”

Jill’s eyes penetrated Steve’s. “Do you need to tell me something about our marriage?”

“No! You’re fantastic,” Steve replied, shaking his head. “Sometimes I just feel left out, from the rest of society.”

“Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure it’s all being handled appropriately by the interaction experts on Pluto.”

Installment #2 of the Barbie Tale, by Amy Friedman

5/6/2015

I flopped back on the bed.
Maybe that wasn’t a mirror. Maybe it was a photograph in a fancy frame.
So I sat up slowly, watching the mirror. Barbie’s head moved slowly into the frame.
Lifting my hand, I touched my hair. I watched with horrified fascination as a slender little hand, attached to an impossibly slender arm, reached up and touched those horrid rolled bangs.
I blinked. The apparition in the mirror blinked.
I closed my eyes and flopped down again.
It would seem that I, Barbara Samson, have found myself transformed in my bed into a gigantic Barbie.

The Fun of Flatmates, by Emma Baird

5/6/2015

“Fed up,” Joe whined, looking at me as if I was supposed to solve that particular problem.

“Shouldn’t have eaten so much then,” I snap back. Deliberate obtuseness is often my weapon of choice.

“Oh, funny.” He nabs chocolate from the cupboard. “Though now you mention it...”

“That bar of chocolate had my name on it!” I bellow after him.

“Not literally,” he yells, throwing my weapon of choice back at me.

Carrie comes in, her face thunderous. “Where’s the f*** is Joe?”

I point her his way. Looks like I’m about to solve problem number one for him too.

A Conversation Between An Author And A Proof-Reader Separated By An Ocean, by Gordon Lawrie

5/6/2015

“You write rumor, I write rumour,
You write humor, I write humour,
Rumor, rumour, humor, humour –
Let’s call the novel off!”

“You write realise, I write realize,
You write organise, I write organize,
Realise, realize, organise, organize –
Let’s call the novel off!”

“But oh! if we call the novel off
It’ll be a shame
And oh, if the novel fails we’re both to blame!

“In your defence, in my defense,
You take offence, I take offense,
But we know we need each other so we
Better call the calling off off,
Let's call the whole thing off.”

(Roller-skate dancing follows...)

A Widow's Revenge, by Marlene Goldberg

2/6/2015

Mohamed, a fisherman, set out to sea at dawn. Whatever was left of his catch, not sold at the market, he’d bring home for Fahtma to clean. One day, Mohamed, unaware the Israelis had restricted the fishing areas, was shot. Fahtma became a young widow in Gaza.

Fahtma instilled in her twin boys her hatred of Israel. Their toys were stones which they were instructed to throw at Israelis. Sticks were guns to shoot at Jews. Encouraged to become shahidim (martyrs for the cause), the boys trained at summer-camp - to fight for Allah, avenge Father’s death, make Mother proud.

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