Blog Archives

Double Down, by Renee Walsh

27/6/2025

David’s eyes blink open to blackness, his arms pinned against the satin lining.

His fingertips brush the wilted rose petals, their perfume fading to stench.

He pictures Grace above him, remembering her words, Till death do us part. She always kept her word.

He knew the risk of loving someone so beautiful, so calculated. He took the chance anyway, feeling like a king with her at his side.

His screams of agony go unheard. He claws the pine and satin, dizzy now in the thinning air. So she wasn’t just friends with the coroner.

David played the game. He lost.

Fixing, by Remmie Thomas

27/6/2025

Surrounded, the addicts fled the police, only to be corralled into minibuses and transported to Kabul’s rehab facility.

Mubarak, a rugged ex-addict, made them strip and shower. A head-shaving followed, then two weeks of detox.

Mubarak, the facility’s turnkey and mentor, monitored their progress. His charismatic presence lifted the addicts’ spirits during desperate times, giving them hope.

The six-week rehab cycle ended. Mubarak wished each man well, reunited them with their families and returned to his room. From beneath his bed, he withdrew a box of drug paraphernalia and a lethal heroin dose.

“Not today!” he eventually decided, closing the box.

Disconnecting Rapidly, by Sandra Falconer

27/6/2025

The burly man who had just splashed into the waves lapping around the pier was waving frantically. It didn’t look good. Without stopping to think, I raced into the water and hauled him out.

‘’Thanks mate,’ he gasped, ‘I owe you one.’

Saving someone’s life has to create a connection. Yet as I watched his wife and children flinch at his approach, the bond faded, vanishing completely when he hit out at his whimpering son. As the child ducked, a memory of my own father flashed before me.

Maybe I should’ve stayed at home today.

Confession, by Bernard Arogyaswamy

27/6/2025

The church had a rather small congregation. The priest often needed help. Xavier, a part-time construction worker, volunteered his services on weekends.
Confessions were heard on Saturdays. One Saturday, the priest couldn’t make it. Xavier thought playing priest could be fun. All went well until a young girl tearfully confessed her sin. Her stepfather was touching her in a “bad way”. Xavier advised her to stay away from her abuser. Fearful of jeopardizing his own position, he did nothing.
When the stepfather fell into a sinkhole near a construction site a week later, it was termed an accident.

Hot Air, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

27/6/2025

“Why are you angry?” I asked.

“It’s your uncle,” growled Mother, putting away her phone. “He’s always full of hot air.”

Sibling turbulence plummeted into silence. Invitations for dinner halted. Uncle Max’s favourite chair was taken over by a plush dinosaur.

“I miss playing Scrabble with him,” I whimpered.

“Okay, I’ll invite him for his birthday.”

Uncle glided in cheerfully on his celebration day. Dinner and cake were to his liking. He beamed radiantly seeing our gifted ticket.

“You’ll enjoy drifting far up and away, Max,” smiled Mother.

“Can I go in the hot air balloon with him?” I asked.

On the High Seas, by David Sydney

27/6/2025

“Captain, there’re rocks dead ahead, and Blackbeard’s pirate ship is overtaking us from astern.”
“Damn, Jenkins… How about on the port side?”
“Sharks, sir. Lots of sharks.”
Captain Gormley received the bad news from the first mate.
“And on the starboard?”
“Well, on that side, the rats are abandoning ship.”
“Rats, huh?”
“Yeah, loads of those beady-eyed bilge rats that gnaw up our supplies.”
“Well, at least we're getting rid of the damned things. They've been breeding like flies.”
“Right, and speaking of flies… They're joining in with the rats on the starboard as well, sir.”

Counter-Muse, by Remmie Thomas

20/6/2025

Editor's Choice

They met on an Anglo-American poetry-writing site and exchanged love poems. She was his Southern Belle, he her English Knight. They eventually rendezvoused at his countryside cottage and soon wedding bells chimed.

He guided her poetry. “Free verse is socialist,” he insisted. “Focus on traditional, rhyming poetry.”

She did as told.

“Forget nature poetry,” he decided. “It’s wishy-washy. Write about something more substantial.”

She wrote about the downtrodden.

“Too woke,” he informed her. “Write about us, the Almighty’s chosen ones, and how God helps us because we help ourselves.”

Unable to focus anymore, she helped herself to a kitchen knife.

Never Enough, by Viviana Chen

20/6/2025

“Princeton regrets to inform you…”

I refused to believe it.

All-nighters studying for AP Bio. Running for every position. Writing neurology research papers. 250+ hospital volunteer hours. Maybe rejecting the NIH internship cost me. Couldn’t afford boarding in well-heeled Maryland.

Baba stared at the floor, shoulders hunched from frying prawns as a line cook. Māma tilted my chin upwards. “4% acceptance. 4 unlucky, bǎobǎo. Not your fault.“

Ping! My Motorola.

bella:
got into princeton lol
my dad went there??
some building’s named after him??
got into like 4 but prob gonna accept
hbu

I bury my face into Māma’s dress.

If at First You Don't Succeed, by Gordon Lawrie

20/6/2025

Ajay paid no attention to Thursday Flash Fiction’s “essential challenge”: to write and submit a fresh new story for publication that upcoming Thursday. Ajay’s story contravened several TFF rules, but it wasn’t good enough anyway. The Editor even provided some free feedback.

Undaunted, Ajay resubmitted the identical story seven days later, despite it being no longer either “fresh” or “new”. Rejected again. Likewise, weeks three, four, five and six.

Do not mess with Editors. As Ajay logged into TFF, hoping submission six had been published, he was struck down by a huge lightning bolt.

He didn’t submit in week seven.

Bobby's New Friend, by Tom Baldwin

20/6/2025

Bobby crawled to where the magical creature had landed and peered closely at it, his young eyes alert to every detail.

The tiny iridescent body, transparent veined wings, hair-like legs and huge eyes entranced him, and he hardly dared breathe in case he hurt it. The fly gazed back at him.

Then Bobby’s mother saw him and pulled him away. There was an aerosol hiss, a chemical haze, and the fly moved no more.

‘Horrible things!’ she said. ‘You mustn’t touch them, Bobby!’

Bobby couldn’t understand how anything so beautiful could be horrible. Perhaps Mummy was wrong.

On the Road to Grey Man, by Kim Favors

20/6/2025

“A paper map. Really, Dad?”

“I told you, Tim. No electronics: No cellphones, watches or tablets. And this old car has no GPS.”

“But why?”

“We don’t want the uniforms tracking us while we look for Grey Man.”

“I don't understand.”

“You know our neighbor, Joseph. The uniforms dragged him and his family out of their house and into a waiting van after they refused to get microchipped. We’re getting out now before the uniforms come for us.”

“And Grey Man?”

“I’m told he’ll hide us — if we can find him.”

“Dad, what was the Holocaust?”

A Piece of Apple Crumble, by Robert P. Bishop

20/6/2025

Niall’s stomach growled. He got off the couch, opened the refrigerator and reached for the apple crumble.

“Stop!” the fridge said. “Government health regulations allow you to access my contents only during designated breakfast, lunch and dinner hours. Now hands off the crumble and close my door!”

“Oh yeah?” Niall sneered. “I’ll regulations you!” Niall fetched his AR-15 assault rifle and shot the fridge 51 times.

“You’re a lucky man,” the arresting officer said. “You’ll get probation because you used a government-approved AR-15 to waste your smart fridge. Had you used a hammer, you’d be looking at a life sentence.”

Oh the Pretense, by Louise Arnott

20/6/2025

Beaming parents watched from the sidelines as their excited teenagers spilled from limousines.One father scanned the crowd with increasing anxiety searching for his daughter.

Over exuberant chatter and general confusion, he heard the annoying, but unmistakable sound of a Dickie Dee IceCream Truck coming slowly down the street. “The Entertainer” playing on a continuous loop, blared from tinny speakers.

As the ice cream truck lurched to a stop under the porte-cochère, he burst into laughter. From behind the wheel, stepped his grinning daughter. She adjusted her purple satin gown and skipped inside, single handedly diminishing the pretentiousness of the occasion.

The Change of Job, by Sivan Pillai

20/6/2025

It was my job, unknown to many, to kill chickens by pressing their necks until their wings stopped flapping. Boiling water, knives, and other tools helped me clean, cut, and put the silent pieces into bags.
My girlfriend called me cruel and left.
One evening, I saw a hawk swooping down on a brood of chicks and the mother hen taking them under her wings to safety. The hungry hawk flew away, searching for unguarded food.
Seeing my reflection in the hawk, I changed my job to that of a gardener.
I hope my friend will return soon.

Fate, by Lisa Hartsgrove

20/6/2025

An 18-year-old woman goes to a psychic. The psychic tells her that she will die by the age of 30. The woman spends the rest of her life trying to prevent her early death—eating healthy, not drinking or smoking, exercising daily, getting constant wellness checks with her doctors. She is in perfect health, but still she fears what’s to come. On her 30th birthday, she hears a knock on her door. Assuming that it’s someone to wish her well, she opens the door wide, smiling. Instead, it’s the psychic, holding a gun to her face. "Told you," the psychic says.

The Old House, by John Wiltshire

20/6/2025

He walked down a passageway thick with dust and full of debris. Cobwebs brushed against his face, and spiders scurried away as he moved. He knew where he was and was not pleased. He had been here before and had sworn never to return.
Yet here he was, back in the old house. But why had he returned?
Suddenly, a door creaked open in front of him.
'Come in and close the door,' he was told.
It was only then that he realised he would never leave this old house again.
He would be there forever.

Dispensing Indulgences, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

20/6/2025

“Stop.” Debra grabbed her friend Lynda’s arm. The vending machine was filled with colorful iced cupcakes. “These look delicious.”

“Nothing doing,” responded her friend. “I’m saving for something worthwhile.” She turned to a smaller unit nearby. “This is a donation machine. It dispenses forgiveness.”

“There are no prices listed.”

“Depends on what you have done,” replied Lynda. “Also, ability to pay, so the amount varies.”

“What about these two buttons: ‘widow’s mite’ and ‘free.’ Why not press ‘free’ no matter what?”

“The problem is, Debra, obtaining genuine forgiveness is not that simple. You see, it knows- the machine really knows.”

Overpaying the Fiddler, by Mary K. Curran

20/6/2025

He comes home, starts shouting, "I love my job! We're clearing out the losers and making this country great again! Where's my dinner?"

She is tired, begins explaining, "No groceries in the store this week. Restaurants and fast food places have folded. There are no workers and no supplies."

“What the hell?"

"Poisoned land, polluted water. No medicines. Everybody's sick."

“Get me a drink!”

“No beer. No wine. Even the dairy cows are dead. We're all thirsty. Is this winning?”

“I'm hungry! Go shoot something!”

She smiles now and holds a gun with live rounds. "That I can do, sweetie."

The Glue That Binds Us, by Simon Steven

20/6/2025

‘Don’t be upset. A paper hat was a nice idea. Mum will still love it, but I think the glue is old.’

‘Dad, is that why it keeps falling apart?’

‘Probably, if only uncle Simon’s marriage could be answered so simply.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Never mind, let me take a look at the glue stick.’

Billy passes a shiny red plastic tube.

‘Dad, can you hear humming? Like a really big bee stuck in a sock.’

‘Silly Billy, this is your mum’s strawberry lip balm.’

‘But, Dad, listen, upstairs, something’s stuck.’

Dad squints. ‘Billy … quickly, let’s play outside.’

Heart Harvest, by Amanda A. Gibson

20/6/2025

Jennifer and I sat at the table littered with take-out bags and utensils, a dead floral arrangement on the credenza. It had been four weeks since her son catapulted off his motorcycle and through the windshield of a left-turning SUV. “Daniel was so happy that morning,” Jennifer recalled. “He was headed to the beach.” Jennifer’s husband, Daniel Sr., joined us. When his son died, Daniel was getting a new liver. “Lemme show you my scar,” he said, lifting his shirt. The livid Frankenstein gash zig-zagged from his upper chest to his stomach. I gasped, certain they’d also removed his heart.

A Redemption Tale, by Guy Fletcher

20/6/2025

A tear dripped down Daniel's soul as he snuggled into his dirty sleeping bag in a grimy city doorway, the cold and rain chilling his bones.

Oh, he used to have it all: a beautiful family but then the gambling urge came again, straight from the devil.

A woman felt sorry for him and handed out a fifty pound note and decided from small beginnings he would build up his life again passing a betting shop on his way to purchase cheap clothes and take a shower at the baths, praying for a better future.

Ocher in American English, by David Milner

20/6/2025

A town called Presage where he lives, of his own free will. Red squirrel shade of brick was cheaper for ages. Conversations with his neighbour...

“Buildings we never needed…”

Five foot two of her, still looking like she could go a round or two. Recently had her front door painted; “Ocher, got the door.” Giggles like she’s sixteen.

“When a change is needed.”

Her shoulder strap slipped, and her breasts swayed like ice diminishing in bourbon.
“We both voted…”
“For the same.”

Husband dead.
Wife he couldn’t bother to name.

A town called Presage. Where they lived. Happy ever after.

Trifling Around, by Allison Symes

20/6/2025

‘Jones, you’re unlucky to get trifles on your first fete judging.’

‘Why? It will be hard to decide between them, as it should be, Williams.’

‘You’ve not met Brenda Hodges and Kathy Marks. Good luck.’

‘I won’t need luck.’

‘Possibly. I wouldn’t bet on it. Maybe a damp cloth. Those two have form.’

***

‘Ladies, the trifles shouldn’t be thrown at each other. At least you both have spares for judging.’

Jones regretted this when two trifles hit him.

Williams appeared and handed him a damp cloth. ‘Bad luck, Jones. This year it’s your turn. They got me last June.’

It Wasn't the Money, by Tony Covatta

20/6/2025

Nick at Mike’s retirement party: “Mike, old friend, congrats on your forty years. I always hoped you’d come to work for me.”

“Nick, I enjoyed my summer clerkship for you but things just didn’t work out.”

(Mike remembers Nick grabbing back his paycheck, mistakenly drafted for fifty dollars too much.)

“Nick—we treated Mike too well. Right from the start,” joked boss Dick.

(Dick remembers Mike’s first payday, Mike’s declaring—“Dick, you overpaid, gave me more than agreed. It amounts to an extra thousand per year.” Dick had thought briefly, smiled: —“Mike, keep it. You will be worth every penny.”)

Sock Drawer, by Virginia Ashberry

20/6/2025

He’s picked up his coffee, and with cup in hand, he strides past counter seating, straightening the empty chairs as he passes, pushing them tight against the shelf with an apparent practiced speed.

“I’d love to see his sock drawer.’ I say to my companion.

“I know that guy” Emily says. “He hangs out at the homeless drop-in where I volunteer. Yeah… he stands out with his cleanliness. Most of the guys there have pretty strong odour, but somehow, he manages to stay clean.”

“I’m guessing he doesn’t have a sock drawer”, I sigh, a little ashamed of myself now.

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