Blog Archives

Fourth And Three, by Russell Conover

30/7/2016

The Knights had stopped the Cougars from scoring a touchdown all night. Now the Cougars, the underdogs, were on the three yard line with five seconds left, down by four. They needed a miracle to win.

The quarterback called a pass play, and the team lined up. On the “HUT!”, the players slammed into their opponents. Then the wide receiver sailed into the air, like he’d sprouted wings. He caught the perfect pass and tumbled into the end zone, winning the game.

“Awesome! How’d you do it?” the quarterback gushed.

“Mental trip to Pluto. Exhilaration fueled me to ultimate victory!”

Deep-Fried Marshmallows, by Emma Baird

30/7/2016

The thing is with clients… they know for sure what they don’t want, but seldom know what they do want.

Too right! You’re expected to be part magician/part mind reader.

My mind reading skills have failed me of late.

Well, the usual trick is to give them the opposite of what they asked for.

Mmm, might work. When I gave them what they requested, they hated it.

Oh – they really didn’t like the battered, deep-fried marshmallows with ketchup?

Not one bit of it.

You could try fish, and maybe serve it with some fried potatoes.

I’ll give it a shot.

Lunchtime, by Amy Friedman

29/7/2016

Marco sidled up to Jeff’s desk. “What are you having?” he said.
“Crap on a cracker,” Jeff said.
“Sure smells good,” Marco said, sniffing and eyeing Jeff’s plate.
“If you’re hungry, why don’t you go to the cafeteria? I’m sure they’ve got something good today,” Jeff said.
“Not till you tell me what crap on a cracker is. You say that every day,” Marco said.
“Well that’s because you always ask me what I’m eating,” Jeff said. “Get your own lunch.”
“Didn’t your mama teach you to share?” said Marco.
“Yes, boss,” Jeff exhaled. “Here’s my lunch. Enjoy.”
Marco grinned.

The Games People Play, by Gordon Lawrie

29/7/2016

The table was lit by an overhead spotlight, otherwise the room was in darkness. Tension cut through the cigarette smoke. Mr Red’s coffee was long finished, but some whisky still remained in each of Mr Green’s and Mr Yellow’s glasses. Mr Blue stuck to water.

And it was Blue’s turn. He blew on the dice for luck, shook it in his cupped hand for several seconds – then the dice made its fateful roll.

Five.

They all gasped. Blue carefully lifted his disc, counted five squares forward and set it down.

‘Snake,’ he hissed. ‘Back to square 23.’ The others smirked.

Perfection, by Mickey Kulp

27/7/2016

Carl Sagan stood before a floating chalkboard, saying, "Eventually, there will be one last perfect day on earth." He wore a white turtleneck and angel wings. He floated too.

Slowly drifting equations and graphs covered the chalkboard, merging and separating, shifting color and size. Carl had scribbled 'Perfection' at the top. It did not drift.

"What if yesterday was your last perfect day? How would you know? Is it even possible to know?"

The clock radio woke me, and the announcer was saying, "...our top story, the Centers for Disease Control released a report conclusively proving that chocolate causes cancer..."

Wanted For Murder, by Ann-Louise Truschel

26/7/2016

“I need to question you about your ex-husband’s death. Where were you between noon and 4 PM last Tuesday?”

“I was at Chez Pierre’s having lunch.

“You had lunch with your former husband?”

“No, I was having lunch with Katy Lawrence, a friend.”

“But your husband was there. Why?”

“The deadbeat wanted more spousal support. As if I wasn’t paying enough already!

“Did that make you angry?”

“Yes”

“Angry enough to kill him?”

“No.”

“He was dead an hour later. That makes you the last person to see him alive.”

“No, I wasn’t”

“Then who was?”

“The killer, of course.”

Letters, by Johann Lux

25/7/2016

I am often carried away by the buried treasures I find in old letters and get easily caught up in the indestructible grip of dialogs left behind by so many now vanished faces. Mind to hand, pen to paper and more than the sum of their parts, reading over these letters is as good a read as it gets.
There are good scents in these letters: perfume, cigars, cigarettes, coffee, tea, wines and whiskeys, all additional ingredients, compositional bonus aromas rising up out of the words.
I have a shoe box full of letters, most I know by heart.

The Historian At Cocktails, by Courtney Watson

25/7/2016

Already inscrutable, the conversation turns to some crisis in Myanmar. She teeters at the edge of it, like a child primed to spring into double Dutch. She knows nothing except it used to be called Burma, which sounds less exotic but surely rolled off colonial tongues with greater ease. She likes the new name—how new?—but that solves nothing. Then she remembers her 3rd grade teacher, an alto with big hands, the one who crossed things out in books. She jumps. “They had the same problem in Burkina Faso,” she says, “When it was still known as Upper Volta.”

What Goes Around, Comes Around, by Gordon Lawrie

22/7/2016

Susan Nilsson/FlickR

High up on the cliff ledge, she studied her evening meal. She’d dispatched it quickly enough, and now she’d begun to dismember it, tearing open the black and white furred skin from the throat all the way downwards. Fury drove her to rip the carcass apart into largish pieces as she remembered her chicks from the previous year, each taken by this very same animal from their ground-nest. Never underestimate the memory of a white-tailed eagle.

She waited, looking around to check she was alone, away from scavengers such as gulls and crows. Revenge was a cat best served cold.

Aunt Maisy, by Emma Baird

22/7/2016

Last night, I wrote to Aunt Maisy.

I know, most people email these days but Aunt Maisy is old-fashioned. She loves a letter, especially nowadays when all you get in the mail are fliers for sofa sales and begging letters from charities.

I type faster than I write, but in keeping with the old-fashioned theme, Aunt Maisy’s letter is hand written.

It’s creative writing. Aunt Maisy has certain ideas about me. She thinks me loyal and devoted.

Aunt Maisy has two other nieces. And a huge house in London. And health that continues to deteriorate.

I’m loyal and devoted alright.

*Pic thanks to William Arthur Fine Stationery

Cloud Watching, by Russell Conover

22/7/2016

Jimmy, seven years old, lay on his back in a field watching the clouds. He gazed up and saw a cloud form a dog. Another one created a fish, and a third became a lion.

“So, what do you think, Jimmy? Which one's your favorite?”

He sat up, startled. No one was within eyesight. He stared at the clouds, and his jaw dropped when he saw the dog wink.

“This isn't a dream, Jimmy. We're your new animal friends from the sky!”

He gurgled unintelligible speech, sure he'd gone mad. But, at least he had cool new companions!

Negotiation, by Amy Friedman

22/7/2016

“Your name, photo and resume would be on the site,” Bruce said.

Sue shrunk back slightly. “I’m not sure I like that,” she murmured.

“Why not?” Bruce snapped. He leaned forward, glaring. “It has to be part of the value proposition!”

“I could lose my job,” Sue said.

“What!?” Bruce said.

“They’ll use any excuse to get rid of me!” she said. “This state is at-will! They can do whatever they want! And we need the health insurance.”

“You’re so paranoid! This is fine!” Bruce yelled.

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” Sue said.

Procrastinator's Folly, by Adam J. Rickman

20/7/2016

Its leering hulk perches on my shoulder, peering across these knuckled hands, tracing lines down the veins of my fingers. It sneers at me and beckons me into the dark.

Time loses its grip, and for a while, I have the illusion of freedom. A glance at the clock sends him sneering once more. He points forward and I follow his gaze. Another distraction for my attention, all the while he's feeding.

"Time," he says, "is everything."

Plump And Succulent, by K J Hannah Greenberg

19/7/2016

Note my photographic evidence of the alien, hedgehog-like critter that sat on my shoulder. Behold the polka dotted fur and the neon-colored whiskers. No drugs were involved.

I’m on the Paleo Diet. My A1c number was so elevated that the docs wanted me to start on a blend of DPP-4 inhibitors and Metformin. I hate nausea and find diarrhea inconvenient. So, I sought a change in lifestyle, instead.

Whereas early humans died young, they suffered from no diabetes. Plus, as a man’s man, I thrill from red meat. I can’t help it that the space beast was plumb and succulent.

Granny's Pockets, by Jane Hertenstein

18/7/2016

I grew up thinking pockets were boobs. My granny had an ingenious way of carrying random objects; she’d tuck stuff down the front of her baggy dress into a fathomless well of cleavage. She kept things in her “pockets,” her bra handier than any backpack. I once saw her produce a pair of scissors. I imagined things getting lost and surfacing years later. When the ice cream man came down the street, she’d reach inside and retrieve a sweaty coin purse, money jingling with every bounce. Even today I get confused. If caught without a purse, I’ll always have pockets.

The Beautiful People, by Gordon Lawrie

18/7/2016

Jane was confused by the beach dress code in her new home. The beach entrance notice stated firmly: “UGLY PEOPLE MUST COVER UP”. Some people were fully-dressed, others in swimwear, a few even lay naked in the sun. The definitions of ‘beautiful’ and ‘ugly’ seemed far from conventional, although most of the scantily-clad simply shone with happiness, while most of the fully-clothed had a darkness about them.

“How do you define ‘ugly’?” Jane asked her host.

The woman looked deep into Jane’s eyes. “What matters is whether you’re beautiful inside.” Then she smiled warmly. “You can dress however you please.”

Perfection, by Russell Conover

16/7/2016

Ted rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes as he finished reviewing his novel. It wasn't perfect, like he knew it could be. He'd been up hours later than usual the night before his deadline, too.

Looking for inspiration, he turned on his favorite music: “We are the Champions” by Queen, voted the catchiest song of all time. Ted knew he was a writing champion; if only he could iron out these last few kinks in his story.

“ARRRGH!” His fist slammed into his desk with frustration.

“I can't give up now.” He sighed. “Just a few more minutes.”

Nice, by Barney MacFarlane

15/7/2016

Nice. One word, several meanings.
Nice cup of tea. Just the job after an afternoon shopping.
Very nice woman – would do anything to please.
And there was the procrastinator who trod a nice line between fun and duty.
Don’t forget the person with the nice aim, as in accurate.
Was that the one? Not overly nice though, was he?
And what of Nice itself? Capital N. Pronounced Neece. Depends on how you say it. What meaning does that have now?
Forever ineffable. The meaning unpronounceable.
Unspeakable.

Imagination's Failure, by Emma Baird

15/7/2016

Friday Flash Fiction's founder reflects on writing and life on the day after the Bastille Day terror attacks in Nice.

Once, they had called her the greatest writer of her generation – “capable of creating sequences of words that moved, inspired and captivated” people.

The blank screen in front of her gave lie to that long-ago review. She typed one word, then another before hitting backspace.

She had wanted to write about recent events. The horrors that unfolded were fact, but people often found some kind of understanding in fiction. She imagined herself in his head, driven by forces far different than other people’s motivation.

In the end, she couldn’t. She sat in the lorry cab, unable to imagine any further.

The Ice Queen, by Roshanna Sidney Evans

15/7/2016

Her immaculate beauty is deeply encased in the very definition of immaculate beauty and her breathing has been trained to pace itself with the heartbeat of irresistible innocence. No wonder they all want her, no, they all crave possession. The illusion is that this immaculately contrived, beautifully packaged deception, is safe.

Everyone thought the silence exuding from her sculptured presence was perfection. You could tell every dinner suit coveted the idea of closeness to her. The more the intelligence drained from the room, the more immortal and untouchable was her immaculate beauty.

Immaculate beauty, my ass. Ice Queen. Immaculate cruelty.

Solution, by Amy Friedman

15/7/2016

Jenny opened her email browser, sighing. Another Brian missive.
She already knew what the contents would be: “I’m suicidal, being destroyed by life, I’ve no hope for the future, I don’t know how I can keep getting up every day, blah blah.” All beautifully written.
She had already written back twice in response to these missives. Brian never responded. Not even to acknowledge receipt. She was starting to feel like God in the joke about the guy praying to win the lottery, who never won. One day, frustrated, he mouthed off at God. And God said: “Buy a ticket, schmuck!”

Descending on a Gas Giant, by Debarun Sarkar

15/7/2016

"Remember Jupiter?" he heard his friend ask.

"Yes, that was nothing compared to this. At least we knew what we were mining for there."

"Tell the base to abort in 2 years, in case we don't find anything."

Tox spoke into the wireless to his superintendent. He remembered that moment clearly, years later.

"We are not here for mining, Tox. We are here to terraform and colonize."

Tox remembered the look in all his colleagues' eyes. Even today, they remember that haunting look. As they looked down inside the gas giant planet, they knew something had certainly gone wrong, somewhere.

The Four Knights Of the Apoclypse, by Gordon Lawrie

15/7/2016

The chequered calm of alternate light and dark green squared fields was suddenly thrown into chaos as drafted soldiers jack-booted their way across the terrain. Shrieks of despair could be heard as clergymen scurried diagonally for safety, castles retreated into corners, queens raced for cover –while their husbands cowered behind their peasant subjects.

Suddenly our four heroes – two black, two white – appeared on horseback. Limited in range, they nevertheless used supreme skill and courage to outmanoeuvre the enemy.

Unable to turn, the drafted troops were routed; everyone was saved. Great cheers went up and the king came out of hiding.

Jolly Japes, by Emma Baird

15/7/2016

Cripes – what jolly japes. I’m now in the cabinet and I’ll be telling Johnny Foreigner a thing or two.

Y’know back in the Bullingdon days, we used to reminisce about when Blighty was great. The Empire. Pre women getting the vote kind of thing (and now one’s a bloomin’ prime minister, would you credit it?).

But yes, we talked about throwing off the yoke of Europe. Not sure we meant anyone to take us seriously.

The great British public did, though. And er…now I’ve got re-negotiate our relationship with all of our Euro chums.

Well ah… where to begin? Feck.

Chuck Norris Under the Buckeye Tree, by James Blevins

15/7/2016

It was 1985: Oak Harbor, Ohio.
Morgan’s older brother beat me up while playing touch football in her front yard. Morgan stood up to her brother, immediately fell for me.
We ran away to the nearest buckeye tree and planned our escape from Ohio. We scheduled routes around mountain ranges, added constantly to a piggy bank with portions of our lunch money—no one knew.
At the meeting tree, we discussed techniques demonstrated in the Black Belt magazines I swiped from my dad; they functioned as how-to manuals for self-defense on the road.
We agreed, giggling—I needed the help.

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

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