Blog Archives

Plane, by Jane Arleth dela Cruz

20/7/2019

She just arrived on the plane and sat beside me. We travel together every year. We’ve been doing this since junior year of university. We were roommates back then. We go to places where no one can recognize us for our love is “not natural”. We're off to Maldives for five days.

“I’m really sorry. You should have known from me.”

“Congratulations!”

She just got engaged. She removed her ring and grabbed my hand.

“You know, if you're not find with it. I'll break it off.”

“I’m fine with it.”

I lied. She knew.

Last Chance, by Stella Gaucher-Murovic

19/7/2019

Music blares, reverberating through the rooms, propelled by instruments not meant to soothe the soul. His choice as always. Same old, same old. The odor of the sole they ate last night wafts through the house, stinks of resentment. The morning's rays strike her hands, wrinkled paper, proof that this is her last chance for something precious

Their arguments have grown stale, pitiful and in vain. She's made up her mind. Her choice, not his. The child will live. It will be hers.

She continues rolling her clothes in neat little packages, leaving the smells and sounds behind

Samuel on Stage, by David Workun

19/7/2019

Samuel was impressed with his skills of elocution, his discourse of reason was renown. He could accept any issue and demonstrate a verbosity that was simply overwhelming. That is why he was surprised when an acquaintance demurred at his statements on a topic of concern. This misguided challenger continued on with several spurious observations, but the seeming deferential tone of his opponent did not dismay Samuel. Finally, Samuel could not help but interrupt with a convincing and flourishing finality. "You don't know what you're talking about!," he shouted. "It's OK, Samuel," his companion gently replied. "Let's talk about baseball."

The Gift Dad Couldn't Return, by Kim Favors

19/7/2019

Best gift ever, Dad said about his new chess set.

During a visit a few weeks later, I found the box open but the game unplayed. The chessmen were all inside, still wrapped. Dad’s claims: Defective, incomplete, missing pieces, no instructions.

I investigated: All untrue. Everything was there.

Dad couldn’t admit he didn’t know how to play. Instead, he manufactured reasons to reject my gift.

Next visit, I again looked inside the box. In addition to the game Dad had abandoned, I discovered something: Pieces of me, still wrapped.

Catch the Wind, by Mary Wallace

19/7/2019

She skipped passed my window heading to the park, her skirt billowing in the wind. Light of feet, filled with gaiety, she spoke to me of past happiness and coming Spring. Such joy of life, she beckoned to be followed. I gave chase determined to share her exuberance, grabbing her as she reached the park gate, holding tight to foil her escape. A middle aged man breathing heavy, attempting to recapture his youth. That joy, that glimpse of past Springs was no longer. I gazed at the limp plastic bag and consigned her to the rubbish bin.

The Bust, by K. J. Watson

19/7/2019

'I commissioned a straightforward bust of my husband, not this mutation,' I raged at the sculptor.

'Indeed, Madam.'

'You've given him a nose that's a proboscis and eyes on stems. I'm not paying for it.'

'As you wish.'

I stormed out of the studio.

At home, my husband was resting in his armchair. I sat opposite him and was about to recount my experience with the sculptor when parts of his head began to reform into a tapir's snout and a snail's eyestalks.

I rushed back to the sculptor. He smiled as I paid his fee and took the bust.

First Men on the Moon, 50 Years On, by Gordon Lawrie

19/7/2019

Fifty years ago Rocket Man and me, we set off in a rocket to the Moon. Rocket Man's job was to blow lots of hot air and make the rocket go fast. Nobody had ever been there before, not even the Russians. They chose me because I'm the cleverest guy in the world, I have the highest IQ ever.

So we went to the Moon and landed and it was made of green cheese. Rocket Man and me played golf – I won, naturally – then we came home and I became President. We made the Moon pay for the entire journey.

Courage, by Diane Clark

19/7/2019

Anonymous people are suspended overhead in flimsy chairs dangling from ropes. Two chairs are ominously empty. I could not go up there. I am not a daredevil. I could never be a parachute jumper. It takes a certain kind of brave heart to risk life and limb. I prefer terra firma.

On the other hand, there’s been many a night I have walked out on stage, opened my mouth, and sung an entire concert with only my pianist for company. Some would be terrified by such a prospect. Some would say I am daredevil indeed. To me that’s child’s play.

There Is Always Next Week, by Marjan Sierhuis

19/7/2019

It is Tuesday morning, and I stare at my computer screen in angst. It has been a frustrating three hours. I still have no idea for a story, and I am annoyed with myself. Never before have I been at a loss for words. So why is this happening to me now?
I take another sip of my coffee. The caffeine may get my creative juices flowing.

I remain confident as the flash fiction deadline creeps closer. A short hiatus of a day or two should stimulate my thought processes.

But there is always next week or the week after.

Good Advice, by Don Tassone

19/7/2019

Frank Benson’s private jet crashed in a remote part of Montana. The pilot and co-pilot were killed on impact. Frank was the only survivor.

He didn’t know if anyone could trace the plane, and his cell phone wasn’t working.

Frank thought about what he should do. He remembered his father telling him that if he ever got lost in the woods to follow a stream and it would lead him to civilization. He did that, and it worked.

Frank had nearly forgotten that advice. When he got home, he began thinking about other things his father had told him.

It's Not Easy Being Green, by Linda Cornelissen

19/7/2019

Indigenous greens. Immigrant greens. As many shades as names for them.

Some alluring, welcoming – inviting a dive into their greenness.

Some harsh, standoffish - challenging with their starkness.

Some that whisper to us to sing and celebrate.

Others dare us to be strong, resilient enough to survive.

All lure our eyes outwards – some with abandon in mind, others with muted caution.

Some, cheeky and frivolous, promising much and delivering dainty, temporary lushness.

Others ask little and promise less – but themselves stand fast, daring us to do the same.

What kind of green – you or I?

Aunty Martha, by Julie Achilles

19/7/2019

'I am sorry I am unable to attend Great Aunty Martha's funeral next week'.
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.
'Hello, are you still there'?
'Yes, I'm still here' came the reply.
'I have ordered a wreath to be sent to the church'.
'That is good of you dear, I know Martha always spoke fondly of you and looked forward to you coming down to Devon every summer throughout your childhood'.
Silence- the phone went dead.
I booked my train ticket- Paris could wait.

Wash Day Blues, by Ella Craig

19/7/2019

‘You really annoy me when you drop your clothes all over the place.’ She kicked a shirt and a pair of trousers out of her way.

‘Do you think I enjoy traipsing around after you all the time? I am forever picking up your dirty underwear, and I have had enough.’ She glared at the pants and socks strewn across the floor.

‘I gave you one last chance so you can’t say I didn’t warn you.’

She smiled at her husband; then threw his severed head into the laundry basket.

Imposter Syndrome, by Alison Ogilvie-Holme

19/7/2019

Imposter Syndrome: irrational fear of being exposed as a fraud. At least, that’s what my boyfriend believes.

I glance in the rear view mirror while driving away and whisper a soft thank-you. More than brick and mortar, this old Victorian was my first real home, a place of belonging and happily ever after. If only.

Later, beyond city limits, I pull over and cry for Eric. How will he cope with my ‘disappearance’ – the police, the press, the truth about my shady past?

Too late, he will realize that he has fallen in love with an imposter, minus the syndrome.

Boom, by Gina Burgess

19/7/2019

The bomb’s digital numbers ticked down before me. The scissors shook in my hand, hovering over wires. Red or black? Fifty fifty. Life or death. With breath held, I snipped the black.

A figure loomed over me, his dark hood not enough to hide his skull face.

“Damn,” I muttered.

Workforce, by Bex Gooding

19/7/2019

The Scientist marvelled at the thousands of robots standing in even rows.

‘These units mean the end of menial tasks for mankind.’ he said.

‘Aren’t you worried they’ll rebel one day and turn on their masters?’ the Technician asked.

‘They won’t.’

‘That’s what the Romans thought. History tells us the slaves rebelled and the gladiators led an army.’

‘These machines are programmed to obey, not think.’

‘They’re also programmed to learn and evolve.’

The Scientist dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand and walked away.

One robot in the back row turned its head and watched him leave.

Beastly Roar, by Mark Tulin

19/7/2019

Zeke Lomas has the malicious spirit of a dybbuk, culled from the hot, burning coals of anger. He exists in a smoldering cauldron, speaks softly most of the time, occasionally coming across as gentle and caring, but when his path is crossed, he invokes biblical stories of vengeance, venting his pent-up ferocity with a beastly roar.

Zeke justifies his blustery fury. He says that so and so was corrupt or immoral, believing that he’s doing society a service, balancing the scales of justice. Zeke doesn’t realize that without pause and reflection, he’ll be the demon of his own design.

The Fury!!! by Doug Bartlett

19/7/2019

The storm was dark, loud and powerful!

He twirled his wedding band around his finger, reminding him of his twenty-eight years of marriage. He was returning home from a place he shouldn’t have been.
She was frantically waiting by the phone when she looked out the window and saw his car pull into the driveway. Her heart leaped with joy that he was safe. She ran out to greet him. She gave him a big hug and was overwhelmed with the smell of a foreign perfume.

She did not pull the trigger until after he fell asleep.

The Garden Path, by Sandra James

19/7/2019

It’d been a long day. All she wanted was get home and relax but knew she’d have to bring washing in, feed pets and cook their evening meal before she could even think of sitting down.

Walking up the garden path she was sure she smelt roast beef. Surely not. She pushed the door open to find a candle-lit dining room and two plates piled high. Oh, he’d cooked dinner!

Her neighbour appeared. Oh no, she’d done it again. The front paths in their duplex homes were almost identical.

Back down the path and home to reality.

What's a Man to Do? by Brian Taylor

19/7/2019

I look at our wedding picture on the living room wall. We look happy. At least, I was.

Was she, though?

Two years later, she's out with her boyfriend. Her old one; the one before me.

She knows I know. She's defiant.

I still love her, goddamn me. I'm stupid.

What do they call men like me? Cuck, or something like that. I don't know.

I do know I'm sad, angry, and very tired. This must end.

Surely, she'll be home soon.

Pistol in my hand. My head or hers?

I hear her key turn.

What's a man to do?

Crazy Colors, by Russell Conover

14/7/2019

“Whoa. What’s with these weird colors?”
“No idea. What the heck is going on?”
“The sky is purple. The sun is blue. The water is red. The grass is orange. Are we crazy?”
“Maybe one too many energy drinks yesterday.”
“Nah. Plutonians have probably invaded and brainwashed us!”
“And changed how we see color? Why?”
“Beats the stereotypical probing.”
‘Good point. But, I still don’t buy it.”
“Or maybe they’re preparing us for the colors of their alien world. Uh-oh!”
“Come on. A space trip could be fun!”
“While at the mercy of invaders?”
“True. Time to take cover, stat!”

Freedom Alley by Jim Jepps

13/7/2019

The anarchist bookshop was in a state. Unswept floors and paperbacks piled up in no kind of order. Once someone had put a broom round and it had taken them weeks to get it back to how they liked it.

Of course they had standards. When the bucket of protest badges was tipped over all hell broke loose. “Our outrage is spilling on the floor!”

Their favourite phrases were, “Sorry, cash only”, “don’t worry if you don’t quite have enough” and “I’m sorry, we don’t stock that kind of thing here.”

Kropotkin, they felt, would have been proud of them.

Sunday Surprise, by Mary Wallace

12/7/2019

Sunday morning I discovered my two daughters, aged six and four, had taken the biscuit barrel into the Lounge and stabbed every teddy bear biscuit through the heart with a coat hanger. The Great Teddy Bear Massacre was too much for my nerves, so I left the girls to clean up with their their laughing Father. I couldn't see a funny side.

Tuesday I reached for a biscuit and there, lying in the bottom were all the stabbed Teddy Bears surrounded by crumbs and carpet fluff. I have never laughed so hard in my life!

98, 99, 100, by Linda Cornelissen

12/7/2019

Time for this week’s 100-word FFF story. I can’t think of a single thing. How pitiful is that? I, who can string together seemingly endless runs of words; legible, sensible, plausible or not, there are hundreds of thousands of the little buggers littering many pages, many notebooks – contributed to over many years.

Since I was able to understand the concept of writing, beyond the basics of bizarre little symbols representing the sounds that we make, I’ve had the urge to write. SO! How hard can a puny little hundred be? Irritated finger drumming. Damn! Word count 97. Sigh.

Right Back At'cha, Doug Bartlett

12/7/2019

The old biker showed up at church wearing his tattered jeans, faded vest, scuffed boots and a five-day growth of beard stubble. Afterwards, the pastor told him if he were to return, he would need to ‘clean up.’

“What do you mean?” asked the biker.

“Talk to the Lord,” the pastor responded, “He’ll let you know.”

The following Sunday the biker showed up looking the same.

“What did the Lord say?” asked the befuddled pastor.

The biker responded, “He said He wasn’t sure what was appropriate as He hadn’t been inside this church in a very long time.”

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