Inspired by a bus journey vision, Lizzie Flight hit on the idea of a series of pseudo-books: the Barry Nutter series. Styling herself 'E. C. Flight', she quickly penned a number of 'novels' about a teenage boy who heroically headbutted villains into submission.

These 'novels' were actually very short stories – 100 words or fewer – aimed at relucant readers, particularly teenage boys. Early titles, including "Barry Nutter And The Corrupt Bank-Manager" and "Barry Nutter And The Mad Shipyard-Arsonist", were instant successes and spawned a series of movies.

Today, a super-wealthy "E. C." lives in a gated community in an Australian city.

“Help! The sinkhole is swallowing me!” Todd’s face showed pure panic. 

Ronda rolled her eyes. “You really expect me to believe that?” 

“Are you kidding? I’ll never make it out alive!” Todd started to flail his arms. 

“You’ll be fine. Relax.” 

“So you’re not going to help me?!” 

“OK--fine.” Ronda sighed. “I’ll give you some advice that will definitely help you escape the jaws of death.” 

“Oh, thank you! You’re a lifesaver!” 

“Three simple words, too.” 

Todd looked intently at his rescuer. “What are they?” 

“Clean. Your. Room.” Ronda left the room, leaving her son in the abyss below.

As part of her prize, Norma’s niece Louise was taken to the couture floor. Lean, black-clad women glided into the fitting-room, nursing plastic sheathes. 

Norma had decided on her serviceable tweed costume. 

Now, pleasant girls hovered around her. One wore overalls made of tulle. 

She always included little Cecil when she told people she was the eldest of eleven. 

‘Goodness! How did your mother cope?’ 

Norma’s mother had raised her brood warmly and gently. 

A waiter appeared. They wheeled to accept new drinks, flew her company. 

Louise fluttered by wearing startling orange, a peacock feather trailing from her Alice band.

"What are you looking at?" 

My question hung in the air of our fifth-floor loft. Janey had been looking out the large, rain-dropped window for several minutes now. She turned toward me. "Remember I thought the couple across the street were away on vacation, and then I noticed he was around without her?" 

"So?" 

"Well, she's back." 

"Okay." 

"She's got bandages on both wrists." 

I crossed the living room and joined Janey at the window. The rain was picking up, but I could see the woman across the way sitting in her window hugging her knees. 

Janey squeezed my hand.

“Fix the damn thing!” 

“I’m sorry, George. Maybe we need a new remote.” 

“You’re the engineer. Are you so stupid you can’t fix a simple remote? Fat lot of good that expensive college education did you.” 

“Why don’t we just buy another remote?” 

“I’m not made of money, you lazy bitch!” 

“I could get a job, George.” 

“You stay home! Just because I ain’t college-educated doesn’t mean I can’t support us. Shut up and do what you’re told or you’ll hear about it!” 

“It’s fixed, George.” 

“About time, you dumb … “ 

She hit the mute button; his voice failed.

The hot African sun beat down mercilessly on the two lovers as they walked on the dusty road. She looked into his eyes with longing. She wanted to be part of his life but… 

“I hear you got a scholarship to study in Cambridge.” 

“It’s a life time opportunity and, considering your father’s view about our relationship, perhaps it’s better this way.” 

“I agree.” 

Her words cut like a knife. So she was now taking her father’s side? 

“I’m moving away too,” she continued. 

Trying hard to portray an air of indifference he asked, “Really? Where to?” 

“Cambridge.”

The baby, Don Juan, a silent, hardy little guy, was named for his parents, Don and Juanita. They maintained they’d had him at home without benefit of medical assistance. When he was born, Don chewed through the umbilical cord and ate the afterbirth. They kept the cord in the freezer as a memento until it rotted with the other food after a power outage. I don’t recall asking whether Don ate the placenta cooked or raw. 
When I asked Juanita why Don ate the placenta, she shrugged. 

“He just felt it was something he wanted to do.”

The Cut-Throat Gang had come up with another money-making scheme: kangaroos.

The idea had been simple. Import kangaroos from Australia, train them to become pickpockets, then let them loose in major cities all over Europe. Tourists would be relieved of their wallets and handbags, which the kangaroos would slip into their pouches. These would be emptied daily by Gang members; and any apprehended kangaroo could hardly be charged.

The plan went wrong immediately in Rome. Incensed that a rival mob was competing in the city, the local Mafia machine-gunned all the kangaroos, forever known afterwards as the Waltzing Matilda Massacre.

Eddie and Rosh were tired of driving through the neighborhood. Little Boy Blue was gone and so were the winnings from Eddie’s hand.

“Drive over to Burger King and let’s get some breakfast. I am starving,” said Eddie.

“ My sentiments exactly,” said Rosh.

Pulling out the last few dollars from his near empty pocket, Eddie ordered breakfast for the two of them.

“Sit near the window. From there we can see both the parking lot and the road,” said Eddie.

“Just what I was thinking,” said Rosh.

Well, well, well. Mind if we join you, Eddie overheard Rosh say. 

Many of Jo's tales are inspired by her experiences in the music industry.

“I HATE THE ENGLISH! “ Miss Ross came trouncing off stage left of The Royal Albert Hall. As always, she was followed by sequins and glitter.“ NO ENCORES, shut it down, they sit there like a bunch of horsefaced mannequins. I WAS LUCKY to get a golf clap from that UNGRATEFUL bunch of….”

“EXCUSE ME, Miss Ross,”

“WHAT?”

“I have the honor of presenting you to Princess Anne –“

On a dime, mid tirade, Diana Ross dropped into a deep curtsy. 

Dan was anxious. He knew that Bridget’s macular degeneration had been progressing rapidly. She was blind. They were at the summer cabin. Bridget quietly nudged Dan, “If I make you coffee, will you take me out to the bench on the dock?”
“What time is it?”
“My phone said 6:30 A.M. Thursday September 21st.”
“More than I needed to know. Give me a moment, Bridge. Can you manage the coffee?”
“Dan –“
He knew the answer was ‘yes’.
“ I want to feel the sunrise,” she said quietly.
“Will you describe it to me?” Dan asked.
They would be fine. 

Simone, a native of Marseilles, cursed the Scottish weather once more.

Did the sky ever lighten from its habitual grey? Did the natives ever stir themselves to smile, or was the frown perpetual? Did the food – oh blessed Lord the food! Was everything deep-fried? Would a Scot recognise a vegetable if it stood up and bit him on the bottom?

Still, she had taken note of the various arguments going on in her adopted country. As far as she could work out, if she voted "yes" she could expect an independent weather system powered by North Sea oil and whisky.

Picture courtesy of geograph.org.uk

The publisher sighed. The author wanted to hear the fate of his recently-submitted manuscript personally. 

"Well?" the author asked hopefully. 

"Sadly, I'm afraid it's not for me," said the publisher. "450,000 words is simply too long for modern tastes – everyone wants flash fiction nowadays. Or diet books. Yours needs editing – four chapters simply repeat the same story, and it ends with a mass of letters." 

The old man looked devastated. 

Trying to be helpful, the publisher produced a business card. "Look, why not try these people?" 

The author nodded his thanks. The card said: 

"ISAIAH GABRIEL BAPTIST JOHN, literary agents."

The scent of yeast swirled around her as she trudged through the streets, carrying her lantern and staff.
The rope around her neck stayed slack as she moved forward, her face hidden by her hood, her filthy feet in rope sandals visible beneath her robe. Woven bags covered her bloodied hands, turning them into paws.
A red-mottled-faced man broke from the crowd along the road, rushed her and spat on the ground, screaming “Messiah? Think you’re God?”
She felt rotted vegetation splat onto her back. Wetness penetrated the robe, but the fresh aroma held. “For Him,” she prayed. “For Him.” 

The boy came upon an old man sitting on a rotting railroad cross tie.

The old man glanced at the boy, then gazed into the distance. “I ran away from home sixty years ago,” he said. “Just like you’re doin’ now. I rode the trains for a spell, then one day I slipped and fell under the steel wheels—and got cut all to pieces.”

“You’re joking!” laughed the boy. Then the old man dissolved into a shimmering mist and a breeze pushed him out of sight down the railroad tracks while the boy ran homeward before night fell.

In late 1965 I received orders to go to Vietnam. I was in Saigon, RVN, from 1966 to 1967.

Of those with whom I served during that long and, in so many ways, confusing time, some came back in body bags, others, like myself, on 707 airliners.

Each year the memories of my time there fades a bit more; but the psychic scars of war, though they fade, shall never completely go away.

“What’s troubling you?”

“It’s this afterlife thing. No one even notices.”

“Notices what? What do you mean — ‘afterlife’? Menopause?”

“NO — Doc: I’m DEAD. Can’t you TELL?”

“What makes you think you’re dead?”

“This expert, best in her field, told me — DID it to me. I don’t even know how she pulled it off.”

“What’s bothering you about being dead? It’s not holding you back.”

“I keep having to convince people. It’s awkward, embarrassing.”

“Any positive aspects?”

“I do seem to be losing weight.”

“And she got away with it?”

“Apparently.”

“Fascinating, fascinating. Tell me — did you get her business card?”

Kirk threw Jesse down, climbed on top, jammed his knee into Jesse’s nuts, and hit him repeatedly in the face, his hand wrapped around a cigarette lighter.

Jesse worked the knife from his pocket, pressed the button, and the blade flipped open. He jammed it into Kirk’s guts. Kirk rolled off screaming, “Unh! Unh!”

Jesse ran without looking back, cold air burning his lungs. He disappeared from school after that. A month later I saw him in the pinball arcade.

"There's Jesse Strunk!"

Someone emerged from the crowd, told me to shut up—that his name wasn't Jesse Strunk anymore. 

Devastated by their home’s denouncement as a planet, the Plutonians circulated a petition requesting a reversal. However, they had no luck whatsoever. They sailed through the solar system, looking for a new, welcoming home, and they stumbled upon a strange planet called Earth. Earth’s people were interesting, but even more fascinating was a Flash Fiction exercise. But since the Plutonians were not yet fluent in English, they simply observed this thread and became known as the Lurkers. The Flash Fiction writers hoped these Lurkers would emerge someday, and although some have, many interplanetary stories still remain untold. What a shame.

A new sub-genre of flash fiction: "epistolary flash faction". Ruth's term, not mine.

Dear Ann-Louise, 

Thank you for taking the time to interview me for a position with Murderesses, Inc. For more than one reason, I am sorry that my research into your corporation (corpsoration?) didn’t clue me in to the unmetaphorical nature of your business. Please allow me to say that I have come to have a grave and eternal admiration for your efficiency. I am a little decomposed by your rejection, but after a brief mourning for this departed opportunity, I’ll rise again. I’ll see you sooner than you expect to see me, and I remain 

Yours, lately and posthumously, 

Ruth

I hid in the closet when I was seven 
so the world wouldn’t see me undress. 
In case it was a movie and I was being watched. 
I hid in the bathroom - I was ten. 
My brother sat in the hallway reading Bat Man comics, 
waiting for me to emerge so he could beat me up. 
My acting days dissembled for the written word, children, 
the great impassable fear that was the dark screen all along. 
I knew I didn’t have time to not - I walked out. 
No one knew I’d been stashed away those many years. 
Funny how that works.

This began with Ruth Feiertag's story:-

The Lurkers

Their silence was deafening, their invisible presence demanding, but there was no way to discover what they wanted, what they intended. The Others huddled together, tried to go about their lives as if there were no one watching, no one listening, no one reading over their shoulders, but they all could tell …

Sometimes they whispered about what to do. Put up a wall? Invite them in? Send an emissary to make furtive contact? All plans were thwarted because no one knew how to reach the lurkers.

And then a shimmering electric tendril of words snaked into the community … 


As so often happens, it inspired a further story from Jane Reid:-

Lurk-A-Lert

Do you get that feeling of being watched? Do silent presences tug at your consciousness?
It may not be your imagination. Research shows that four out of five people with such feelings suffer from lurkophobia. And it’s even worse for writers, who are caught between twin fears: Someone is reading their work. Or no one is reading their work.
Now the scientifically proven Lurk-A-Lert both sounds an alarm and profiles the lurker so you may decide whether to ignore the lurker as harmless, call police, or contact him/her for a date.
Just $39.95 in three easy installments . . . 

Olivia!’

It was her mother’s voice.

She did not say Liv or Livy. She used the name that required her immediate attention, as it had since childhood.

She heard the Venetian blinds knock softly against the windowpane. A lighter darkness shivered into the room.

She breathed in quietly, trying to wrest clarity from the anarchy of dreams.

The softest snuffle answered her.

Her heart punched her chest so violently she believed the impact was audible.

Her body objected, weighting itself into the mattress.

A shadow drifted silently across the bedroom wall.

The more she stared, the more elusive it became. 

I went to the Company doctor for my annual physical, and received the news with heavy though thankful heart, then returned to the office to tender my resignation.

Then I came to visit you, who where my confidant, my best friend, the closest one in my life . . . until you went away.

That soon shall end. Here are a dozen freshly-cut red roses, your favorites. I place them on your grave. Now I shall return home, to wait.

It won’t be long until we are together again.