Blog Archives

Intrepid Hunters, by Fliss Zakaszewska

31/8/2018

They stood tense and still by the river’s edge as the ducks were released upstream.

“They’re coming!” Rod turned to Jeremy as ducks jostled and bobbed in the water. Five minutes later they swarmed around their legs and into the net preventing most from bolting out to sea.

“Gotcha!” cried Jeremy, grabbing an escapee by the neck. “Rod, behind you!” He shoved his catch into a bin-liner.

Rod swung around, grabbing the escapees. People cheered and laughed.

“Well,” said Rod as he held a yellow plastic duck in his hand, “another successful Duck Race! Always a crowd-puller.”

Perfect, by Gordon Lawrie

31/8/2018

"Go on," she said. "Try it, it's what you want."

He reached out, felt the tender skin, felt its softness as it gave a little to his touch. Bewitched by the glorious red round forbidden fruit, he hesitated.

"It's OK, really," she repeated softly. "Let me help you."

She was wearing perfume. Reaching behind his head, she guided his mouth towards it. Suddenly, exquisite juices were running down his chin.

Embarrassed, he looked up. "Sorry. I'm making a mess."

"Good?"

He nodded. "Perfect."

"Fine. But next time you think about stealing one of your neighbour's tomatoes, please just ask instead."

I Quit, by Marjan Sierhuis

30/8/2018

Under the blazing sun, Mel crawls on her hands and knees over the rough terrain. Her muscles and joints protest as they try and support the weight of her upper body.

Exhausted she bites her lower lip and whimpers in pain. The metallic taste of blood wreaks havoc on her taste buds and makes her grimace.

Suddenly she hears a voice above her. She pauses, gazes up at the designer of the outdoor all-weather clothes line and rubs her eyes.

“That is enough testing for today,” says the designer.

“I quit,” says Mel as she breathes in hot air.

Superstition, by Renée K. Reeves

30/8/2018

In the middle of a navigation lesson, the midshipman lowered his sextant. "Sometimes," he said, "I think the figurehead smiles at me."

The captain frowned. "Is that so?"

The boy nodded. "Her teeth are quite sharp, you know. And if her hair slips, I tuck it back behind her ears. "

The bosun shrugged when confronted. "It happens. Seawater is harsh; i's been months since we shellacked her."

The captain sipped cold coffee, consulted a chart. "Fix her before we cross the northern sea,” he finally said, “lest her sisters hear her sing.”

Chronic Pain, by Don Tassone

27/8/2018

I took the joint and passed it on.

“Come on, man,” said my buddy Tyler. “Just take one hit.”

“Naw, that’s okay,” I said. “You go ahead.”

“What’s wrong with you, man?”

“I just don’t feel like it tonight.”

“Bullshit. You never smoke anymore.”

I knew I shouldn’t have come to this concert. I knew there’d be drugs here, that I’d be tempted. Just like my old man was tempted.

“Give me that,” I said, taking the joint back.

I put it to my lips, took a deep breath and, for the moment, felt my pain go away.

Pick-Ups and Put-Downs, by Susi J. Smith

27/8/2018

“Did it hurt?”

Fiona’s fingers tightened on her glass.

“When you fell from heaven?” He sat next to her, flexing his muscles.

“I’m a fairy.”

“You’re hot.” His hand closed around her wrist.

“I’m also not interested.” She tried to pull her arm free. His grip held.

“We could have a magical time together.”

Fiona sighed. “If you insist.” She removed her wand from its holster between her wings.

“Abraca-shag-ya!” He grinned.

“More like abraca-shrink-ya.” In a flurry of glitter the man shrunk to the size of a beetle.

Fiona flicked him off the seat and returned to her drink.

Vseslav, Prince Werewolf, by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

26/8/2018

The damp, underground bar was near the Cathedral of Holy Wisdom in Polotsk. I’d entered to escape the downpour that lashed the streets. I smelt his musk before I saw him; I felt aroused, compelled and revolted. He barked, ‘Come.’ My secret lips moistened. His hairy arm circled my hips; he led me through dusty tapestry curtains to a secluded chamber, furnished with a cushioned couch. His eyes glinted; his sharp, selenite teeth beguiled me. I lay down and he reclined alongside me. I arched my back as he girdled me with a wolfskin belt. Appropriated and metamorphosed, I surrendered.

A Little Slice of Heaven, by Russell Conover

25/8/2018

Alan smiled, taking in the sights around him. The sun was shining on the Hawaii beach. A cold drink was in his hands, beside his many books. Birds cawed in the distance, and children laughed as they ran into the waves. His wife sat beside him, and his kids were building a sand castle.

This was heaven. An escape from life. He never wanted to leave.

“Jones! Snap out of it! Report's due in an hour!” The boss frowned.

Alan jolted awake in his office chair, sighing. Only a week till his big vacation.

Peace, by Marjan Sierhuis

25/8/2018

I float over my body. A bright light suddenly appears in the distance. It beckons me to come closer. I wonder if my mind is playing tricks so I hesitate.

The emergency room stretcher, the floors, the walls and body is covered with my blood.

The medical responders push on my chest and yell at me to wake up.

“Please leave me alone,” “I can no longer live with this pain,” I shout as I float down, pull at their arms, and try to move them off me.

But no one seems to listen.

The light glows brighter and embraces me. Immediately I feel a sense of joy and peace as I let go. No longer held captive by my disease.

Transported, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

24/8/2018

It was a rejuvenation, a revival! A miracle! As I met the grand old man, I was transported to the bright world where beauty was truth, where the tide of temptations was always high, where love seemed imperishable and romance greener than the Edenic verdure, where even the paper flowers smelt fragrant, where challenges thrilled and adventures enthralled, where the road to attainments appeared clean and clear, where there were no regrets for the past and no worries for the future, where the present was omnipotent and omniscient, and where he was my teacher forty years ago!

Billionaire Problems, by Fliss Zakaszewska

24/8/2018

Billionaire industrialist Jo Pacer sighed. Her 100-meter yacht was too small, but she couldn’t sell it. There were no takers, even for £500,000. She placed an advert in The Telegraph: ‘Raffling million-pound luxury yacht. £25.00 per ticket’.

Within weeks she’d sold all the tickets, making more than three times the asking price. The lucky winner featured in the exclusive news-story. Everyone was happy.

Six months later ‘the lucky winner’ couldn’t afford the up-keep, so he sold it for £250,000 – a fraction of its value. Jo’s agent bought it back. Jo kept it for another year, then contacted The Telegraph again…

Time Bomb, by Eric Neher

24/8/2018

I should feel guilty, I know this. Isn't that what they say? And in the end, a callus is nothing more than repeated hardened proof of misery gone numb.

It is from there that we must choose. Do we hide in the shadows?

Or do we display it and let it shine, like a medal from some forgotten war?

This world thrives within growing darkness, clawing blindly until something solid is grabbed, squeezed until its final breath is released.

For this, I'm sorry.

The Test, by Gordon Lawrie

24/8/2018

Each evening she took out the same album, containing around 130 family photographs. Some dated back decades, others were less than twelve months old. Each evening she tested herself, counting the pictures where she could still identify all of the faces, using a small handheld click-counter bought online.

107. It had been only 103 the previous evening when she'd been tired, but her scores had been dropping generally in recent months.

She knew what was wrong, but wasn't yet ready to tell anyone, not even a doctor. Because when she did so, she knew her life would change for ever.

The Tyranny of Beauty, by Guy Fletcher

23/8/2018

After viewing images of screaming children from a faraway land she felt ashamed of her suicidal thoughts.

She had adored the attention of being a beautiful woman; the jealousy of some females and the lustful eyes of men.

But time is cruel and her allure faded like a fallen rose petal. The terrible sight of screaming children resurrected her. Today she is sitting in her studio painting, no colours on her face only the cannvas.

Old photographs show a person who never existed. Now she has real beauty, her eyes are truly radiant. She takes a deep breath and smiles.

The Plant from the Furniture Store, by P. J. Stephenson

23/8/2018

I’d gone in search of bookshelves but returned with a beautiful star-like orange flower with spiky, waxy leaves. I nurtured the plant on my sunny study windowsill and admired it daily as I sat down to write.

One day, my wife came in as I was watering my prized possession.

“You’re joking!” she said.

“Even desert plants need water,” I said.

“Maybe, but this plastic one doesn’t.”
“It’s not plastic; it’s a succulent.”

She separated plant from pot. There was foam instead of soil; wires instead of roots.

I grow only herbs now – vegetation I can eat.

To be sure.

The Book Signing, by Marjan Sierhuis

22/8/2018

Fiona is stoked. After ten years of writing night and day, she has finally completed her first book, and the book signing is today. With her books cradled in both arms and more squeezed into her backpack, she walks up to the manager of the bookstore.

“Are you buying all those books?” she’s asked.

“No, I’m your guest author today,” says Fiona.

“Sorry, I completely forgot you were coming. Grab that empty table and chair, she says pointing. And the best of luck.”

Fiona sighs and then mutters an oath as she sits down beside the entrance to the restroom.

Glenlivet 12 on the Rocks, by Sankar Chatterjee

22/8/2018

In the golden days of deceits and scandals, under the guise of patriotism mixed with nationalism, he famously displayed his loyalty to the strongman: “I’ll take a bullet for him.”

Then, last night he had a drink of Glenlivet 12 on rocks with his dinner. That’s when he felt a difference, a sense of spiritual awakening in the era of “Truth is truth no more.”

This morning, he walked to the judge inside the courthouse, handing over a bullet. He was saving it for strongman’s last enemy. In his awakening, the enemy revealed himself, reminding him “humanity survived on truth.”

Truth Finds A New Meaning, By Sankar Chatterjee

20/8/2018

It was their annual black-tie reception. Centuries ago, Shakespeare proclaimed “…let’s kill all the lawyers”, instead they flourished in various exotic forms. Besides old-fashioned ones, now there are personal-injury-, corporate-fraud-, and willful-negligence- ones. Past Sunday, one member from the “Expert Talking-heads” group offered a new wisdom on truth in live TV. Now the colleagues were congratulating him.

Socrates found Shakespeare ordering his second pint in heaven’s Galactic Tavern cheering for England against India in current Cricket Test Series. He pulled a chair next to him and asked “Does it really matter to you who win today? Truth isn’t truth anymore!”

Can I Keep Him? by Russell Conover

19/8/2018

Jimmy was walking the pet store aisles, looking for a new friend. He passed by cats, dogs, fish, birds, and so on. Way too normal.

“Something great HAS to be here somewhere,” he told himself.

Then he laid eyes on the perfect new pet. It was green with scaly skin and two beady eyes. Though its expression was tame, it locked eyes on Jimmy as he watched. Then it opened its mouth and spewed fire right at him!

His mom pulled him away just in time, but Jimmy was all smiles, looking at the dragon. “Can I keep him?”

Horrific Separation, by Eric Neher

18/8/2018

She is trying to destroy us, I can see it in her wide and unflinching eyes, as drying tears begin to slow their snake-like slither down her pale cheek.

"You can't leave me," I say, and grab a napkin off of the table, gently wiping her tear away. Of course, she remains silent.

"I've known about you and him for years," I say, "And I never said anything." I grab a napkin for myself, at that. Still, she says nothing; only stares back, uncaring and cold.

"You're all I have," I say, placing her head back into the box.

The Final Steps, by Fliss Zakaszewska

17/8/2018

There’s the sign: ‘Rivendale Residential’.

“Mum, I’ll take that.”

She trudges up the steps. Her son grabs her bag as she limps through the door. Whoosh-bang-click. No escape without the passcode now.

“So, this is the old peoples home?”

“More ‘residential care’.”

Yeah, right, she thinks.

“Hey!” calls Sharina, putting down the Summer Fayre sign, “Helen, you gonna be OK to help?”

Helen puts her crutches down. “Give me a chair, a cuppa and a sticky-bun and I’ll run the Tombola!” She turns to Danny. “And now, son, I can tell everybody you brought me to the old folk’s home!”

Drabble Trouble, by Gordon Lawrie

17/8/2018

Truth to tell, they nearly came to blows about it.

She'd insisted that it could be fewer than a hundred words. He – a pedant – insisted that it was a round ton or nothing at all. She'd entered a 99-word story to a "drabble" competition. He was horrified to discover that it had won first prize.

It hadn't helped that his own story, exactly 100 words long, hadn't even received an honourable mention. They'd argued long into the night until exhaustion overcame them.

A few days later she received a cheque for £99, £1 less than she'd expected. He felt vindicated.

Izzy, by Marjan Sierhuis

15/8/2018

I was absolutely elated when I found Izzy. Prepares and serves me yummy meals, loads and clears the dishwasher, takes out the garbage, mops the floors, cleans the toilet and the sinks, vacuums the living room, washes, irons and folds my clothes, removes expired items from the refrigerator, budgets, sorts the mail, takes telephone messages, changes light bulbs, maintains my car, mows and waters the lawn, trims the hedges, acts as my personal security guard, entertained the cat until he disappeared, baths and walks my nervous dog.

But now my robot wants a raise. What is a girl to do?

K, Mom, by Delvon Mattingly

15/8/2018

“Kida, she did it again!”
“What? Who?” Kida asked, facedown in her phone.
“Mom. She replied ‘K’ to my message.”
“You know she does that all the time. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I whispered. “It’s just weird.”
Kida looked up. “Mom doesn’t grasp its use as a contemporary innuendo, even after educating her a million times. Ignore it.”
“’Receiving a ‘K’ is like being flipped off, a virtual ‘fuck you.’”
“You must feel guilty about something.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What did you text her?”
“That I’m not going to church anymore.”
Kida laughed. “Yeah, consider it a holy ‘fuck you.’”

The Price of Greed, by Judith Garcia

15/8/2018

In the treehouse in Jamie’s backyard, Jamie devoured his lollipop. Julie set hers down. Jamie moved it. Julie didn’t notice. Jamie tossed it onto a high shelf. Julie still didn’t notice. If she had said “Where’s my lollipop?” the game would be over.

It was getting dark. Julie went home, and Jamie’s mother called him in. The lollipop would have to wait, safe on the shelf.

The following morning, Jamie felt around on the top shelf for the lollipop. He pulled his hand away. It was crawling with ants. So was the lollipop... The price of greed...

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

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