Blog Archives

Problem Solving, by Dee Lorraine

27/8/2021

“You’re long-winded,” he said.

“I know. It’s a problem.”

“You take five paragraphs to say what I say in two sentences.”

“I learned it in law school. They taught us, “Tell them what you’re going to say, say it, then tell’em what you said.”

“Seriously? That’s stupid.”

“Not if you get paid by the hour.”

“I see your point.”

“But I’m shifting my focus. Getting back to the creative writing I love.”

“Remember, brevity is the soul of wit.”

“Shakespeare. Lord Polonius in Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2. Got it.”

So, to solve her problem, she started writing 100-word stories.

Don’t Open That Email, by Peggy Gerber

27/8/2021

She opens her inbox and sees there’s an email from FFF. Butterflies begin taking flight in her stomach as she ponders whether or not to open it. If she doesn’t, her dream of being the winner can live on a little bit longer. She closes her eyes and clicks quickly, and like the bridesmaid who is never a bride, feels disappointed.

Still, she is profoundly honored her story was chosen to be on the shortlist and offers a genuine congratulations to the talented winner as well as heartfelt thanks to every voter.

The Christmas contest is just around the corner.

Under the Bed Monster, by Peter Genet

27/8/2021

Five-year-old Jonathan lay asleep on his bed in his dark bedroom, dreaming of all the fun things he did that day at the beach and of the things he’d do tomorrow, when his hand slipped to touch the floor. Under the bed!

Fingers dangling, temptingly so, in reach for the monster that surely lay under everyone’s bed!

Tickle, tickle, tickle! Jonathan woke up with a fright! What was touching his hand? With shock he realised his hand had been on the floor, waiting for the nighttime monster to touch!

It was still tickling! Phew! Only a large spider!! Arrrgggghhh!!!!

A Monstrous Regret, by Paul Lewthwaite

27/8/2021

The little monster, from under Tim’s bed, looked forlorn. He spied it cowering behind a dusty suitcase. Making soothing noises and wriggling his fingers he enticed it out.

It sat on the palm of his hand, quivering. He patted one of its three heads, it stretched upwards, cat like, chirruping as it did so.

He laughed. To think that he’d been afraid to jump into bed and all the time it was this freak.

He tightened his grip, squeezing. The creature flailed briefly and then stilled.

A momentary silence then the big monster on top of the bed started sobbing.

Beachcomber, by Brian Maycock

27/8/2021

The suitcase emptied of everything I can wear, I put on layer after layer and go for one final walk along the beach.

It’s rained all week, but I don’t mind.

I’ve sat in cafes. Watched the sea. Most of all I’ve enjoyed spending time out here.

Home is only a bus ride away, not the budget airline flight I had dreamed of. The North Sea standing in for the Mediterranean.

I have treated it all as one and the same. Have only what I can fit in to one small suitcase.

Packed now with found treasures, memories.

The Ancients, by Jurgen Stahl

27/8/2021

“Don’t go where the ancients lived. Nothing good came from them.”
But Ruth and Bill rummaged through the broken wilderness, concrete and glass skeletons scratching the never changing scarlet sky.
They found it under the forgotten people’s waste.
A strange rectangular metal plate, its smooth surface reflecting the orange light. Unlike the molten debris scattered over the burnt ground.
It opened into two, a bright image erupting from one half.
Bill pushed one of the black buttons on the other.
Moving pictures of people, laughing. Blue sky? The ancients?
Ruth slammed it shut.
“They have nothing to say to us.”

Location Location Location, by Albert N. Katz

27/8/2021

Thomas Seawell had a knack for real estate. He knew where to invest well before others in his field. As he liked to tell people, “the number one and only rule in housing is ‘location location location’ and those who get rich are those with a nose for figuring out the next “in” location. So, it really is not a surprise that, when the earthquakes came, the volcanoes erupted and the ocean rushed in through California and filled the Grand Canyon, that it was Thomas Seawell who was selling seaside houses on land he had bought years earlier.

Unplugged, by John M. Carlson

27/8/2021

Smart phone—gone. Social media accounts—gone. Internet connected gadgets—gone.

Todd sat on the park bench, thinking of these changes he’d made. It made a big difference in his life. A year ago, he couldn’t have just sat here, enjoying the park.

And he was convincing everyone he knew to do the same thing!

A man wearing dark sunglasses appeared.

“Todd?”

“Yes.” Todd stared. “Do I know you?”

“No. But I know who you are. My client can’t let people unplug from technology.” He pulled out a gun and shot Todd. Todd’s body slumped. “Another troublemaker—gone!”

If It Sounds Too Good To Be True, by Norman Shaft

27/8/2021

The sofa is new to me. The previous owner gifted it and sent it 200 miles north in a van. It arrived, covered in miles of clingfilm like a party leftover.

Made from luxurious brown leather, it feels like smooth chocolate as you caress it. Supple, it moulds to your shape, swallowing you up.

On its arrival I was told "Wax it, to feed the leather."

Is it alive now that I've fed it? Is its appetite whetted? Am I on the menu, or maybe the children?

It shouldn't be here.

That which came for free, came at a price.

Spring Balance, by Shelley Kirton

27/8/2021

The garden was in a sorry state. The wind had blown billows of blossom like confetti thrown by a demented wedding guest, and it had stuck to the windows of the house in wet globs. Cleaning materials in hand, she swooshed soggy blooms until shiny eyes of glass looked back at her.

And then she remembered the orphan, planted away from the orchard. Majestic, there it was, her sheltered plum tree, arms up-reached, a mass of clustered, pink-tinged white stars. It wasn’t japonica glistening like coral in Henry Reed’s neighbouring gardens; it was glorious plum shining like pearls in hers.

The Next Chapter, by Jennifer Duncan

27/8/2021

Puffed clouds nestled in the cerulean sky. A breeze wafted by uplifting a monarch butterfly and a sparkler of plant fluff. Mrs. Graves sat in the shade of an ornamental crab apple tree polka-dotted with crimson fruit. Spaced out around her were fellow church members. The pastor's mellow voice blended with melodic bird songs.

Suddenly Mrs. Graves chair crashed over; the pastor froze in mid-word.

A few days later, Mrs. Graves was buried in the graveyard across the road among the mossy crooked tombstones that she had gazed at for weeks of Sundays, the next chapter of her life beginning.

A Little-Known Literary Story, by Gordon Lawrie

27/8/2021

Eventually, Dominik submitted his 1,200-page-long novel manuscript to Lev, his publisher. A perfectionist, though, he submitted another version just ten minutes later with one word deleted. Throughout the day, 37 further versions followed, transposing words here, inserting commas there, until finally an exasperated Lev announced he'd allow no more changes.

Dom exploded. "I forbid it! It'll not be my book!"

After thirty minutes' ranting, Lev stopped Dom. "Are you disowning the book?" he asked.

"Yes. You've ruined it."

Fine, Lev thought, I'll publish it under my own name. I might tweak the title. 'Peace and War' doesn't quite sound right.

Two's Company, Three's a Ruckus, by Bill Cox

27/8/2021

For Tony, the soiree had been a disaster. Somehow, both his wife and lover had ending up attending. Not only that, but they’d drifted into conversation together. Tony, from the other side of the room, could quickly tell that he had become the topic of discussion. The two scorned women began listing his shortcomings loudly, to the amusement of all around. Eventually they both stormed up to him, declared their respective relationships over and departed.

Tony sipped his drink, reflecting on the fact that, as bad as things were, it could’ve been worse; his girlfriend could’ve shown up as well!

A Bunch of Golden Daffodils, by Sandra James

27/8/2021

On the First of September, 1993, I took my children to a local plant nursery. Two of my young sons loved growing bonsai and wanted some new plants.

As we browsed, the nursery owner approached and handed me a beautiful bunch of golden daffodils.

Not unusual perhaps, as it was the first day of our Southern Hemisphere spring.

She wasn’t to know my brother died on the first day of spring the previous year.

She wasn’t to know I’d placed a bunch of daffodils on his coffin in memory of our childhood together in Mum’s garden.

Or did she?

A Revolution Always Dies, by Jennifer Kim

27/8/2021

An achingly old, gnarled oak tree stood watch over a solitary grave.
An elderly man and his grandson approached the tombstone.
“Grandpa, who’s this?”
“This person was the greatest philosopher of his time. He inspired people so deeply that they went to war for him.”
The young boy paused. His eyes scanned the nameless tombstone. Tugging on his grandfather’s coat, he asked, “If a philosophy leads people to kill each other, is it really so great?”
The old man’s eyes shaded over. “I don’t know anymore.” He pulled his grandson closer to him, hugging him to his side. “Stay close.”

Blue Moon, by Sue Clayton

27/8/2021

So many nights I’ve stood alone beneath a moon that’s as blue as my heart, my thoughts reaching out to my man, stranded on far away shores.

Tonight it’s a super moon. Is he looking at it too, reaching across closed borders, yearning for when we can be together again?

“Is he with the man in the moon?” his children ask, one too young to remember him, he’s been apart from us for so long.

“No, but wave at the man in the moon; he’ll wave at daddy for you.”

And when borders reopen the moon will turn to gold.

Afternoon at the Park, by Phyllis Rittner

27/8/2021

Mask looped over ears, sunhat strings tucked under chin, she waves her cane toward the pond. Tanned and unmasked, he follows, muttering, bald head exposed to the threatening sun. They rest silently on a bench, surrounded by black-eyed Susans and faded hydrangeas as a blue heron swoops down to feed. She elbows him, raising her binoculars, following its ballerina walk. He grunts awake as a toad bellows and a family of turtles retreat in unison into the murky pond. She stands, hobbling toward the water as he reaches for the phone in his back pocket to check the baseball scores.

Hellmann's Wake, by Hannah Retallick

27/8/2021

Cara stirred the mayonnaise in the little blue dish. The texture was all wrong; too smooth and runny.

Her uncle, who was behind her in the buffet queue, rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

Cara couldn’t answer. Mummy had never put mayonnaise in bowls; she’d always placed the huge jar of Hellmann’s at the centre of the table, where it belonged, and they would see how much they could spread on their toast without it dripping off.

‘Cara?’ said Uncle.

She shrugged off his hand, grabbed a chicken wing, and moved along. The mayonnaise days were over.

The Blue Satin Scarf, by Yola M. Caecenary

27/8/2021

The blue satin scarf was the only scarf she carried and wore before she departed on the 24th of August, three years ago. I had it folded in my wardrobe, never wore it, until today.

I opened the wardrobe and slowly took the scarf, scented it, hoping to recognise the familiar scent, but none. I ran my fingers onto it to feel the smoothness and was hit by tender of the smile that I used to know.

Consciously I donned a little black dress that day and put on the blue satin scarf, which used to belong to my mother.

Just Floating, by Katerina Limenopoulou

27/8/2021

I lay on my back with my ears submerged into the salty Mediterranean water and my arms floating wide. The sun wraps my body. Drifting in water, is all I want to do.

The lawn mower pattern of a speedboat’s engine interrupts the underwater ambient noise. My hips and feet head straight to the bottom of the sea as I crane my neck to spot it. I scull with my hands to restore my floating position.

I close my eyes and surrender to the buoyancy force. Just floating, is all I want to do.

The Turn Around by Allison Symes

27/8/2021

David swore Mary was out. For their tenth anniversary. she’d earned surprise chocolates. Here she was holding a black chocolate box matching his.

‘Darling, I have a surprise too.’ David retrieved his box from the book shelf’s top row where Mary couldn’t reach.

‘Ah! Great minds think alike. We’ll take a chocolate from each other’s boxes?’

David nodded. Refusal would look odd. The poison was in Mary’s favourite orange cream, which he loathed, almost as much as the lover he’d discovered Mary was seeing for eleven years.

David and Mary died within seconds of each other.

Spin, by Gerald Kamens

27/8/2021

For many years, our generals and colonels told the American public that we were winning in Afghanistan. So, often, did our Presidents.

But that‘s not what they said in private.

And Iraq.

And Vietnam

Covid 19 would disappear when the weather got warmer in the summer of 2020.

And, if it didn’t, try hydroxychloroquine

Cigarettes won’t harm you.

Nor opioids.

Nor fossil fuels,

Not not getting vaccinated.

Nor not wearing masks.

Last week, when my wife complained to our masked restaurant server that her just-poured coffee wasn’t hot, he said that’s because she put too much milk in it.

Three Times Five, by Jim Woessner

27/8/2021

In the city park I overheard a father trying to teach multiplication to his five-year-old. “What’s three times five?” he asked. She shrugged. “C’mon,” he said. “What’s five plus five plus five?” In a barely audible voice, she said, “I don’t know.” “It’s simple,” he shouted. “Think!” She was on the edge of tears as I walked past. Our eyes met and I mouthed the word, “fifteen.” She smiled, looked at her father, and said, “Fifteen?” “Finally,” he said. “That wasn’t so hard was it?” She didn’t answer. I could have answered, but I zipped my lips and kept walking.

Many Happy Returns, by David Milner

27/8/2021

Another year gone. Hitman hadn’t called. Enter the bathroom. Stare at my reflection in the mirror. He’d be unshaven, overweight, sweaty skinned, creeping from the shadows.

Map in my possession looks like something Jackson Pollock would deem too abstract.

Cold cash buried there. Hitman, and they, want it. Feels all mine.

Maybe a slicked-back blonde Charlize Theron look-alike. Twist my neck between her thighs.

More mine than ever!

A lie of the mind the cat dragged in. Can’t sleep for sweat in my eyes.

Maybe they have forgotten me?

I say another prayer to Edgar Allen Poe.

Only the Brave, by Daniel Aceituna

27/8/2021

The banquet MC stood up. “We are very proud to honor Lynn Matthews for her brave reporting. Start the video.”
A video showed Lynn in various hostile regions of the world keeping her composure while reporting into the camera. The audience applauded when the video ended.
One man stood up and slurred. “You think she’s the only brave one?”
“Sir, please be seated.”
“Not until you answer my question.”
The drunk man was escorted away.
The MC turned to Lynn, "I apologize for that."
“It’s okay,” Lynn said. “Fred can be very difficult.”
“You know him?”
“He’s my longtime cameraman.”

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"Classic"
100-Word
Stories

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

Normally, 100-word stories are scheduled for 07.00 BST (GMT in the winter) on the following Friday. However, where a large number of stories (more than 25) are due to be published on the same day, we publish a second batch around 10.30am.
Recently, we've welcomed a lot of newcomers and found that even two batches doesn't cover them all. Wherever that happens, we'll simply be publishing 'as and when' during the course of the day.

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"Classic"
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