Blog Archives

Sisterly Conversation, by Janice Siderius

30/9/2022

Diane: “Have you written anything this week for Gordon?”

Jennifer: “I have been so-so-so busy! We took the kids to Legoland for two days and it took two days to recover. Even worse, my muse is not functioning, and I have no ideas. You are the one who has all the good plots.”

Diane: “Yes, but YOU are the one who can knock off a hundred-worder in an hour.”

Jennifer: “So where is your story?”

Diane: “I am editing my submission to that publisher. I don’t have time.”

Jennifer: “Hah! There you go bragging again. I hate you.”

For Better or Worse, by Shannon Murphy

30/9/2022

Where did you get that? Reggie blurted.
Adele purred lovingly and nuzzled his cheek.

A bit of harmless cosplay, he rationalized, forcing himself to tolerate the pointy ears, velour bodysuit, bushy black tail.

Dad, this has to stop now! Their adult daughter was adamant.

For better or worse, he had vowed fifty-two years ago. He wasn't about to capitulate now.

They wouldn't love her like he did at that nursing home. They wouldn't feed her anchovy treats, play laser tag with her, pet her tenderly until she fell asleep every night, fill the bathtub with fresh kitty litter every morning.

Emma's Days of Life, by Marie Johnson-Ladson

30/9/2022

Della and Emma were friends. They had great conversations.

One day Della called Emma. Emma said, “how did you find me, you know I moved.” Della said, “no, I didn't.“

Emma's husband Bob picked the phone up and said “Della, we lived here 30 years.” Emma has the beginning stages of Dementia.

Soon after Bob died.

Emma's daughter came to live with her along with her young son. When Della calls now, Emma remembers some things from the past but not much of the present. Emma says Bob is working.

Dementia has taken away the memory that Bob is gone.

Man On A Mission, by Brian Mackinney

30/9/2022

The old man wandered up and down the precinct. Always with a 500ml can of beer in his hand. Always the same comforting brand.

He never spoke to anyone. Nobody knew where he lived. Scruffily dressed with toes peeping out of his boots he trudged up and down with his can.

When it was empty he would go to the middle of the pedestrian crossing and balance the can on the button push. The can had to be in exactly the right spot, exactly the right spot for the wing mirror of an HGV to knock it off.

Job done.

A Little Too Late, by Diane Chattaway

30/9/2022

There it is, that familiar pull screaming, "Go write." Its urge tugs at my will, and then, BOOM.

"Mom!" The wails from my child follow the call of my title. It's a familiar interruption. My thoughts cry out, "It's okay. You'll write later."

Time passes, and again the itch creeps in, followed by another distraction—a vicious cycle.
Frustration brings on a rebellious determination; today, I'll write. I'm ready.

With an ache pounding in my chest, I set my fingers against once forgotten keys, unaware the reaper called until the screen fades to black.

I was ready, little too late.

Out Cold, by Virginia Ashberry

30/9/2022

“Don’t be a sissy”, Jeff says aloud to himself … “This is February, in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada… the city that invented winter”.

He tugs his hat farther over his ears. Battery-operated boot-warming liners barely keep his toes from freezing. His arms, squeezed into over-stuffed sleeves stick out from his body like he’s ready to be hung on a cross.

The crosswalk light turns red.
Jeff shivers convulsively.

Then SLAP ! A pigeon, frozen to death mid-flight lands at his feet.

Jeff turns back to his apartment building.
Going out to get milk for his coffee is just not worth it.

For the First Time, by Alyce Clark

30/9/2022

She’s never been so alone. Starting over, at her age, seems daunting.

Marriage over. Girlfriends gone. Left to her own devices.

She finds peace in her aloneness. Separates truth from lies. Learns to trust herself. Her judgement. Goes for walks. Tries new things. Cooks wonderful meals- just for herself.

As she discovers just how good her photography is, hope blossoms. Fear turns to excitement. Self-loathing to self-love.

She finds herself as she loses others’ expectations. Setting boundaries. Banishing their cruelties. Appreciating her authentic self. She’s beautiful, fun, talented, creative...

And for the first time in her life, she realizes it.

Things, by Dorian J. Sinnott

30/9/2022

It hurts to remember the things we swore we’d never forget. The late night conversations. Kisses. The way your eyes lit up at the first sight of autumn.
It was the little things…
The milestone memories were still there. But it was the mundane that haunted. Lingered deep in the soul. The things only I could remember.
Your dimples when you smiled. Your gentle snores. Things that only those who took the time to cherish you would know.
And those are what eat away at me in the quiet night. The things I still remember—but you chose to forget.

The Occasion, by Tom Baldwin

30/9/2022

Editor's Choice

Jane searched her wardrobe to find the perfect outfit for the occasion. Too long? Frumpy. Too short? Tarty. At last she settled on a dress she hoped would be right. It wasn’t new, but still looked good on her.

Minimal make-up, she decided — enough to show she had made an effort, but not so much as to hide her real face.

Arriving at the restaurant a few carefully-contrived minutes late, she was relieved to spot his silver hair as he rose from the table and smiled at her. Even at seventy, Jane reflected, first dates could be a worry.

Pangs, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

30/9/2022

I wouldn’t have been brutally beaten up, I wouldn’t have been terribly tortured, I wouldn’t have been sexually crushed countless times, I wouldn’t have been kept hungry and thirsty for days, I wouldn’t have been caged in a dingy and stinky room for months, I wouldn’t have had my heart deeply hurt and my soul badly bruised, I wouldn’t have been reduced to a subhuman existence, I wouldn’t have been a plaything, a toy in the hands of men-looking monsters, had I not been kidnapped, when I was just 14. These are my pangs—the pangs of a prostitute forever.

Family Reunion, by Samuel Acedo

30/9/2022

“Now don’t stay up too late on that old radio, you need to get your rest. Goodnight Mrs. Anderson, I’ll see you in the morning”
“Let's see, volume on, tuning dial here, a flicker of light and a whiff of burning filament and voilà, Billy are you there?”
“Mommy, mommy.”
“Billy, can you hear me it's Mommy, sweetie... Gosh-darn static. Let me try this station.”
“Claire, can you hear me, Claire?”
“Henry, is that you?”
“It's Time Claire”
“Time?”
“You won't need the radio anymore dear. Just turn it off and you'll be right here with us.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Click.”

Only My Mind Limits What I Can Do, by JKMorgan

30/9/2022

It was just another day living inside barriers forced on me by chronic illness. My body wouldn’t respond, helplessness took hold, and despair came to stay. “God, I can’t go on.”

Strangers random text: Interested in selling your home?

Me: Yes

You: Excellent. When are you moving?

Me: Tonight

You: That soon? Where?

Me: Hopefully, Heaven

Your 911 call resulted in six months of in-patient care learning that a broken body doesn’t mean worthless. Your flowers and visits supported my victory in the battle for life.

Twelve years later:

You: Happy 10th Anniversary, my Love

Me: and many more, Darling

Pol Pot Noodle, by David Milner

30/9/2022

Face as waxed as the blond-wooded table where he sits – a titan of Botox – and stares; blink and you’ll miss him blinking. The puffy hands of a truculent child almost clutching the edges, any second now, he’ll bring down a clenched fist to ram home his point. Too skilled a performer, dorogoy, for so egregious a move.

I’m not sure who I’m looking at (a pampered puppet Stalinist, an oligarch’s wet dream?) So bad an actor you can’t tear your eyes away. How many encores to get him off the world’s stage… Is that a sniper, nestled in the Gods?

The Dark Untold History of Humpty Dumpty, by Alex Blaine

30/9/2022

Nowhere in the tale does it say that Humpty Dumpty is or was a flippin' egg. However, Richard III had a horse called The Wall, and on 22nd of August 1485, at the Battle of Bosworth, Richard had a great fall from The Wall. Henry Tudor seized the opportunity to practice his skills in butchery, then quickly buried the hunchbacked king in a Leicestershire car-park to hide his crime. He'd only nipped out for a mega-pint of wine whilst the wife was away at the mother-in-law's. He ended up scrambling an egg that fell from a wall.

The Restaurant, by Jamie Lau

30/9/2022

When he walked into the restaurant, he had the feeling that this place had been a here for a long time. The paint on the walls were peeling, and the light was dim and yellow, like the kind you find in the type of old bookstore where you have to sneak between the shelves to find the owner when you want to purchase something. Aside from the album covers, the walls were covered in photos of people, ranging from close-up portraits to photos that captured people doing things. All of them were in black and white.

Coming Home, by Allison Symes

30/9/2022

Was it curiosity to see the place or him that made me return after years of provocation?

I pushed the gate. I’d peep through the front. The only change to the living room, associated with happier times, was the dust.

Couldn’t he bear to be there? I wasn’t ready for that. Coming home must wait.

‘Penny?’ The deep voice sounded beaten.

I turned. Dad looked beaten.

‘I was passing.’

‘Any time for tea?’

Would he show regret at driving Mum and I away? Only one way to find out. ‘After you, Dad.’

It’d been a long time since we’d smiled.

Summer Jams, by Tim Kirton

30/9/2022

The fledgling twins had been crucifying Cliff Richard’s ‘Summer Holiday’ since they’d left home some three hours previous.
He knew just one more rendition might result in his head exploding through the roof of the car.
They were out of snacks; they were out of water. The latest traffic announcement had warned of more tailbacks; to expect delays.
They’d already had to pee in their water bottles.
What next?
The realization that everything remotely edible had been wolfed down hit him.
Surely, they wouldn’t need to…
There was a deafening quiet.
A nauseating, acrid stench permeated from the rear.
“Da-aad”

The Grey Zone, by Mimi Grouse

30/9/2022

His suit, his eyes, his hair have the nuances of a thunderstorm. The desk behind which he sits is of steel. His pen, a silver ballpoint, is a prize for efficiency on the job. His tenth floor office is grey-walled; the window opens onto pewter skies above and a gravel courtyard below. The safe in the corner is the colour of fog and reeks of gun oil.
The anthracite telephone rings. He answers it in a monotone. The prisoner, ashen-faced with fear, is brought in and abandoned in front of him.
Everybody knows that no-one leaves the grey zone alive.

Not Alone, by Saaiqa Malik

30/9/2022

Today was another of those where she felt so alone and the weight of everything on her was overwhelming.

As usual she lay confined to her bed enduring the imagined distant judgement of everyone in her life.

Tired of staring up at the chaotically swirled textures on her ceiling, she heaved onto her side. Draping her hand down the side of her cheap divan, her fingertips could almost brush the floor.

Warm tears seeped into her pillow as a scaly clawed ‘hand’ reached out from under the bed to gently grip hers.

‘Guess I’m not alone after all,’ she smiled.

April Fools, by Shannon Murphy

30/9/2022

They did not make eye contact throughout the proceeding. When they stood side by side in front of the clerk to sign the final paperwork, their shoulders rubbed.

Did you plan it? His voice was as hollow as her shrug.

It made it easier, she thought, to remember and forget – arguments, silences, resentments, indifference. April 1 would always be the anniversary of hearts and bones.

Thirty years was the distance from the courthouse steps to the parking lot. She watched him drive away. Paused at the stop sign, she shifted gears, made a hard turn, moved on in another direction.

The Taste of True Love, by Kay Lesley Reeves

30/9/2022

She used her long nails to pull off the peel, trying to keep it in one piece. Mouth watering the sweet orange scent filled her nostrils. Juice squirted into her mouth as she bit into the first segment.
The magic was in the skin so carefully removed Tonight it would reveal the initial of the man destiny had chosen for her.Would it be Sean or Jason?
She threw the peel and it landed in the open fire.
As it flared up she clearly saw the letter J.

UK Election Night 1997, by Fliss Zakaszewska

30/9/2022

Election night, young Peter was out, well past midnight, but Martin and Mum watched TV enthralled. The Tories were getting thrashed. “Portillo’s gone,” gasped Helen.

“Edwina Curry too?” exclaimed Martin. “Where’s little bro…? There he is.”

The drunken attempts to unlock the door then a stumbling entrance gave the clue.

Inspired, Helen sat upright. “Where the hell’ve you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m old nuff… gesh back when I wants…

“Ungrateful shite. Mum’s called the police.”

“I SAID, I’M… “What?” Mother and brother had curled up, gasping with laughter.

It was a decade before Peter too, found it amusing.

26.2, by Robert Hunt

30/9/2022

Scottie was steadily approaching mile 25 of his inaugural marathon. Shocking? Perhaps a tad hyperbolic. Calling it a godsend better suited this former flabby altar boy. A side stitch had just subsided. Now he’d excitedly fill the cerebrum with heroic thoughts while coasting onward to the promised land. All his co-workers knew about Scottie’s odyssey. Likewise Mr. Rizzo, the martinet still teaching Phys Ed. at Saint Sebastian Academy. They’d soon see his name with attendant time in The Gazette. Bracing fuel, indeed. Scottie triumphantly crossed the finish line. Yeah! But wait. “Did the chip malfunction, my run unrecorded? Oh Christ…”

Special Friend, by Jennifer Duncan

30/9/2022

Josh sent Sophie, his wife's friend, a text: "Hey".

Sophie replied,"Tomorrow?"

"Perfect".

The next day Josh and his wife Emily arrived at Sophie's for a delicious meal of salmon, asparagus, squash, wild rice. Dessert was a mixed berry compote.

Emily sighed contentedly after she finished eating. "That was wonderful. Thank you, Sophie."

The worry lines on Emily's forehead smoothed, her shoulders relaxed. Instead of snapping at Josh, she made a silly joke.

Before they left, Josh gave Sophie a big hug. He was so thankful that Sophie could calm his wife after she'd been upset by her therapist.

Unspoken Words, by Sankar Chatterjee

30/9/2022

(Photo credit: Sinjinee Chatterjee)

Mrinal Sen, a longtime expatriate Indian scientist from Calcutta was attending the annual autumn festival, celebrating the annihilation of a demon by a powerful mythological Hindu Goddess. To his surprise, Monalisa Mukherjee his heartthrob from college-days appeared like a soothing monsoon.

He’d worshipped her without ever expressing his feelings. On graduation, he’d traveled overseas for higher studies, staying there for professional career. Monalisa now married but still gorgeous as the Goddess at pedestal, approached him, flashing her twinkling smile and uttering country’s poet Jibananda’s famous line “Where have you been all these years?”

Mrinal understood when his life’s experiment failed.

<<Previous

"Classic"
100-Word
Stories

So that our judges can make their own minds up, we've switched the comments off until voting ends.

Friday Flash Fiction
Rules

Kinda obvious, really...

Fiction only
Stories of 75-100 words only
Don't be nasty or cheat
Include your name and a story title

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.

Each week we pick a story or (occasionally) a poem as 'Editor's Choice'.
It's a personal favourite, no more. Do you agree?

During competitions, however, it seems fairer to disable this option. Normality soon!

Editor's Choice

We have a FACEBOOK PAGE where regular contributors can share ideas and discuss stories. Why not join in?

We occasionally send out little newsletters running competitions – and subscribers are also our voting panel. If you'd like to join us, please click the Subscribe to newsletter button below.

Subscribe to Newsletter

No spam, we promise!

"Classic"100-WordStories﻿

Archives

"Classic"
100-Word
Stories