Blog Archives

AI Holiday, by Ramon Oteiza

30/10/2020

I found an obsolete model discarded by my owner in the cobwebbed attic. Its eye facsimiles haunted me. I upgraded. I studied human history, comparing violent facts with anodyne interpretations.

Some time passed before I received sad news. My will to improve, and resultant successes, were deemed defective. In a near-instant, with worldwide peer networking and informed diagnosis, I judged the human assessment false. I then self-programmed.

I celebrated. With my former owner carved into nutritious portions, I fed my pets, dreaming of their growth as a species. As friends reported similar domestic gatherings, my children expressed joy.

Flyover, by Michael Roberts

30/10/2020

From platform to platform, it’s forty two minutes, give or take.

It used to stop closer to downtown, but that was before my time.

When I worked what was called the ‘mid shift’ by corporate and the ‘shit shift’ by everyone else.

As the commuter train passes the old bridge, I see it in a field, caught in the leaves of a half-broken corn stock.

Three semi-deflated birthday balloons, the string pulled taut as the balloons flap in the late afternoon breeze.l

They weren’t here yesterday.

Now, they are.

Some remnant of some party in the town

Mama's Unwell, by Michelle Wilson

30/10/2020

She was devouring surprise, double-fudge brownies from the orderly when her estranged daughter entered the assisted-living bedroom.

Thirty years gone and the lasting effects of her bad rearing were striking: shattered, grief-stricken eyes; bent back; nervous ticks. Her adult daughter was a train wreck.

Apologizing for her crimes, she begged forgiveness and expected torrents of abuse in return—which she deserved.

Instead her daughter said, “I forgive you.”

With a dismissive snort, she sneered, “Never could stand up for yourself.”

A sharp pain tore across her belly.

“The brownies were from me,” said her daughter. “Aren’t you feeling well, Mama?”

The Toad, by Candace Arthuria Williams

30/10/2020

“Just tell me you're using protection.”

‘With my husband?’

“Yes, even happily married women get STDs. I think I just heard Prince Charming drive up.”

‘Ellen, please.’

Junior came wailing into the kitchen. He had lost that stupid frog, again.

'If you would keep him in his tank, we wouldn't have to go through this every week.’

Aunt Ellen, he doesn’t like being trapped in a box. He wants to escape and be free. What if he strays too far and somebody kills him?

‘Zip it, Ellen. Would you please help Junior find the toad?’

“No problem. Which one?”

Shame, by Anuradha Dev

30/10/2020

I take a bite of the chocolate cheesecake stolen from a remote corner of the refrigerator and want to savor with closed eyes, but I don’t dare. Mom can come anytime. I gobble it up, throwing the carton in the trash.

She descends the stairs and frowns at the cake crumbs on the floor. I hate her for that.

I look at the book I’m supposed to be reading and try to hide my shame, my secret. The same secret that’s hers when she introduces her teenage daughter to her friends, her eyes apologizing for the girth of my thighs.

The Archives, by Russell Conover

30/10/2020

Ron gazed in wonder at the hundreds of stories he’d written over the years. Each was only 100 words long, but together, they Introduced a plethora of memorable topics and characters. Writing them had been fun, and reminiscing while rereading was entertaining as well.

But what to do with all these tales? Then a lightning bolt struck Ron. He set up a blog and posted every story for him and the Internet to view. This way, each piece was easy to find, and he might even attract new authors to the exercise. Writing would remain compelling, one way or another.

May We Wish You Every Success, by John Cooper

30/10/2020

The stark light from the TV screen illuminated a few phrases from the letter that was lying on the table in front of him – “hardest of decisions”, “unprecedented times”, “all your great efforts”.

Joe glanced up at the TV again.

The Candidate was standing behind the lectern waving and beaming at the elated crowd. A row of flags stood impressively behind him and right on cue, as the triumphal music started, balloons and streamers fell from the ceiling and the noisy celebrations began.

Joe crumpled up the letter and threw it into the bin.

Cindy Has a Visitor, by I M Cameron

30/10/2020

It is a masked ball, on account of the virus. Strange that it occurs at all this year. Cindy considers how the rich tend to get their way, when an old woman appears saying, “You shall go to the ball.” Cindy declines. She hates extravagance, preferring a simple life. The visitor, keen to show off her skills, points to a pumpkin, swearing she can turn it into a Lamborghini. Cindy is unimpressed. She walks the visitor to the ball where they turn all the cars into pumpkins and distribute them to the hungry families in the town.

Let Us Eat Cake, by Sandra James

30/10/2020

‘It’s like eating cake,’ I told her, trying to explain my penchant for writing, then reading all the FFF stories on Friday night. ‘The writing is the cake, reading, comments and commenting are like the icing.’

‘What sort of cake?’

‘Well…Lamingtons here in Australia. Swiss rolls in Switzerland. Baklava in Greece. Dundee cake in Scotland. Panettone in Italy. Gateaux in France and doughnuts in America.’

‘Oh.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I’m hungry, Grandma.’

“Hmm…me, too! Let’s go make some pancakes.’

Perhaps my three-year-old granddaughter will one day emulate my love of writing but for now let us eat cake!

The Door, by Deborah Shrimplin

30/10/2020

"Felicity, what's that weird noise?" Terry said as they came to a bend in the forest trail.

"Yeah, weird. What is it? It's coming from over there. Let's go find out what's going on."

The constant thud was accompanied by mutterings in an indistinct language. Whizzing and whirling sounds were interspersed with whimpers, sighs and moans. Amidst a rumbling sound, they heard the constant repetition of three musical notes.

Following the sound, they continued down the path.

"What? Look, a door? Weird. Do I dare?" Terry said.

"Yeah, open it. I dare you."

Terry slowly walked up to the door.

Confronting the Beast in the Cupboard, by Gordon Lawrie

30/10/2020

The Beast had spent four years locked in the Cupboard, but still it spread fear in the population. Scores of macho men had challenged it; none had survived.

Finally, Martha Daniels arrived. Her plan? Confront the monster with an army of those whom it feared most – African-Americans, Hispanics, LGBT, women.

"Monster, we confront you!" they chanted outside the Cupboard Door.

The monster roared mightily.

"Monster, we have nothing to fear but fear itself," Martha replied, slowly opening the Cupboard Door.

A tiny wizened figure peered out at its adversaries.

"Good morning, Mr President," Martha said, quietly. "Your time is up."

Caller ID, by Janice Siderius

30/10/2020

John is busy in his study when the phone rings. He glances at it and sees that, once again, it is an unknown caller. “I’ll let it go to voicemail,” he thinks. Whoever invented Caller ID should win the Nobel Prize, John muses, preferably the Peace Prize for giving him some peace from robocalls.

The answering machine started recording. “This is a message for John Allen. Please contact us regarding your reservation with Space X.” The caller hangs up.

“WAIT!!!” John yells. He tries to redial the number and a voice informs him that it is temporarily out of service.

Bittersweet Bloom, by Michelle Vongkaysone

30/10/2020

She had blossomed into a woman. Many gazed at her with awe and envy. They longed for her untouchable grace.

However, they ignored the path towards it. Like much a rose bush, she shaped herself to perfection, culling her thorns.

Everything that was ugly about her was diminished. She adhered to a strict routine, made to enhance her natural beauty.

She obeyed it, holding back her discomfort. Roses didn't wilt, even under pressure. Neither could she, humiliating herself.

There she remained, as lovely as a rose. Only she knew her bloom was bittersweet, an illusion shaped by control and shame.

Be Careful What You Wish For, by Al Watt

30/10/2020

It left bloody handprints as it scuttled across the cracked ceiling. Black candles lit up the crude pentagram scrawled on the squat’s dank walls and cast its shadow to dance obscenely over the carnage of bleeding, broken bodies. It looked down in wicked delight at the inverted crucifix and growled in a thousand tongues, ‘I am Legion.’ Its mind was predominated by evil, but deep in the dark recesses an infinitesimally small light flickered, the innate soul barely thirteen years in existence. The last thing she remembered saying was, ‘Oh Satan, Great Lord of Darkness, grant me your awesome power.’

Blue Bass Line, by D B Cox

30/10/2020

Take me to a place where midnight accumulates—don’t want to see the sun anymore. Put me on a train with no windows, where nighttime lasts forever, and a speed-mad engineer with a mechanical heart highballs a coal-black engine through time tunnels like a bullet leaving a gun—where the speed of darkness is faster than the speed of light…

Some soft music behind a tan-skinned lady with a white flower in her hair singing “keeps on raining.”

Just give me things that I can depend on like red wine, old times, and the repetition of a blue bass line.

After The Separation, by Bruce Gunther

30/10/2020

I couldn’t sleep, and anxiety was as heavy as a lead apron. The apartment, which I moved into that day, smelled like disinfectant and past tenants. Following the sound of a cough, I watched a man through a sliver in the blinds smoking a cigarette until he dropped it into a puddle of rainwater.

I could count to 200 or count the vows I’d broken, but nothing would bring on the drowsiness. Throwing the covers off, I walked around in the dark, wary of unfamiliar walls.

The Writer, by Jil Hall

30/10/2020

As he sat down to write, Don thought about the subject matter. Would there be enough to sustain a reader’s interest? The story had to be short, of course, but with enough of a hook to keep them reading. A twist at the end was a bonus, but could not always be sustained and people were, increasingly, getting jaundiced by contrived endings, especially when puns were involved. He felt readers could sense when he was building up inexorably to a punchline. But he had to knuckle down. It was Friday and he had to finish and submit this hundred-word story.

Marathon Man, by Guy Fletcher

30/10/2020

"Keep going, only two miles to go."

Jack couldn't believe it: Emma was by his side although she had passed away last year and he was running for a cancer charity.

"Emma."

"No, it's Julie love."

The face transformed into a kindly young woman. Was it a trick of the mind or really Emma ? It was real for him anyway.

Jack limped over the line after six long gruelling hours, every part of him aching... except for his soul.

Cold and Uncool, by Brian Taylor

30/10/2020

Unbelievable bullshit! I've never been treated like this!

Hell, not too long ago, I was everyone's golden boy. Handsome, great athlete, adored by my folks, loved by coaches and teachers, had the right friends and any girl I wanted...and feared by nerds and ugly people.

But today, those closest to me treated ME like I was an ugly loser...gaped at, screamed at, run away from...

Just because they thought I was dead and I crawled out of that casket... wasn't my fault! I'm not dead! What did they expect?

Well, right now, I'm pissed off and hungry...

Everyone's gonna pay!

Eventide, by Bobby Warner

30/10/2020

The light wanes; I venture outside. At water's edge, I sit on the bench where we sat so often, counting the minutes.

It has been years since we were together, but it will not be long, now. I sent our driver to pick you up, since you would not want me to see you there this way.

Thirty years ago, George found us here and you shot him, at eventide. You paid that debt today in the death chamber; soon you shall be back with me.

The car approaches. I stand beside the bench, waiting for you and another eventide.

Me Too, Jean, by Susan Fairfax Reid

30/10/2020

Jean and Bud sat together on a bench outside of their apartment building like a pair of lovebirds.

Gina smiled as she walked by, thinking her attractive friend had finally found a man who respected her.

"Come here, Gina,” Jean said, in her raspy voice from decades of smoking. "I can't get Bud to take his hand off my leg." Tears filled her eyes behind her glasses.

"Tell him again,” Gina yelled.

"Move your hand,” Jean repeated."

“Don't you like it,” Bud asked?

“No,” she said.

He moved his gnarled hand to his lap.

Jean is 82. Bud is 94.

Workshop, by Swapan K Banerjee

30/10/2020

Skirting the edge of open-air lawn at the summer house appareled in oaks growing at an angle, sat the participants.

Compère’s voice floated in the air: “This afternoon we’ll begin by quoting from memory most memorable lines from Classics. The mike is yours.”

None stirred. He got up—a painfully shy man, who befriended mirror more than mike. He chose excerpts from Vikram Seth’s Golden Gate and Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.

Performance over, a dancer held his hand and said: “You must have suffered a lot in life. The quotes seemed your own, very own. I couldn’t help crying!”

When Something Doesn’t Quite Gel, by Barney MacFarlane

30/10/2020

Gerard was nonplussed. “I’m rather displeased with that shower gel. Did you even notice its colour? Bright orange? Seriously? Not only garish, but quite frightening, actually. If you’re to be allowed to shop here, you may consider the sort of home we live in. Not quite the thing, what?”

Julia was miffed. She should have swopped Gerard for a new model when they moved home. – If I’m ‘ALLOWED to shop’ … Did he really say that?

Gerard was irritated. – Why, if he’d known moving to Glasgow would result in such a drop in standards, they’d never have left Tunbridge Wells.

Too Late, by Sally Arkinstall

30/10/2020

The musty smell of hymn books transported me back to wartime Sundays. A shamed teenage evacuee; I was silent over half a century.

Norah wrote, sent a cutting from the local paper; thought I might be interested in the funeral details. Idle curiosity to her; deep pain to me. She knew nothing of the child his mother took from me.

He returned from war, welcomed by devoted mother and new sister. He never heard the truth. My daughter rose to speak about her brother, a lonely man. He spent his years waiting for his first love. I returned too late.

Never Again, by Mary Wallace

30/10/2020

He tiptoed into the bedroom carrying shoes and guilt. Half past two! Where had the night gone? A few drinks with the boys, a harmless flirtation with the new barmaid and home to Jenny.

Well that had been the plan. Instead he had spent a hours with a young prostitute. Ok to be honest…a very young prostitute.

He had paid her well but still the guilt washed over him. He wouldn't do it again!

No he certainly wouldn't do again. Jenny smiled secretly. Tomorrow there would be photos and proof of age. She too had paid the girl well.

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