“So, we have to travel through time to obtain the magic walnut?” Bob asked. Sue nodded. “Assuming the time machine works. Here we go!” She flipped a switch and the machine whirred. The two saw flashing lights as they zoomed off, only to see dinosaurs. “Whoops--too far!” Sue pushed some buttons, and the flashing lights returned as they saw everyone living in space. “All this for a freakin’ walnut?” Bob muttered. “Never again.”

0400 hours. Finally, the culmination of months of planning.

With one last hammer blow from Jake, the wall gave way and the Cut-Throat Gang found themselves on the ground floor of Pyramid, the high-end jewellers in Edinburgh’s West End. In front of them sat the diamond ring mounted in platinum, worth countless thousands, that they had all set their heart on.

Jake stepped forward to look closer; the price-tag said “Special Price Today - £1.00 only.” He smiled.

A voice spoke behind him. “Jake, isn’t this taking it a bit far to be first in the queue for Black Friday?”

This is a condensed version of one of the many anecdotes my granddad told of his youth. I found it hard to believe - his love of ice-cream was legendary! - but he swore it was true, and happened when he was in his early twenties.

His first bank account finally opened, Glen stepped into the street, his new cheque-book prominent in his pocket. The ruse worked: he was soon beset by young ladies admiring his hat, or asking the time. When he invited a particularly appealing lass for tea, she suggested a nearby ice-cream parlour. To hide his complete ignorance of matters ice-cream, he ordered “the same as the lady”.
From his first trepidous spoonful , he was irrevocably smitten. To the day he died, he could remember nothing of the girl, but his eyes would glaze rapturously at the memory of his first ice-cream.

“Flash Fiction Friday!” she exulted. “One story, coming right up!”
“Mom! We’re late for school!”
...-... Finally home; rainy-day traffic sucks! Start>MSWord...
“There’s no milk!”
...-... Emergency trumps fiction.
“Cheryl’s sick. You’ll have to do lift-club.”
...-... I just got home! And Jenna has tennis – that’s two trips! What about my story?
“Remember Desmond’s coming for supper. Didn’t I tell you?”
...-... No!! And vegans don’t eat meatloaf! I hope he likes cornflakes….
“Meowr? MEOWR!!”
...-... Oi! Who finished the catfood? Luckily, 7-11’s still open.
“Mom, my uniform’s torn and there’s inspection tomorrow. Please fix it.”
...-... Now? It’s midnight!

...-... PLEASE…JUST…TEN...MINUTES.… ONLY… 100…WORDS….
...-... It can’t be Wednesday already!

When Death came, she said, "What took you so long?"
Death replied, "Sorry, busy day at the office."
"I've been lying here in agony waiting. Get on with it."
Death looked at her tenderly. "It's like that, is it?" Death closed her tear-filled eyes, then walked away, pensive as always.
Behind him, a plaintive plea: "Are we there, yet?"

The return of some old friends, to mark the start of the festive season.


Alice looked across at Danny despairingly as she wrote her seven hundredth Christmas card.

“Do we HAVE to send one to the Laidlaws?” she asked, pleadingly.

“They sent us one last year,” he replied. Dutifully, she signed the card, sealed and addressed the envelope.

Turning to the seven hundred and first card, she said. “What about the Blacks – THEY didn’t send us one last year.”

Danny looked up. “Suppose they send us one this year, where will be then?”

“Well, at least I can reduce the amount I’ve to write each time,” Alice said, drawing her trusty old Italian Beretta...

Gregor woke from troubled dreams to discover that he was eight months pregnant. Transformed in his bed, he lay on his back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his large belly, slightly domed. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. He had developed breasts, and such was his size that he could barely move.

"What's happened to me? It must be a dream,” he thought, and tried to turn over and sleep. But it wasn't a dream.

He shook his head. “I must stop eating kebabs.”

I’m a street cat.
I may a gotten fat
But I still got my claws.
So when this do-gooder bitch tried to pick me up
I made chop meat a her.
Now they’re lookin’ for me.

“Did you use canned pumpkin in this pie honey?”

Liza, in the midst of cutting her mother-in-law a slice, grimaced to herself.

“Yeah, I did.” It had saved her time whilst preparing the Thanksgiving feast.

“Ah, I thought so. I always think it tastes kinda artificial. I better not have any more in case I react to it.”

In the 15 years Liza and Marvin had been married, her mother-in-law had claimed “reactions” for most dishes Liza cooked. Like today, the reactions, Liza reflected, tended to happen after her third helping of the said dish.

Actually, I've got you one that's 30 years younger. It belonged to a supermodel, y'know the one. She had that Lanconn contract from the age of 14. I think she was the face of their anti-ageing cream.

Oh brill. That's MUCH better. I like.

Happy to help. But you'll need to watch out for...

OMG! My thighs. They're so fat. And what am I gonna do with these b**bs? Why is everyone staring at me? Have I got a zit?

Er, yes. That's what I was going to warn you about. Youth? Wasted on the young.

I got it, I got it!
I got the whole thing in my movie camera. It’s all in there.
I was watching the President, the shots came from behind my back.
I’m gonna be rich, I’m gonna be famous.
Everyone will want a piece of me.
What’s gonna happen?
The police will want to speak to me. The papers, the TV. Everyone. I’ll get no peace.
Maybe I don’t wanna be rich and famous.
They say the camera never lies. I wish it did this time.
I think I’ll give all my cameras away.
I don’t like cameras any more.

(A 48 Word Story)

Condor Hepplewhite, in his retirement years, published a narrative in which Benghazi was shown to be a tit for tat exchange for Osama bin Laden:

—Sparsely defended compounds, both.
—No military response forthcoming, both.
—The coincidence of Benghazi on 9/11.

And strngely enough, nothing ever happened to him.

The community drunk ‘died’ on a cold morning; a crowd stared at him where he lay.
We only knew him as Kogi, the alcoholic and drug addict. His eyes were always red; his body thin and often dirty. Under the influence of drugs, he did horrendous things, like wallowing in his own filth, or swearing at passersby.
When he was sober, he begged for alms; voted, shopped – everything others did.
The local council sent a truck to cart away his body. Suddenly, a woman came into view, weeping loudly. “Who is she?” the crowds asked
Kogi opened his glassy eyes.

This hair is sticking out all over! It looks like I stuck my finger into a wall plug!

If you just give it a good brushing, it will lay down.

And the bloodshot eyes? What do I do about them?

A good night's sleep will take care of that.

How about the blotchy complexion?

It's not blotchy. It's just a little uneven in places. You can hardly tell. Besides, any good make-up will even out the skin tones.

No, it won't! I just hate this look! It makes me look 50 years old!

You're so hard to please. Here, try this other head; it belonged to someone ten years younger. Perhaps it will suit you better.

She had to smash the mirror. How else could she get rid of those wrinkles?

Her rendezvous with Jack was now in its second hour, pour after pour designed to make her feel better about aging, when in reality, aging pretty much sucks. Crestor, lipitor, neck exercises for arthritis, blood pressure medications, watch what you eat, be careful of this, be careful of that...

Another drink, another sigh. And tomorrow another day older.

Julia stared at the attic discovery: a portrait that reminded her of herself, but...

“OMG,” she yelled. “It’s the real me! I sag, I’ve got enormous thighs, and the painting clearly shows my enormous rear. I look about eighty!”

Hearing Julia wailing in the loft, her sister climbed the ladder to see what the fuss was about. “I’m such a dreadfully vain, self-deceitful cow,” Julia whimpered. "I spend all that money on cosmetics but the real me is here for all to see. I’m like Dorian Gray.”

“Don’t be silly, Julia,” her sister said. “That’s a picture of our grandma.”

We hid in the shed on the back of the property for three days. The children were remarkable – not a tear.

When the White Army came, we saw them through the slats. Bizarrely, mother worried the soldiers would loot our already desecrated home. We heard voices - not Russian but Czech or some Polish dialect.

I tried to cry out, to tell them we were loyal to the Tsar, but the dozen rifles pointed at us stole my voice.

My breath smoked in the moonlight that pierced the darkness of the shed. Even then, the children didn't utter a sound.

Joe sauntered up and nodded at the receptionist, a perfunctory greeting.

“How’s it going?”

“Really bad,” she said. “The worst ever”

“What’s the matter?” He was starting to worry he might hear more than he wanted.

“All the way to work this morning I kept wanting to drive off the road into a tree. I can’t take it anymore.”

Hmm, too much information, he thought, but what should he do now?

“I thought you’d put the divorce behind you,” he said.

“It’s age. I look in the mirror every morning and realize I’ll never see sixty again.”

I was with my boyfriend and his mother buying rice at the market – I had met her just moments before and instantly took a liking to her. She was fat and friendly and nothing like Navan had described her.

Suddenly, she raised her droopy sarri slightly and produced the most thunderous wind I have ever heard. The crowd seemed to pause, as if slowed by the noise that became a stench before the breeze erased the moment.

She looked at Navan, his head bowed in mortification.

''What?'' she said. ''I don't know these people. I'll never see them again.''

When I was a boy, I saw the servant girl pleasing herself in the laundry.

I don't believe the stories others tell, as if they didn't know what was happening. Even as a school boy, I knew exactly what she was doing. I have never felt shame for my inadvertent voyeurism – we were not a religious family. I knew intuitively, however, I had witnessed a highly personal and innately human moment. She didn't see me.

My own tastes and proclivities were influenced markedly. The mere sight of a fully clothed woman with a pained expression can inspire elaborate, distracting dreams.

This is a series of stories which a couple contributors knocked backwards and forwards at each other for a short while. They've been collated to make reading them a little easier – the date of the post is simply of the most recent entry.

PART ONE

From the cover of the buildings opposite, Danny could just see the car, a small red Ford parked across the road. The street was empty. It should be safe enough now.

He checked his watch: one minute. He could feel the sweat start to trickle down his back, in his palms, even on the soles of his feet. At moments like these he lived on the very edge.

Just seconds to go – Danny could feel his heart pounding. Then: three, two, one... nothing.

He breathed a sigh of relief, crossed the road and started to make out another parking ticket.

by Gordon Lawrie

PART TWO

From the cover of the buildings opposite, Danny could just see the car, a small red Ford parked across the road. The street was empty. It should be safe enough now. He breathed a sigh of relief, crossed the road and started to make out another parking ticket when he noticed a cat in the car.
Could it be??? Yes! It was! It was his girlfriend Alice's cat! Alice loved her cat, and she had been pacing the streets seeking him out and sticking posters on lamp-posts, all to no avail.
Danny opened the unlocked car door, picked up the cat and immediately drove the found feline to Alice's house.
Danny rang the bell. When Alice answered, Danny handed her the cat, got down on one knee and said, "Will you marry me?"
How could she refuse?!

by Ann-Louise Truschel


PART THREE

Danny rang the bell. When Alice answered, Danny handed her the cat, got down on one knee and said, "Will you marry me?" How could she refuse?

“I was watching you from the window and I’m grateful you found my cat,” she said, taking it from him. “But you’re giving me a parking ticket ?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Danny, “It’s my duty.”

Alice also knew her duty. Travelling recently on an Italian train – and just lying on the floor – she’d found something that would solve all her problems.

She took the gun from her pocket and shot Danny dead.

by Gordon Lawrie

PART FOUR

Alice looked at her hand.
Oh no.
Sure I was pissed, but did I really fire my Italian revolver?
Why was it laying there in plain view?
Didn't I remove the bullets for transport through customs?
She hadn't realized that she had been speaking out loud until Danny spoke.
“Inquiring minds want to know – did you really mean to kill me?”
Alice looked at him.
“I hate parking tickets. I lost my head.”
“Ah, I lost my love, but not my life. Goodbye, Alice,” Danny said sadly,
“Maybe you should ditch the gun.”

by Janette Jorgensen


PART FIVE

Alice was closing the door when she heard a voice gasping on the doorstep.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Danny groaned. “I’m still alive - all parking attendants are issued with Keflar vests. We get shot at all the time in this job. So – will you marry me?”
“But you said you’d lost your love,” Alice said. “How can we marry without love?”
“I meant I’d fallen in love with your cat, but now he’s yours again.”
“Will you cancel the parking ticket?”
“I can’t, don’t you see.”
Alice lifted the gun and took aim again, this time at Danny’s head...

by Gordon Lawrie

PART SIX

Suddenly she was aware of the weight of the gun. She shook herself slightly. Raging hormones, she thought, this time remembering the consequences of such action.
She lowered the gun.
Narrowing her eyes, she asked him, “Do you love the cat more than you love me?”
He pretended to deliberate. “Hmm, good question.”
She started to raise her arm again.
Danny twisted the gun away from her.
“But f you die, I could have the cat.”
He laughed maniacally as he felt the heft of the gun.
Click. Click.
Damn. No more bullets.

by Janette Jorgensen

PART SEVEN

Damn. No more bullets, Danny realised. Undeterred, he reached into his jacket where he kept a selection of spare bullets for just such an eventuality. As Alice watched in horror, he rapidly reloaded.

Danny was about to fire again when Alice’s cat suddenly jumped into her lap to act as a feline shield. “You’ll have to shoot me first!” the cat yelled, breaking years of silence. “And you’ve only got six bullets there – I’ll still have three lives left!”

As Alice and Danny stood stunned, the cat added, “For heaven’s sake, why not just marry and give me some peace?

by Gordon Lawrie

PART EIGHT

Danny stared at the cat with whom he felt a mysterious kinship – this cat who'd offered itself to protect its human.
Had the cat really spoken?

“Alice, I get that you don't want to marry me. I know you don't love me, but could we work out something? Play Scrabble on Tuesday nights for instance, Canasta on Fridays? And when you travel I'll be around to keep our beloved cat company.”

Alice was weeping silently. Damn hormones. She hated displays of emotion – but her cat, her wonderful miraculous cat! It was completely overwhelming.

by Janette Jorgensen

PART NINE

"I could manage Scrabble on Tuesdays," Alice bubbled, “but I go weak at the thought of Canasta. And he’s not ‘our’ cat, he’s mine,” she bristled.
“Hang on,” said Danny. “Now the cat can speak, why don’t we ask him?”
Alice’s cat scratched its head. “I could tell you, but I’m not allowed to.”
“Eh?”
“I’ll explain,” the cat said. “All cats belong to Trappist orders, and we can only speak in emergencies. I could conduct your marriage, though. In fact, I’d be honoured.”
“Sounds great,” Danny said. “So, Alice, will you marry me?”
Alice surrendered. “Acaba, acaba!” she cried.

by Gordon Lawrie

PART TEN

Puzzled, and incapable of letting another have the final word, Danny asked,
“If Canasta doesn't suit, we could play Twister instead.”
“Twister?!” Alice shrieked, “I'm not sure I can balance the way I used to.”
She leaned over again to scratch the ears of her devout cat, her left leg stretched out behind her.
“Your balance looks perfect, darling.”
“I guess that's the affect MY cat has on me,” she replied, harbouring a warm glow because he'd said “darling.”
The cat looked smug, but it was an illusion. Trappists know the dangers of pride.

by Janette Jorgensen

This hair is sticking out all over! It looks like I stuck my finger into a wall plug!

If you just give it a good brushing, it will lay down.

And the bloodshot eyes? What do I do about them?

A good night's sleep will take care of that.

How about the blotchy complexion?

It's not blotchy. It's just a little uneven in places. You can hardly tell. Besides, any good make-up will even out the skin tones.

No, it won't! I just hate this look! It makes me look 50 years old!

You're so hard to please. Here, try this other head; it belonged to someone ten years younger. Perhaps it will suit you better.

While Em made coffee for their shivering unexpected guests, Jane returned to trying to thread a bobbin. It was a picky, frustrating task. Just as a thread slipped out of a hole for the third time, noises broke out down the block – doors slamming, loud voices, gunshots, a cat yowling. What was going on?

Gordon dashed out. “I hope he stays, safe,” wailed Janette.

“So, Gordon, we meet,” said the cat, dragging half a mouse. “I’m only trying to mete out justice here. It is meet that these two get together and let me get back to my meat.”

A.D. 1582: Pope Gregory put down his quill. At last, after years of trying, he had produced his first ever flash fiction story – and finished it on a Friday, as well. It was a story about his favourite subject: time.

Logging into LinkedIn, he copied and pasted his contribution into Emma’s Friday Flash Fiction discussion, only to be greeted with howls of complaint from others that he’d got the day wrong. It wasn’t Friday, but actually Monday. Not according to the chart on HIS wall, though.

“Ah,” he said to himself. “Looks like I need to change the calendar, then.”

A Play In 57 Words

—You want me?

—You have a problem in your Windows, sir.

—What?

—We need you to respond to the infection. We’re trying to restrain it, sir, and to rid our customers who have it, of it.

—Where are you calling from?

—I am calling from India.

—What’s your company? Who do you work for?

—I work for Windows, sir.