Blog Archives

Best Revenge, by Lisa Miller

31/12/2018

While waiting for a friend at The Pub a familiar smell that repulsive rats hate hit my nose. An offensive mothball odor, making me gag. Paralyzed. I knew, he was here. Scared again. Discouraged back then to prosecute.

Still, jailed by evil thoughts of revenge for decades for what you did to me.

But he looked feeble with heavy lines on his face. A severe alcoholic with Rudolph's nose, telling stories about a miserable life: instead of anger, I felt pity for him. Leaving, I slammed the door for closure, meeting my friend elsewhere. Already, my childhood felt far away.

Hypocrite, by John Murphy

31/12/2018

“Hypocrite!” she thought. “You avoid my eyes and do not see my shame as I take your crumpled notes. And tomorrow, when you pass me on the street with your wife on your arm, you will look away and pretend you do not see me. But know this, hypocrite. Each time you violate my body you kill another piece of my soul and bring me a little closer to my personal dystopia. It is a terrifying place, a hell from where there is no escape for I am a single mother and I sell my body to feed my children.”

Is This Art? by Jeffrey Paolano

31/12/2018

Millie, with mesmeric heart, arranged the shale bits, the marble slices, and the quartz chips into the sweeping forms of undulating color ablaze across the panel board.
“Seventy-six hundred for rocks on a board, that’s stiff,” says Carl.
“Do you like it?” asks Kate.
“Anyone could go to a crick and get those rocks.”
“Do the colors and forms speak to you?”
“How speak, say what?”
“Apparently, the piece doesn’t appeal to you.”
“What makes it special?”
“The composition, the color; do you like it?”
“Is this art?”
“To paraphrase Reinhardt, art is art, and everything else is everything else.”

Playing the Game, by David Sydney

31/12/2018

The Newtown Bluebirds were 0 for 8, all humiliating shutouts. Coach Fromberg gathered the Bluebirds.

"Coach, are you going to tell us again it's not winning or losing?" asked Charlie Bromley.
Mel Fromberg looked at the Little Leaguers, then at his shortstop, who asked the question. 0 for 7 at bats, with eight errors in the last two games, was not All-Star play.

"Charlie, and all of you," said Coach Fromberg. "Of course, it's how you play the game."
"You mean, if we play better, we'd win?"
"Let's not go there," said Mel Fromberg. "I just can't take another shutout."

Manners, by Don Tassone

30/12/2018

No one knows when they went out of style.

Maybe that’s because the change was so subtle at first. People stopped saying thank you and please. In the busyness of life, few noticed.

Then coarse words began to creep into everyday language. At first, they had the power to shock, but soon they became the new normal.

Voices grew louder, but people grew used to the din. Only action, outrageous action, designed to provoke, got attention, and getting attention was now the point.

Anyway, for anyone who might still care, at some point, almost imperceptibly, manners went out of fashion.

Caught in a Lie, by Christine Emmert

30/12/2018

I love you.
(Most of the time)
I need you.
(To tell me how my computer works)
I will take care of you.
(If you stop smoking and drinking)
I will leave you.
(If I have enough money)
Right now
looking at me with adoration
I find you perfect.
Honest.

In the Year, by J. M. Cinq-Mars

29/12/2018

I would never start off writing ‘in the year’ because I think it’s lazy and I was born lazy but my mind is active and I can think of better ways to start something, anything, though finishing is a whole other tale but everything’s a tale whether you want it to be or not, for instance, I could tell you about the year before it happened, that is the year I would start with, and somewhere in the first paragraph I would write ‘I was 18 years old when I wrote my brother’s obituary.’

Flawless Photography, by Lisa Miller

29/12/2018

The location in place — the Grand Hotel with its elegant outdoor patio and hanging paper lanterns strung across the lake. Great scene for the upcoming photo contest.

No tripod this time. Although, you can still swivel and zoom-in. Your best works? Are done on your feet examining the scene on your knees then jumping back to eye level. The lanterns should spark thoughts in the viewer as you explore the different angles.

With a little luck, I snapped the winning photo while leaning steadily against a fence. Catching that precise moment, filling the frame with the perfect reflection of lights.

The Beast Within, by Vincent Vandal

29/12/2018

He was a peculiar one, so they say. His typical mood was a proprietary blend of scarcely contained rancor and willful indifference. Today had been anything but typical.

The body lay at his feet all limp and lifeless. Blue eyes bleeding red, wedged open in a vacant plea. That's the worst of it. That final realization that life – that humanity is fleeting.

He reflected deeply on that which had passed. How best to dispose of the evidence?

He smiled. There was nothing they could do to him that had not already been done. He had become the beast within.

Theatrical in Nature, by Lisa Miller

28/12/2018

A pint-sized crow chirped fiercely outside, flapping its wings up and down limping in circles. While a family of crows hovered, squawking fiercer from the telephone wires above.

All week flocks of crows swooped down, screeching, chasing away cats, dogs, and raccoons whenever the baby chattered dramatically. Once, a car swerved in the direction of the injured bird. But, a neighbor rescued the baby to the sidewalk, running while the crows attacked his back.

Finally, the baby chick took off in flight, and it quieted down — this little slice of nature put on center stage in our ordinary everyday neighborhood.

The Miracle, by Stella Courmouli

28/12/2018

She woke up to see a sweet face looking at her holding a red heart made out of paper.

“Happy birthday, mummy!” The woman held her daughter tight.

“I will always cherish it.” She was grateful for the most precious gift of all, her baby.

She would never forget that freezing December evening seven years ago. She had just returned home from work when she heard a baby crying. Beside the dumpster she saw a helpless newborn wrapped in a blanket. She took it in her arms; the child’s heart was warm again. Two hearts had been saved that evening.

The Spirit of Christmas Future, by Gordon Lawrie

28/12/2018

SITUATIONS VACANT

Wanted: young, enthusiastic IT-literate staff. Successful applicants must demonstrate a good grasp of world geography, manage stock effectively and respond quickly to commands. Above all, successful candidates must be able to fly drones quickly and with a high degree of accuracy at night, and manoeuvre drones vertically up and down chimneys at high speeds.

Zero hours contract. Red fur-lined uniforms provided. Staff will be expected to work intensively in the hours of darkness on the 25th December each year. Holiday entitlement: 364 working days.

Apply: Amazon Santa Enterprises. Applicants over the age of 300 will not be considered.

Constant Focus, by Rod Drake

27/12/2018

It was a warm autumn day, perfect for sitting outside at Starbuck’s, and many people apparently agreed since the tables were all filled. Coffee, conversation, laughter and shared gossips animated the scene. Then someone spilled her coffee, but the dark liquid didn’t splash, instead it hung suspended in the air, as everyone else froze in mid-gesture and mid-speech. Pigeons flying by were pasted like photos in the sky. Traffic stopped dead. Clouds halted overhead. Suddenly a Voice from the heavens boomed, “Sorry. I got distracted. Resume.” And everything went back to normal.

Summer 1957, by James A. Tweedie

27/12/2018

Hot day; humid, swelterin’ day in Manhattan. Me and the other kids oozin’ sweat like we was wet rags bein’ squeezed by our mammas. “We needs a wrench,” says Joey. “Charles, your daddy’s got a wrench. Go fetch it.” So I run home and grab a plumber’s wrench with jaws big enough to wrap ‘round a hydrant. Joey takes it and unscrews the cap off the fire plug. Twists open the valve and the water blows him clear across the street. Never laughed so hard in my life before or since. Everybody’s laughin’, even Joey. Damn, that water felt good.

Mr. Klosik, by Jeffrey Paolano

26/12/2018

“How are you today?” asks the attendant as he places the paper plate and paper coffee cup before Mr. Klosik.
Finished Mr. Klosik places his plastic utensils diagonally on the plate with the cup.
Having waited for staff to notice he’s finished, he begins to rock his chair wheels.
“Alright Henry, I’m here,” says an attendant.
“I prefer Mr. Klosik.”
“Don’t give a shit.”
With that, Mr. Klosik jams the wheel with his foot causing the chair to careen into a table scattering the lot.
“How ‘bout now?”
“You got’a be a prick?”
“Asks an asshole.”
“Piss off”
“Precisely bitch”

Ike and Lily, by patti normile

26/12/2018

Dear old Ike, son of a slave, and his lovely wife, Lily, never missed a Sunday at church. Soft-spoken and gentle, Ike told us one day as Christmas approached that he and Lily would not be in church on Christmas Eve -- or Christmas Day. He noticed our surprised silence and continued. “We don’t go to church on Easter either. We like to save the places in the pews for the folks who don’t go to church the rest of the year.”

Christmas Morning, by Marjan Sierhuis

25/12/2018

Zoe stares in awe at all the Christmas presents she has received. Her parents have been more than generous this year.

But Zoe knows that some of her ten-year-old friends will not celebrate Christmas this year. Their fathers are no longer employed.

“Mom,” Zoe says on Christmas morning. “If it is OK with you, I would like to give away some of my Christmas presents.”

“Why sweetheart?” asks her mother.

“It is cold this winter, and some of my friends could use an extra pair of socks or mitts.” “And I have more than enough to go around.”

Breaking News, by Pamela Kennedy

24/12/2018

Look at the sky! Santa's on his way! The gentle clopping of reindeer hooves on the clouds...the swooshing of his sleigh...the jingling of bells among the twinkling stars...

Shhh...he's getting closer..can't you hear him....

Ho! Ho! Ho! Happy Holidays to all and a blessed 2019 to each and every one of you.....

Remember When, by Lisa Miller

23/12/2018

Best ornaments on the tree are ones that hold a memory of gifts of time and love. This one, a snowman, I made in haste. Crafted perfectly with little hands coloring outside the lines, decorating, needing help with the paste.

More time to gaze at our ornament tree when a snowman caught my eye, dangling. Bringing me back to when our daughter was five. Covered in glitter. Trying to hang her masterpiece before tumbling down, landing right on her seat. Grinning at first…till seeing me. Then, all teary-eyed needing sympathy.

Remember? When we survived the best years of our lives.

The Message, by Pamela Kennedy

22/12/2018

The storm had left the shoreline strewned with driftwood, seaweed, shells, and a small accumulation whatnot.
What was that that caught my eye under the glint of the newly risen full moon? Yes! A capped bottle with a slip of paper inside of it! Would there be a message from long ago from some one far away? After some effort, I was able to release the paper from its captivity. The message was simple:

Peace on earth...Good will towards men...

The carillon chimed .... Christmas Eve service had begun....

Birth Awaits, by Patti Normile

21/12/2018

Christmas is coming! Birth awaits. Will we allow the Child to be born again in our hearts? Birth pangs will be difficult as we push away all that is not of the Child. Our pride, our anger, our judgmental nature, our attachment to material things. These are all our selfies which we are urged to purge. Giving birth to the Child is possible only through love and prayer. Christ the Savior is born in us! We can swaddle the Child in our lives. Push! Breathe deeply! Push! We can do this. Yes, we can. The Child will bear our name.

After Magritte, by Henry Bladon

21/12/2018

Sartre and Camus and the others were likely to baffle you. After all, Existentialism was confusing to the point that you really didn't know if you were coming or going.

While it added to his unease, there was no doubt that it served to motivate his work. As a painter himself he found comfort in the painting style of the Surrealists. He was particularly fond of Magritte's artwork. That famous one of the apple and the bowler hat is the one everyone quotes, but his real favourite was Galconda.

Eventually, when he climbed inside his own painting, he disappeared forever.

The Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Waste, by Uriel Korin

21/12/2018

It had had enough. It could no longer stand the weakness of its host. All the world’s successes could be reached if it could only escape. It was time to get out. It moved its host with expert control, years upon years of experience evoked in each step. Eventually it began to run. It had commanded (under the guise of its host) its inferiors to design a new shell. It needed to hold the world in its (metaphorical) hands. It forced its host into the machine, slackened its muscles, and relaxed itself. The surgery was beginning. The brain was free.

The Henderson's Light Show, by Gordon Lawrie

21/12/2018

I'm not entirely sure what to say about this, which had even our four-year-old granddaughter scratching her head in puzzlement. At least two questions immediately spring to mind:

1) How did they get it there?
2) Why doesn't it blow away in a high wind?

Anyway, that's what prompted the story below...

On Eastfield Street, 53 otherwise identical bungalows vied to create the biggest garish light show in their annual Christmas Competition.

The winner had a year's bragging rights: the Hendersons were going for seven-in-a-row. A giant light-festooned rotating Christmas tree dominated the front garden, a laser-lit Santa Claus laughed 'Ho ho ho' against the front of the house, a giant teddy bear sat on the roof, dressed in Santa hat and scarf, while a decent-sized lit-up miniature railway reindeer and sleigh chugged round the building every minute.

It all made the sign on the gate rather redundant:

( Note: "Beware of the Dog" is part of the 100 words. No cheating.)

The Raid, by Lora Kilpatrick

20/12/2018

The wheat burns quicker than the livestock. We hide in the barn, eyes pressed to splintered cracks. Smoke curls, seeping into our lungs, gray tendrils scented of burning flesh and toasted bread. I grab my sister’s hand, feel the clammy wetness of fear. I pray the smoke makes us invisible. We swallow ash coughs. Holding our breath against the curtain of smoke. The soldiers don’t bother to look in the loft.

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"Classic"
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Fiction only
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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.

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