Blog Archives

The Love Spell, by David Croll

20/12/2018

“Please help me. I love a girl who doesn’t even know I exist. I need a love spell,” pleaded the scrawny teenager to the decrepit old man rumored to have magical powers.

“You can’t make someone fall in love with you,” said the old man. “But you can make others stay away. Recite this chant tonight, and tragedy will befall anyone near her.”

One by one the boys near her suffered freakish injuries. Soon nobody wanted to sit with her, so she sat next to the scrawny teenager who was excited to be with her.

Then he remembered the spell.

Doggone, by Mark Towers

19/12/2018

It moved. I swear it moved.

I stared at it, watching it, willing it. At the same time, I hoped it was dead.

A pile of fur and bones against the kerb. Asphalt absorbed blood.

Minutes passed. Definitely dead.

‘Bloody hell,’ I muttered, stooped down and scooped it up. Blood stains suede.

I didn’t hit it hard. You can’t kill a dog with a push-bike, can you? Rhetorical, I know.

I laid the lifeless body on the doorstep, cleared my throat and rang the bell. My legs started running. How could I tell my neighbour I had killed his dog?

First Disco, by Kim Hare

19/12/2018

A haunting flute sound begins. A troop of older teenagers flood the dance floor as the song explodes into The Isley Brothers’ ‘Painted Smile’. Serious-faced bodies step forward, side-ways, back, repeat in perfect time.

My friends melt away. I stay, transfixed as dancers flow round me like a river. I’m stranded in a Motown ballet. ‘Ghost in My House’ starts up and I find I’m joining in.

When ‘Ready Now’ plays, I lift my head and flush to discover I’m dancing with an older boy. He throws me a smile of recognition, together we give ourselves up to the music.

Christmas Competition 2018

19/12/2018

ENTRIES FOR THE 2018 CHRISTMAS COMPETITION ARE NOW OFFICIALLY CLOSED.

Thank you for all that you've submitted, both those who were successful in being selected for publication and those who weren't. We appreciate all of your efforts.
No further entries can be accepted, although we hope you'll continue to submit stuff anyway.

The next stage will see the judges select a short list, and then the Friday Flash Fiction community will get to choose the winner.

What're You Selling? by Susan Carpenter

18/12/2018

Britta trudges up the walkway, shoulders slumped against the bullying wind. Doesn’t make eye contact with the yard, in case the walking-ribcage-Shepherd wheeze-barks at her again.

Ice-clogged steps up onto the uneven porch and finger ringing the cracked doorbell. She’s seen this movie, where the cartoon house comes alive and swallows children.

Door opens and the dog leans against the old man’s ripped pant leg that exposes shiny cyborg-metal from the knee down. Her brother would know what to say to the Terminator.

“What’re you selling?’

“I could shovel?”

“Ralph can’t. Could use a walk though.”

Britta nods. “Twenty?”

“Deal.”

Mistletoe and Memories, by Justin Wall

18/12/2018

My husband used to adore the festive season. From novelty knitwear, to cacophonous karaoke - he embraced it all.

Earlier on this year, he lost a battle with dementia. I never fully realised what joy this man brought us all. I would happily endure a rambunctious rendition of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’, if it meant hearing his voice once more.

I wanted to be alone today, however my son had other plans. I must confess to having a wonderful time, however my heart yearned for mistletoe and memories.

Tonight, I will raise a glass to the stars.

Merry Christmas, my love.

Hope, by Laura Kuhlmann

18/12/2018

“You start tomorrow, 8:30 AM!”

I check my watch while waiting for the subway, fearful I may be running late. It wasn’t the job I wanted, but there’d be room to grow. They assured me.

The train rushes furiously out of the tunnel, like a monster freed from its den. I catch my reflection in the windows. My scarf writhes desperately around me, like the arms of a drowning person. The metallic centipede stops and its doors open – insatiable mouths waiting to be fed. I willingly pass inside the metallic gullet and let the sliding jaws snap shut behind me.

The Ride, by Preeti Singh

18/12/2018

A breezy night, owls hooting and raindrops falling time to time. A drunk young chap was returning home from Halloween party. A mysterious girl in black dress asked for a ride. The lady looked creepy but John, the young boy thought her to be a halloween maniac.

Without uttering a word she got into the cab. John was adjusting his rear view mirror to get a glimpse of her face. "Want to see me? " she said and from the backseat she came flying to the front glass. Traumatized John smashed the car. Smilingly the witch said 'what a ride.'

Snowman, by Mileva Anastasiadou

18/12/2018

At first, I didn’t notice: a silent wish for change, a slight drop in temperature inside, that only my heart could detect, my face pale as in iron deficiency.

Then my hands turned white. I put on gloves to hide them and went on.

Only when my feet froze did I realize what was going on. Not only they turned white, but also inflexible. My nose turned into a carrot. My eyes into olives.
I started melting at the slightest warm touch.

Only my scarf remained the same. The remnant of a beating heart that froze away.

Love Like Winter, by Mileva Anastasiadou

18/12/2018

She sparkled like a light left on, in a deserted house.
Like a candle, in a dark room.
Like the spark of a match, about to light a cigarette.

Our downward spiral had started long ago, yet as long as we flew together, life felt like a walk in the clouds.

I’m but a regular snowflake, she said. For she was modest. Truth be told, she was like no other.

Thank you for the ride, I told her, before we dissolved into white oblivion.

Death is not black. It can also be white.
For snow is but dead snowflakes.

A Zebra Has Eaten My Baby, by Nicole J. Simms

18/12/2018

‘Oh no, a zebra has eaten my baby.’ I picked up my little boy, Sebastian, and pushed back his zebra costume hood, revealing his grinning, plump face.

Sebastian giggled and gurgled, oblivious to his mom’s obsession with dressing him up. ‘Oh, but he looks so adorable,’ my wife, Maria, always says whenever I questioned her motives for dressing our son up.

‘Okay, your mom’s right. You do look adorable.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ said a voice. I turned and spotted Maria standing by the door, holding two adult-sized zebra costumes. ‘I thought we could do a family photo.’

How it Used to be Done, by Thomas Genevieve

18/12/2018

She used one hand to drag the box of ornaments across the cold, hard ground. With the other, she held her little brother by his mitted-hand.

She remembered how it used to be done. She hung a shiny red ball and then helped her brother do the same. Under thick, grey clouds, which yielded neither sun or snow, she and her brother took turns placing the ornaments on the tree until the box was empty.

She took a few steps back and assessed their job. Her brother’s sniffles and shivers reminded her it was time to go.

Christmas Dinner, by Thomas Genevieve

18/12/2018

John’s wife had passed away a few years back. Mary’s kids didn’t have time to make the trip out to visit her this year. Bill couldn’t afford the ticket back to see his family. Sue had no one who had passed, no one to take a trip to see, nor someone who could travel to see her.

John poured the wine and Mary set the table and Bill served the salad. Sue took the casserole dish out of the oven and placed it in the middle of the table. The four raised their glasses. An unspoken toast was made.

Bomb Away! by Richard Comerford

18/12/2018

A clear and sunny August morning. The T shaped bridge, the aiming point, was in plain sight, even from 31,000 feet..
Just after 8.12 local time the bomb run began. The crew, on command, put on dark glasses. They now knew their awful cargo.
The sound of the doors opening was very loud over the engine drone.
“Bomb away!”
“God help us!” someone muttered.
The plane’s nose reared up at the sudden loss of weight.
The plane turned right and made eleven and a half miles before the fireball engulfed Hiroshima and the first shockwave hit Enola Gay.

Christmas in Chains, by Simon Harris

18/12/2018

Nativity captivity, nativity captivity, nativity captivity.

Sometimes a couple of words get stuck in my head and I end up saying them over and over again for hours and hours on end.

I think it’s Christmas today. But maybe it was yesterday. Or tomorrow. I’ll try to celebrate all three.

Nativity captivity.

Yesterday, instead of a placing a simple mark on the wall I scratched a snowman. Today a star. Tomorrow, if I still have my head, a Christmas tree.

I can hear my jailers coming. I doubt they’re bringing mince pies.

Nativity captivity, nativity captivity, nativity captivity.

Christmas Time in the City, by Simon Harris

18/12/2018

It’s the festive season again so we’ve put up angels and reindeers and sandbags. Rumours have been circulating for days of another attack planned against a church. With so many different places of worship though it’s impossible for the police to guard them all, even if you bribe them to help. Instead, members of the congregation generally volunteer to keep watch, especially during services. I was on duty for the 6am mass when I heard the explosion and shots being fired. Screams followed. I shouted for the others to help, grabbed my first aid kit and ran towards the mosque.

The Snow Scene, by Monique Cummings

18/12/2018

The pas de deux was coming to an end. The music swelled as Clara arced through the air. My stomach twisted in anticipation. I glanced to the right; a piece of delicate white tulle drifted to the floor. I whisked it out of sight so Tiana wouldn’t get into trouble. The soft notes opening the snow scene sounded and I settled into position, ready to leap from the wings.

It was like a dream. The paper snow fell against my arms, the familiar scent of the stage mixed with pine filled my nose. Nutcracker was here. Christmas was here.

Monique Cummings is currently our Featured Author.

The Day I Decided to Wear Jewelry, by Delvon Mattingly

18/12/2018

When I was seven, I wrote a letter to Santa asking for my mother back. Instead, I got a bike.

Since then, my father and I never spoke much about Christmas. I disregard his awful, effortless presents. He was so busy with work; we never understood each other.

Years later, I spied on him placing gifts under the tree as he muttered to an oblong object propped up aside him. It was a picture of mother, and he asked her if I’d like a pair of diamond earrings he picked out.

I didn’t, but I’ve worn them ever since.

Winter Perspective, by Russell Conover

18/12/2018

Amy shivered in the cold, sitting on a park bench. She couldn’t wait for the warmth to return, and to shed her heavy jacket and gloves. This weather was miserable.

Then she noticed a boy playing with his dog. The two were having a great time, despite the frigid air. (Young) man and best friend were gleeful, while she felt terrible due to the cold.

“This is no way to live,” Amy thought. Standing, she approached the boy and his pet. “I love dogs. Mind if I join you?” Hilarity ensued, with playing fetch and chortling.

Life is short. Enjoy.

Christmas Miracle, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

18/12/2018

“Let’s eat healthier this Christmas,” mother suggested.

I stopped colouring the candy cane I drew and looked at her.

“Does that mean more Brouches schproats?” I asked.

“Why not? Better than loading up on sweets. They’re at a great price for the holidays.”

“Christmas is a special time,” father insisted. “We need to have some treats,”

No one said anything for a good while.

Then, a miracle happened.

My grandmother walked in carrying a box of candy canes and a bag of foil-wrapped chocolate Santas.

“For all of you,” she announced. “Merry Christmas!”

I gave her a big hug.

The Fullness Of Time, by Stella Courmouli

18/12/2018

In the small village, the streets were empty. It had been raining nonstop for twenty days. The baffled villagers were watching the red raindrops through their windows. John knew that doomsday was close. The dry white lilies stood out in his garden.

On the twenty-first day, the rain ceased. A dull sound woke the people up. The walls cracked; a stench was coming from the earth.

“The foul odour of Hell will swallow you up,” John shouted.

“Your arrogance blinded you! God is destroying the world!”

There was an eerie glow. Everything vanished. The scent of lilies filled the universe.

Permanent Residents, by Stella Courmouli

17/12/2018

The little girl loved her new white dress. Proud of her shiny red shoes and her red hairband, she ran to the door. But it was locked. “Mummy!” she cried. She approached the window. Her mum was hanged from a rope on the tree. She felt the stab wound in her chest. Her dress was full of blood. She was panting.

The strange boy got into the car looking at the blurred window in the attic. His mother started the car. The real-estate agent hammered the ‘For Sale’ sign down to the ground. “Damn... Here we go again,” he mumbled.

Breakup, 1992, by Iris Schwartz

17/12/2018

At a busted-window phone booth consecrated with locksmith business cards, I deposit five nickels. My coins gush onto cracked concrete. I hadn’t punched in numbers — or paid — but hear my ex-husband. “Don’tcha wanna meet up?” I hate him; I hate a bedroom minus sex. I hang up. Miracle: I can’t recall his phone number — or last name. He’s not in my address book. My nickels are rolling on their sides away from me. My purse holds no more change. I touch the payphone. A woman’s voice chirps: “Twenty-five cents, please. This phone is out of order. Please deposit twenty-five cents.”

Future Behaviour, by Pamela Kennedy

17/12/2018

I am frightened by the reality of daily interaction with robots. Will they be programmed to kind, gentle, mannerly, and honest?

What if they are programmed to be letchers or femme fatales?
Will they understand that "no" means "no"?

Ah! Why am I worried? Somebody will come up with a politically correct behaviour handbook. But will it be for them or for us?

About George, by Eric Smith

17/12/2018

George’s disappearance failed the smell test.

Mom told the deputies George wasn’t a runaway kid—he got good grades and did his chores.

“All mothers say that about missing kids.”

During a three-hour interview the deputies insinuated Mom had driven George away. They threatened her with a visit from Child Protective Services.

“Maybe you’re not the sort of mother who should raise two even younger kids.”

After pestering the Sheriff’s office daily, Mom tired of hearing the irritation in their voices. She visited George’s friends to determine who’d seen him last—no luck. George’s presents sat under the tree. Waiting.

<<Previous

Forward>>

"Classic"
100-Word
Stories

Friday Flash Fiction
Rules

Kinda obvious, really...

Fiction only
Stories of 90-100 words only
Don't be nasty or cheat
Include your name and a story title

EDITOR'S CHOICE
Each week, our editor selects a story or (occasionally) a poem as 'Editor's Choice'.

It's a personal favourite, no more. Do you agree?

Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any stories – writers appreciate it.
Naturally, we reserve the reserve the right to remove comments we feel are inappropriate, or where there's a possibility they may come from a source associated with online spam or abuse. If you have one, please switch off your VPN and don't post from a public server.

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 larger number of stories (more than 25) are due to be published on the same day, we publish the later ones EARLIER around 4.00 am. On the rare occasions where there are more than 50 stories, we'll post an even earlier set, probably around 2.00 am UK time.

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