Longer Stories

Almost a Hoarder, by Alyce Clark

21/1/2022

An old, no longer properly working blood pressure monitor- the source of all my drama.

My grandmother (whom I lost last year), gave it to me.

“Are all non-working items junk?” I ask myself, reasoning, when the unexpected word “hoarder” pops into my mind.

A little clutter here and there is normal- until it’s not. I notice a burgeoning stack of items (memories attached to each one), building up by the window. “I’d better stop this,” I tell myself, irrationally fighting back tears.

“You’ve already bought a new one,” I remind myself. She wouldn’t mind. “But,” I hear my subconscious saying, “Dad.”

When he became ill, I checked his blood pressure daily. And once God called him home, I continued to use it on myself. This is one of the last things I own that touched him.

Silly, I know, but somehow when I took my own blood pressure readings… My arm- wrapped in the fabric that surrounded his, growing tighter as the monitor did its thing- it felt like a hug from Dad.

Deep down, I suppose that’s the issue- the reason it’s still here. Memories in the form of clutter. “No,” I tell myself, “I felt him here with me every time I took my readings.”

Almost as if on cue, I feel his presence and laugh slightly as my eyes wander about the room. My father liked things neat and tidy (words that if I’m honest, don’t currently describe the state of my bedroom.)

He’d remind me that he’s always here in my mind, my heart, my memories. Like every good father, he’d never leave. He’s here with me- even without the monitor. Love like ours isn’t confined to one thing, place, moment or event. It’s eternal.

“I love you,” I hear him say, pausing in that way of his that I miss so much, before the next sentence full of wit would drop, “now clean your room.”

A smile emerges, as I imagine him smiling back at me, Grandma nodding her head in agreement. I pick up the monitor tenderly and head for the trash. I’ve got cleaning to do.

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The Shed, by Michael Roberts

21/1/2022

7 Comments

Dan nudges me, then motions with his head towards the dais.
“I knew they’d use that one,” he says.
Next to the urn, there’s the picture of my mother.
The Picture.
The one that was on the dust sleeves of her books, all one hundred million copies of them.

I’ve seen seen the photo dozens of times, obviously, but for some reason today it seems fresh again.
My dad took it the summer before she published her first book.
Nineteen seventy two.
In it, her hippie vibe has started to wane and she’s looking more like Hip Suburban Mom than Flower Child, her twenties fading into her thirties.but that’s the Mother I remember as a kid.
This is the Mother I remember loving.
This is the Mother who kissed us both on the head in the schoolyard as the bell rang, shooed us off to class, then walked back across the playing fields, through the thin line of trees marking the boundary of our backyard facing the mountains and went inside her cedar shed which my dad built for her as a wedding gift, ostensibly to garden out of.
According to her memoir, she’d write for an hour or so, then go back and do housework.
She referred to cleaning the house daily as her ‘two hours of Victorian servitude,’ a phrase that had apparently resonated with a lot of disgruntled housewives in the Seventies.
She’d finish up her ‘servitude’, have lunch, then come back and write until it was time to pick us up from school.
Like most things that end badly, it started innocently enough.
The year before, my father had seen the ad for the writing class tacked up at the community pool.
She went and everything thing changed.
A couple years before he died, he and I were out somewhere having drinks and he brought that ad up.
“If I’d known,” he’d said, “I’ve have walked right by.”
After that, I’d wonder what we would have all been like if he had.
What it would have been like to have a regular mother.
The thing was, after all this time and all this acclaim of hers, I struggle to remember her being anything other than a writer.
It just grew into this thing that eclipsed everything else before it.
Eclipsed everyone, including my father, who left and eventually found a new life and a new wife back east.
Everyone had assumed she had gotten the house when they split up, until she set the record straight in her book and said that she had bought the house outright from him with the advance from her third book.
She even hired a housekeeper so she could write full-time.
None of this endeared us to our neighbours, who were mostly either housewives themselves or employees of the local logging company who resented the way they were portrayed, albeit fictionally, in my mother’s fourth books, a sort of “Peyton Place” set in the sleepy Pacific Northwest.

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Shaking the Sky, by Angela Carlton

21/1/2022

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We used to kiss the sunroof when we sailed through a red light as if God could save us. We shut off our headlights when we were speeding in the dark and passed a cop, disappearing deep into the night like warriors. We were young, confused, on the edge of something. Your eyes were as blue as the swirl on a peacock’s feather and that laughter, it was fresh like spring rain hitting my tongue.

You wrote me 87 love letters, the ones I stuffed in a lockbox for safekeeping. Still, I forgot the combination so I turned the radio up louder, tried to recall your words, that feeling inside until I slipped away, moved, and left it all behind.
Or, I thought I did.

Later, I discovered your number was unlisted. There’s no trace of you anywhere.

Sometimes, when the rain comes, I can hear you laughing. I hear that song, how doves cry, and time seems to stop, somehow.

I think I can see you under the streetlight or inside a trendy bar. I think I feel you near me, like a soft whisper on the back of my neck, as the music throbs, shakes-shakes, it seems to shake the the entire sky.

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Don't Miss It! by Doug Bartlett

21/1/2022

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John was sitting atop of the cab on his boat just a few hundred yards from the Kaanapali shoreline. There was a crowd of onlookers that had gathered looking directly at him, or so he thought.

Unbeknownst to John the sun was setting behind him causing the most beautiful sunset the crowd had ever seen. A spectrum of colored, vertical shafts of light including purple, red, yellow and orange were exploding from the horizon shooting skyward. Not only that but a humpback whale had been breaching in the background and now her and her calf had nuzzled up to the back of his boat. It seemed as if all John had to do was turn around and reach out and he could have touched them…… but he had no clue they were even there.

So what was so distracting to cause John to miss such an extraordinary experience that hundreds of others had observed?

John was busy, too busy, so busy he wasn’t even aware of his surroundings.

So what was it that John was doing to cause him to trade it for what was a once in a lifetime experience?

He was texting. Yes, John was texting on his phone.

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The Encounter, by Don Tassone

21/1/2022

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From the side, the man in front of me in the grocery checkout line looked like my childhood friend Rick, whom I hadn’t seen for decades. But I figured he was too old.

He seemed to sense my stare and looked back at me. I had just come from the office and was wearing a business suit, quite a contrast with the man’s shabby clothes. His long, tangled hair made me feel like I’d just come from the barber.

He opened his mouth a little, as if to speak. But then he turned away.

I wondered what he was going to say. Maybe it was Rick after all.

We’d grown up on the same street. We walked to grade school together. Everyone liked Rick. He was smart, good-hearted and funny.

He had big dreams too. When we were kids, Rick wanted to be an astronaut. When we were teenagers, he told us he was going to be President. No one doubted him. Our senior year in high school, Rick was our class president. We voted him most likely to succeed.

Just after we graduated, Rick’s mother had a heart attack and died. He was devastated. He seemed to change overnight. Rick had always been gregarious, but now he kept to himself.

That summer, I stopped by his house, but he wouldn’t see me. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t go off to college that fall.

But I wasn’t expecting him to disappear. I hadn’t seen Rick in 40 years. But I thought of him often and hoped he was okay.

Maybe it was simply wishful thinking, but this guy in front of me sure looked like an old, ragged version of my old friend.

“Rick?” I said.

His body stiffened, but he didn’t turn around.

“Rick, is that you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he put his groceries on the belt. Not wanting to be a pest, I didn’t say anything more.

A few minutes later, the cashier handed the man his receipt. As he began to push his cart away, he stopped and looked back at me.

“Bob,” he said with a nod and a small, knowing smile.

Then he pushed on and left.

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Cooking the Doe, by Gabrielle Park

14/1/2022

6 Comments

After upsetting his wife for the thousandth time, Joe thought that it was time to make things up.

Finally, finding a day when his wife seemed particularly tired, Joe jumped in and said, “Dear, why don’t you take a nap?” I’ll prepare dinner for us and the kids.”

Maisie, Joe’s wife, told her husband everything for their dinner. “Everything’s ready for the doe to cook. Get some butter and mashed potatoes ready.”

Joe was immensely confused. Doe? Was he supposed to get venison meat of some kind? Then it came to him: Maisie was trying to get rid of Fawn, the deer that they raised on their farm. Joe has suspected this from the beginning. Maisie had, ever since around the past year, been seen doing suspicious things, such as giving Fawn extra water and blankets. Preparing to give her some comfortable moments before sudden death, Joe concluded.

Feeling a pang of sympathy for Fawn, Joe decided that he could not kill Fawn. Giving her to his neighbor, who agreed to look after Fawn, Joe quickly went to the market to buy some other meat, cooked it, then served his family a special meal.

Maisie said, “Oh my! This is delicious, but I thought I told you to make some bread!”

“Heh- heh. Surprise!” Joe said elatedly, but was wondering what Maisie meant by “bread.”

That night, Joe was lying in bed when he connected the dots: Maisie said that, “Everything’s ready for the doe to cook.” Could she have meant by any chance dough? Was that about the bread?

Groaning softly to himself, Joe felt very glad that he had not cooked Fawn.

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The Struggle, by Doug Bartlett

14/1/2022

24 Comments

How in the world did I get here?

I feel like I’m in a fishbowl. There certainly is no privacy. But I’m definitely not the only one. In fact I’m completely surrounded by a very colorful and diverse population.

I’m told the trick to this life is to stay on top, which I Have been able to do for some time now.

However, something happens periodically that reminds me of a movie where someone is caught in quicksand and s-l-o-w-l-y sinks out of sight.But it’s not a character in a movie but myself that is being drawn closer to the bottom. The gravitational pull stops for a respite but will eventually begin again. Try as I might, I can’t return to where I was. This happens over and over again.

I continue to sink lower and lower until darkness eventually envelops myself. I hopelessly scream out in the darkness for help but no one seems to hear. I reach out to stop my descent but to no avail, as there seems to be nothing or no one to grab hold of. Finally, I see a tunnel with a light at the end of it.

That should be a sign of hope but I feel the impending doom hover over me as I enter the tunnel and begin to slide down it.

Oh, the life of a gumball.

24 Comments

One Beer, Just One, by Jeremy Leariwala

14/1/2022

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Standing by the open window, with the breeze and the ocean scents brushing over his face, Job Learsim debated between going for a beer and staying in the hotel room. With the Birihani, from the hotel comfortably tucked in his stomach, food was already sorted. The palm trees, outside, waved rhythmically in the faint light of the setting sun. For a guest on a re-energizing-working-weekend visit, a nice time in a coastal pub, like the Sailors Crib, has always been irresistible. But everyone back at home: the therapist, family, friends, you name them, had warned him to stay away from alcohol. No one wanted a repeat of what happened one moon-lit night: Job cat-walked across the neighbourhood, in a birthday suit, as if he’d excused himself from a coven (sleepwalking was the term everyone used to refer to it)...

He closed his eyes briefly. Immediately, his mind battled against itself in a bid to resolve the conflict boiling within his consciousness. The sound of breaking waves, screaming seabirds, the vehicular traffic and voices of the other lodgers, sailed in through every open space.

“It is Friday after all...” he told himself before stepping out for one beer, just one...

He went down the plwd-friendly stairs and majestically walked into the sports arena themed beer-joint, like a warrior. But as he waited for his drink, perched on one of the stools by the counter, one thing caught his eyes: a lone lady scrolling through her phone with a glass of Kingfisher wine in front of her, on the other end of the counter. Above an aura of clout & the crease-free dress she wore, Job was in no doubt that she came straight out of a nearby office to unwind after work. Something was not right with her, though. It was something more than her king-sized hips; more than her elegant height; more than her shining face and even more than her occasional glances. But Job could not tell exactly what.

The Sailors Crib, its modest clientele and its soft Rumba music promised him nothing short of pure niceness. The Guinness tasted just like Arthur-II intended.

***

Three hours later:

“Please lemme also buy one beer, just one, to celebrate this reunion.” Mwekali Nelang’u pleaded with a smile.

Hic!

Job Learsim cocked his head sideways. Hic! Hic!

“Plea-a-s-s-e!”

“We-l-l. W-w-e-ell, tw-e-nty, twe-e-n-nty six years is such a long time for sure. I’ll take it...”

The lady raised her glass.

CLICK!

“To good old memories mister Learsim; my primary school classmate!”

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The Old Covered Bridge, by Deborah Shrimplin

14/1/2022

5 Comments

Late one evening, while visiting his grandmother who lived in rural Indiana, Robert entered her home pale from fright.

"Robert, you're late coming home. You look terrible! What happened at the party? Did someone play a joke on you, hurt you, insult you? What is it? Come sit here." Eugenie motioned to the worn, burgundy colored sofa in the living room.

"Grandma, I heard it." Robert said as he sat down next to her.

"Heard what, dear?"

"I heard crying on the old covered bridge. There was no one there. But, I heard crying."

"Oh, Robert. People hear the crying quite often on that old bridge. It's Suzanna."

"There wasn't a girl on the bridge."

"There is in a way. Let me tell you about Suzanna." She said and took a deep breath.

"Suzanna was a sweet, blond teenager rather idealistic and naive. She was just seventeen when the war broke out in the Pacific. At the time, she had been secretly meeting up with a young Japanese boy, Hideo. Because their relationship was unacceptable, they would rendezvous at night on the old covered bridge.

When the Japanese Americans were ordered to internment camps, Hideo's family, even though they had lived in America for two generations, were included. The night before Hideo and his family were to be transported to the camp, Hideo met Suzanna on the bridge and they pledged the lover's promise of devotion and fidelity.

As fate sometimes takes us to unexpected situations, Suzanna became with child. Her parents were beside themselves with anger. They insisted she find a way to contact Hideo.

When Suzanna read Hideo's response, she cried and hid in her room for days. Hideo's parents had forced him to deny the paternity and he was not allowed to continue any further communication.

Now, Suzanna's baby, Aimi, looked like a doll with black hair, fair skin, and black eyes. Suzanna loved little Aimi, took good care of her and always kept her by her side. But, when her friends, family and neighbors continually scorned and ignored her, Suzanna became despondent.

One night, with Aimi in her arms, Suzanna walked onto the covered bridge. Remembering her passionate moments with Hideo, a pain tore through her heart and soul. Then, she pulled one of the trellis boards away from the bridge's wall and threw Aimi into the river below. She cried out as she jumped off the bridge after her baby."

"So, it was Suzanna I heard on the bridge?" Robert said.

"Yes. If I had done the right thing and accepted that baby, your mother would have a sister and you a beautiful aunt. Now, at night, I have to live with the cries coming from the old covered bridge."

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Two Worlds, by Don Tassone

14/1/2022

13 Comments

He’d begun walking every day on a trail that runs along a river. He viewed the river with mixed emotions because he had always been both drawn to the water and wary of it.

One summer day, he left the trail and went down to the river. He stood on the bank and watched the water ripple and shimmer in the sunlight. It was mesmerizing.

He sat down, took off one shoe and sock and put his foot in the water. At first, the cold water stung, but then it felt good, and he took off his other shoe and sock and sat with his feet in the shallow water.

The water cooled him. After a while, though, looking out at some rapids, he began to grow uneasy and got out.

The following day was steamy. On his walk, he heard laughter and splashing. Through the trees, he could see a group of young people playing on the other side of the river. He envied them. He’d never had such an experience because he couldn’t swim.

But as the sun beat down, the cool water beckoned him, and he went down to the river again. This time, as joyful cries of youth echoed across the water, he took off his shoes and socks, pulled up his pant legs and slowly waded in.

At first, the water felt invigorating. But the current was stronger and the water suddenly deeper than he had expected, and he lost his balance and fell in.

The swift current pushed him downstream. Fortunately, he was able to grab onto a partially submerged tree limb and pull himself to shore.

As he climbed the bank, soaked and shaking, he swore he would never go near the water again. I was nearly lost, he thought.

But a week or so later, he was drawn back to the river. He sat on the bank and once again slipped his bare feet into the water.

He took a deep breath. Sitting still, with the familiar Earth beneath him and the mysterious river before him, he began to know the peace of living in two worlds.

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Don’t Ask Me, by David Milner

14/1/2022

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I’m always getting involved. Can’t help myself. Had a girlfriend who used to say I had ‘empathy issues’, which, I’m sure meant that I possess a surplus of empathy. I feel too much. Don’t ask me.

One time I’m in this rehabilitation centre, coz back then I suffered with ‘addiction issues’, and this old boy sidled up to me, “Don’t be getting involved with people’s business in here, son”, imparting knowledge like an ancient Greek sage. And he was right. But did I listen? I didn’t last a week in that rehab.

One mid-winter night we were drinking at The Last Refuge, a local bar we all frequent – I say we all as though I’m inundated, fit to burst with friends. Anyway…

“You’re a ponce.” Said Albee.

“Excuse me?” Dez retorted.

“Fact is, Dez,” continued Albee, “you’ve become a caricature…”

“A Caricature?”

“A damn caricature of your damn self!”

Incidentally, Albee and Dez are my, well, best friends. We go back; like back, back we go to times and places we’ve long forgotten between us.

So, Dez stormed off, glass in hand, barely holding on to his tears of indignation. I remember making a move to follow him.

“Leave it, Sam.” Albee said.

“He’ll be back.” I shrugged in return. Sipped my diet cola.

“Am I right?”

“Guess so.”

“Say something if you think I’m wrong here, Sam.”

“You… could have.”

“Could have my ass! How much does he owe you this month, Sam, that he didn’t get round to paying off last month?”

Albee was right. In a way. Went on to tell me I was too trusting and tolerant.

Early the following morning someone found Dez frozen to a lamppost. His mouth open in the shape of a perfect O. His left arm stuck out as though he might have been hoping to hitch a ride home. Right at the end he was after a favour.

Heavier than usual snowfall that night. Temperatures below zero.

Dez’s Dad showed up at the funeral. Hadn’t seen Vernon in years. Bald, stooped with a hacking cough, it looked as though he didn’t know who he was let alone where he was. Poor soul.

Me and Albee could barely look at each other. Don’t see him much these days.

I thought to say a few words at the service. A reading from Timothy 2:7 “Don’t have anything to do with foolish and stupid arguments, because you know they produce quarrels.” Only I couldn’t summon the confidence.

I relapse now and again. Stumble drunk into unconsciousness, wake up in doorways. Don’t ask me. When people say, “Sam, you gotta pull yourself together” I try to smile, knowing most mean well.

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Thunder and Lightning, by Angela Carlton

7/1/2022

7 Comments

Sometimes, her mind chases the sound of the fat thunder in the night. Her heart is wobbly because her mother’s sick. The mother paces the floor, mumbles-mumbles-mumbles. She runs out in the street, yelling in her scraggly nightgown, frosted hair, and chapped lips with a fierce mind that cannot be contained. That’s when the child sees the lightning outside the window and it reminds her of the fairies, the beautiful ones she’s seen in books, the ones that brighten and paint the sky. It feels like joy.

But fairies have magic, don’t they? She closes her eyes and wishes for it, a perfect one with flowy, golden hair, a pleasant smile. She wished and wished and wished for anything, something more.

The years passed, it seemed, well, the girl was under a deep, dreamlike spell until words, the words began to shake her, and the language fell everywhere, all around her like snow.

And this, yes, this was the beginning, the very beginning of a story, her path to freedom.

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It Will Be There in the Morning, by John M. Carlson

7/1/2022

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“Well, I’ve got to go—it’s my bedtime,” Ron said on the phone.

“What?” Laura, his sister, said.

“Bedtime. It’s nearly 11.”

“But it’s New Year’s Eve! You’ve stayed up until midnight every New Year's Eve since you were 13! More than 40 years, now.”

“I know. But why bother? I stayed up to see the start of the last two years. And what did 2020 and 2021 bring? COVID-19. COVID-19 restrictions. COVID-19 variants. Another absolutely awful election. Political strife. More polarization of society.”

“Good point,” Laura said.

“I figure 2022 will be more of the same. Why go out of my way to see 2022? It’ll be there in the morning.”

They said goodnight and ended the call. Laura sat thinking of what Ron said. Then, she thought of the bottle of New Year’s Eve Champagne she had in the refrigerator. “You know, he has a point,” she said to herself. “I might as well go to bed, early. A full night of sleep will probably be worth more than seeing the start of 2022. I’ll save the Champagne for a special occasion.”

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History of Houseflies (According to a Housefly), by Greg Vander-Haeghen

7/1/2022

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It is not easy being a housefly who has been asked to tell the history of our species, particularly given the fact my life expectancy is anywhere from 15 to 30 days.

However, I was promised rotting organic matter to partake in this storytelling session.

According to oral legend, shared by my ancestors, the housefly legacy can be traced back to the end of the Cenozoic Era, beginning some sixty-six million years ago. This follows the extinction of the dinosaurs and our family has been taught that two progenitors were hatched out of the last batch of some rotten pterodactyl eggs.

Two houseflies from these eggs met while attending a barbecue at a gathering of Early Man, who were feasting on slabs of Woolly Mammoth and Sabre Tooth Tiger (which had been preserved by the Ice Age). Legend has it that the flies married, mated and laid 600 eggs over carrion, decomposed food and fecal matter. This was the start of the ‘’Housefly Baby Boom.”

Evolving from fertilized eggs to becoming full adults took newborns seven days. During the Stone Age, all flies were required to go through basic training where they learned such skills as hanging upside down on the ceiling of a cave and decomposing organic matter.

With the ancient Mesopotamian and Egyptian civilizations, houseflies were treated like royalty and lavished with hippopotamus excrement. They worshiped several gods and goddesses, and were busy houseflies inside the pyramids as well as at religious festivals.

Ceremonial living continued from Ancient Greece, to the Renaissance to Colonialism. During this time, public events always meant good food. And food meant more marriages. And more eggs. And more houseflies.

As the world population grew during this time, and got more affluent, so did the number of people who wanted a more sanitary life—devoid of flies buzzing around them. Whereas we houseflies were once treated as pets and even royalty, we were now the enemy. In essence, we became misfits and pariahs.

In 1803, 3,000 of my ancestors took a daring trip to North and South Carolina—home of the Venus Flytrap. It was just a sick fascination that they had to see these monsters, like going to see a real haunted house. Unfortunately, it took 112 generations of houseflies to reach the Carolinas from Italy.

With the Industrial Revolution came the invention of fly paper in 1895, the fly swatter in 1905 and the electronic bug zapper in 1911. These inventions have created some significant challenges for houseflies and we firmly believe that education is the key.

We will survive, of course, like the roach and the coyote. The house fly will never go extinct, but what is life without love.
Today, no longer feeling loved, it weighs heavily on us. Flies actually clean themselves constantly and can return food scraps to a compost pile. In that sense, the housefly is a good recycler.

Perhaps some time in the not-so-distant future, we will feel the love we once felt.

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White Rhino, by Ed N. White

7/1/2022

2 Comments

He didn’t need the cheesy prize. What the hell? That’s only 137.60 USD. It was the notoriety he was after. To be the best flash writer on the planet, this competition would make it so. That’s why he hired me.
I got the call at 4:01 a.m. My screen flashed his name, not surprising since he had called me twice last week to see if I could do it. He never asked if I would do it. The sonofabitch just assumes. If he has a saving grace, it’s only that he doesn’t argue about the price.
“Whatcha think, can you?”
Of course, I can do it, I can get past any firewall on the planet, but I played him a little just to hear him squirm. “It’s a tough one. Someone in their realm has significant experience. This is like breaking into a digital Fort Knox.”
“C’mon, man, there’s not a firewall on this planet that you can’t penetrate.”
I laughed. It was as if he were channeling my own thoughts. How sweet is this?
“Please, Jellybean, I need this. This is my white Rhino, and I want to hang this one over my fireplace. Please, you can do it. Call me.”
After he hung up, I got to work. It was difficult. These guys are good. But I managed to open the door and set up a path where my client had access to every entry into the contest. It was like having a wire into Monmouth and placing bets at the furlong pole. But, of course, I could do it.
He won the contest, all 300 words, and I was paid my usual fee, which was ten times his winnings. I find it hard to understand that kind of ruthless ambition.

2 Comments

Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head, by Doug Bartlett

7/1/2022

19 Comments

What in the world was going on? Whatever it was, the noise was coming from the old man’s backyard who lived down the street. The other day he had a lot of lumber delivered and now you could hear lots of sawing and hammering going on.

This was like a magnet to the group of adolescent boys who were playing nearby. Curiosity got the better of them and before you knew it they had stopped playing and were craning their necks to see what was going on behind the fence. But it was an exercise in futility as the fence was much taller than them with not even one knothole for them to peer through.

A month later they could see a structure beginning to appear above the fenceline stretching towards the sky.

“What could it be?“ they thought.

They decided that a couple of them would follow the old man around to see if they could figure out what he was up to.

They soon discovered the old man was a very kind, compassionate and righteous man, always doing the right thing . His neighbors, on the other hand, were quite the opposite.They were always treating everyone with wickedness and evil. Many times the old man would tell them that God wasn’t pleased with their behavior and they needed to change their ways.

His neighbors didn’t want to hear that. They jeered at him, mocked him and cursed him. However, the old man never got mad. He would just go away with a broken heart.

Sometimes the boys would peek through the old man’s window and could see and hear him praying for his neighbors.

One day the old man was talking to a large group of people in the marketplace. There was urgency and compassion in his voice. He told them again that they must turn from their wicked ways. God wasn’t happy with them and they were quickly running out of time.

One of the men in the crowd bent down to pick up a rock to throw at the old man and as he straightened up a large raindrop, the first of many, fell out of the sky and landed between his eyes .

“Look old man, we’re sick and tired of your rambling at us. Just get out of here and leave us alone,“ he blurted out.

“I’ve tried and I’ve tried. I have done everything I can to try and save you. You are now on your own,“ Noah said and then returned to his home to put the finishing touches on the ark and load the cargo.

19 Comments

The Stalker, by Jim Bartlett

7/1/2022

24 Comments

There’s someone stalking me.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think I’m on to him. But I am. And have been for some time.

Most of the time I try my darnedest to avoid him. Yet, even when I’m doing my best, there’ll be that moment I’ll let down my guard and right there, in the corner of my eye, I’ll catch him staring at me. I always try to turn away – avert my gaze. Take another route.

Run. Hide.

I dunno, I guess I’m hoping that if I pretend not to see him, he’ll just go away. Bother someone else.

But really, I’d rather just not see him at all.

Mirrors. Mirrors are the worst. In fact, just this morning when I was getting ready to head out to the pharmacy, I caught a glimpse of him when I was adjusting the rear-view mirror in my car. Got a pretty good look, I did.

He’s an older guy. Gray, thinning hair. I can see he’s been letting those bristles atop his head grow out a bit, I’m guessing to cover his oversized ears. And it looks like he’s been getting some sun – probably hoping a bit of a tan will help hide his brigade of wrinkles.

Ain’t workin’, I tell you.

Making it all the worse, he wears those beachy t-shirts, baggy shorts, and snazzy white sneakers. I’m sure he thinks it makes him look cool. But, really, it’s all just a flashing neon sign that says, “old guy,” and can be spotted from a mile away.

I know what you’re thinking...who is this guy? And what exactly does he want?

I wish I could say what that might be. But...maybe I just don’t want to know.

Or, worse, admit that I already know.

After all, there IS something very familiar about him. Someone I maybe once knew. Though, over the course of time, especially these last few years, he’s changed a bit – happens to us all, I guess – put on a little weight, slowed down a step or two.

But, deep in those peering eyes, I can see him.

He’s there, alright.

I take in a long breath. Maybe...just maybe...it’s time to confront him. Come face to face. Up to now, he’s avoided meeting my gaze.

Or maybe I’ve avoided his.

I don’t think either of us wants to see that “What happened?” look in the other’s eyes.

Okay, enough. Enough, already. It’s time to do it.

With another deep breath – and thinking this might be a good time for a stiff drink, if only I drank – I step into the bathroom, flick on the light, and turn to face the mirror.

Hello me. Getting old sucks, eh?

24 Comments

From the Bridge, by Deborah Shrimplin

7/1/2022

3 Comments

"These techy things drive me nuts!" Nora mumbles to herself as she glares at the GPS in her SUV. She doesn't trust it and turns it off. She trusts her old fashioned companion, the paper map. With a quick glance at the red, blue and black lines, she feels better. She is still on Highway 3 heading due north through the wilds of Idaho. A new home in a senior living community near her daughter is waiting for her.

At the next rest area on the highway, she pulls into the parking lot, takes out her ice chest full of snacks and her camera bag. She sits at a picnic table with a view of the bridge over a river at the bottom of a forested ravine.

"Oh, George would have loved this place." she muses.

George had passed away three years ago leaving a hole for loneliness to invade her existence. Her daughter had seen its affect on her and insisted she move closer to her grandchildren. Nora didn't argue.

After drinking a caffeine laced soda, she grabs her camera bag and walks onto the bridge. She peers down at the river. The slow moving water mirrors the trees and boulders along the banks. She loves images of reflections. She takes her camera out of the bag, fiddles with the settings and searches for a good composition.

Looking east, Nora sees a deer on the riverbank. She takes a few shots and checks the image on the LCD screen on the back of the camera. The deer is in perfect focus. Next to the deer, on the water's surface, is an image of a young bride at an altar waving at the camera. Nora recognizes the young girl and the setting. It is her own wedding.

Nora blinks and looks back at the river. There is nothing unusual.

Nora walks to the other side of the bridge and looks downstream to the west. A fisherman is standing on an outcropping. She raises her camera, positions the fisherman in the frame and clicks. After taking three shots, she checks her LCD monitor. On the surface of the water in front of the fisherman is the image of a frail woman in a hospital bed. The old woman and the fisherman are waving at the camera. Nora recognizes the woman's features. They are hers.

A shiver crawls up and down Nora's spine. She runs back to the picnic area, gathers up her things and drives off heading north over the bridge.

3 Comments

Sibling Rivalry, by Shaun P McClurg

7/1/2022

1 Comment

I made a promise to my brother to keep a secret but I'm finding it really difficult.

As I sit waiting, my gnawed fingers move quickly along the edge of the table like I’m badly playing the piano.

I take a sip of my frothy mocha to calm me.

I see Steven through the window wearing his facemask which has steamed up his glasses. He shakes off his umbrella outside and opens the door. We haven’t seen each other since Mum’s birthday party last month.

He smiles at me and sits down.

“We have to tell mum,” I say immediately as the words echo into the depths of my mug.

“Tell her what…that it was us that did it? I thought we had already talked about this,” my brother replies as he signals for the waiter.

“Don’t you feel guilty about what we did?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It was an accident.”

“It’s been on my mind a lot more the last few weeks and I don’t like lying to her, especially as it would have been Nan’s birthday this month.” There was no reaction from him.

This is a waste of time.

My brother and I had a lot to drink that night at Mum’s birthday party. Mum had gone up to bed when Steven found our old football in the back of the cupboard. I used the fireplace as a goal, but I couldn’t stop the ball. Then it happened; Nan’s very old and sentimental vase that was left to Mum slowly shattered as it hit the floor.

We are both responsible for breaking the vase and she should know the truth. I should face her, but should I leave my brother out of it?

I make an excuse to leave. I’ll go back to work now so I can leave early and see mum to confess but I have no idea what to say or how to begin.

“We’ll catch up more in a few days, Steven. I’ll call you.” I grab my umbrella and coat from the back of the chair.

Time seemed to drift slowly sitting at my desk. I thought by now that I would have been able to come up with a plan on how to explain to Mum what happened. Maybe some flowers will help. She is our mother after all, she should forgive us; shouldn’t she?

I’m sitting in my car outside Mum’s house. I still have no idea what to say and my hand has been gripped to the door lever for what seems like hours.

I knock and the door opens. My eyes roll up.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as I tilt my head.

“I told her, Adam, I told mum everything and explained what happened and how it was all your fault; you don’t need to worry anymore,” said my brother grinning as he welcomed me in.

Damn it, I forgot the flowers.

1 Comment

Holiday Showcase 500-Word Submissions...

7/1/2022

0 Comments

...have now been transferred to this page and appear below this post. Thanks to all for your contributions while I've been having a break.

0 Comments

Cooking Troubles, by Padmini Krishnan

7/1/2022

4 Comments

People knew Bushy Evergreen as the elf who designed toys for kids, but Samantha knew him as an inventor of cooking machines and ovens. Bushy Evergreen also knew Samantha as the world’s worst cook. That is why he was here every Christmas, spending 2 hours in her kitchen, making the best dinner. His crunchy roasted potatoes melted in the mouth, providing just the required spice and seasoning. His pudding made you wonder whether it was cranberry or strawberry that was blended in with the chocolate sauce.

Samantha closed the kitchen door to her family on Christmas. Her three family members salivated, waiting for the sole tasty food they got the whole year unless they dined out. The thirties-something dad paced around the room, wondering if it would be salmon this year. Last year they had turkey and now he was sure he could smell smoked salmon. The youngest pressed her nose to the kitchen door wishing for a chocolate pudding.

The eldest son pulled a stool and peeped in. His mother was seated on the kitchen chair, her back towards him, drawing a red tail. Confused, the boy stared around the kitchen. There was a big circular object in the left corner of the kitchen, apparently an oven. He saw a tail protruding from the oven. He jumped down, “It is a cat,” he whispered to his dad and sister. “A cat is cooking. His head is buried in the oven. His tail is red.”

“Is he cooking himself?”

The boy’s sister pushed him and got onto the stool. “It is a baby with a mustache,” she cried.

The dad stood in the middle of the room, gulping. He was too scared to peep in.

The dinner done to satisfaction, Bushy Evergreen turned to Samantha.

“That smells wonderful. See you next year?” she asked eagerly.

“Sorry. I got a message from Santa. They have found a cook worse than you. I will have to go to him next year. This will be our last meeting.”

Samantha gaped in dismay as Bushy Evergreen flew out of the window.

4 Comments

NOW OPEN TO SUBMISSIONS

4/1/2022

0 Comments

Because of the Christmas Competition, and the editor's need for a long-overdue holiday, no stories are being published here at present.
However, we are now are now accepting submissions through the normal submissions pages.

Longer stories will appear here from 7th January.

0 Comments

How Do I Say Goodbye? by NT Franklin

3/12/2021

14 Comments

We met the first day second grade. You were new to town; my people had been here forever, living on the poor side of the tracks. You had pink ribbons and plastic barrettes in your long blond hair. I close my eyes to say goodbye, and I see your pink dress, white socks, and shiny black shoes.

My lucky stars put you in the seat in front of me. I put on my best smile and stuck out my hand, Roger L. McConnel here; I’d like to be friends. I’m Tammy. I’d like to be friends, too. How do I say goodbye to that memory?

You stayed in town through high school because your dad ran the factory where my dad worked. I stayed in high school because you were there. I don’t remember a single day that doesn’t include you. How can I say goodbye to that?

I went to work at the service station, you went into the factory office. Two years I worked to be able to buy the station. Then I asked for your hand. Fifty years, three daughters, and five granddaughters later I have to say goodbye. Every day I was with you. How can I say goodbye to a lifetime?

I left the room so they could close the casket. How do I say goodbye to part of me? All of me? Outside, eight blond girls surrounded and hugged me. I looked into their faces. Each one looked like you. I realized I didn’t have to say goodbye to you.

14 Comments

The Queen's English, by Janice Siderius

3/12/2021

2 Comments

The train finally came to a stop.

“Leicester,” the conductor yelled out
.
My husband and I rounded up all seven of our suitcases and managed to get off before the train moved out of the station again. We were finally at the end of our journey. In the suitcases were all our worldly belongings. We were two twenty-something-newlyweds starting a new chapter in our lives. My husband would be a manufacturing engineer, and I would be looking for a job.

We parked our bags at the left-luggage office and decided to walk down the London Road. We needed to find the Post Office. The weather was glorious, and it was so liberating to walk hand-in-hand, looking in the shop windows. We were a Yank and a Canadian abroad in a foreign land.

“We need to ask directions to the Post Office,” my husband said. And I agreed.

“You do it,” I responded. “I am not sure I will understand the accent.”

My husband decided to ask the constable on a corner. His response was, “Just down the London Road, turn left on Beaver Street.”

OK, that seemed easy enough. We kept walking and walking and walking until the London Road ended at the Clock Tower.
“Did you see Beaver Street?” I queried.

“No, we must have missed it. Let’s walk back to the station. Maybe we should ask someone else?” So we did, although it was hard to believe the constable had given us incorrect directions.

We stopped a nice gentleman and he pointed up the London Road and said, “Just walk up the London Road and turn right. You cannot miss it.”

Off we went with great determination; we would surely find the Post Office this time! Except we didn’t. Our newly-found confidence was shaken.

“We need to ask again. This is crazy,” I said.

In desperation, my husband stopped a lady coming out of Boots. “Excuse me, ma’am. We are looking for the Post Office. We were told it is on Beaver Street. Can you help?”

Suddenly the woman began to smile, and then to laugh. “In Leicester we pronounce it ‘Beaver’ but the street name is ‘Belvoir’. It is one block up.”

2 Comments

Platero And I: Concrete, by Hervé Suys

3/12/2021

3 Comments

Let’s have a walk behind the yard of the house where those people from the big city came to live, mainly on sunny days.
I thought I was the only one who knew this path and its comforting loneliness. I used to play here as a young kid, Platero, long before you were born. Don Diego then lived here and was all alone with his immense grief. On numerous occasions, I grabbed black currants from his garden and ate from the overhanging sweet prunes but was never caught, although I know he must have seen me more than once.
Soon I won’t be doing any more rides on your fluffy back my friend.
The preparations for building a real road have started and from then on it will be far too dangerous here for old people like me and silver gray donkeys like yourself, Platero. So, let’s go, before it all becomes too concrete.

3 Comments

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Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.

However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.

One little further note. Posting and publishing 500-word stories takes a little time if they need to be formatted, too.
Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

Longer stories will appear here from 7th January.

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