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Blooming Bulbs, by Lisa Williams

26/1/2024

There was a little market in town where locals could sell things they’d made or any excess produce from their gardens and allotments. It was mostly the retired that did this and numbers this year seemed to be plummeting greatly.
Nigel was a woodturner, he did this in his shed at the end of the garden. His wife, Rosie, didn’t get out much these days but enjoyed sitting in her favourite armchair watching the birds. Last Autumn, when Wilkinsons closed, she’d bought hundreds of Spring bulbs and enlisted her neighbours son Chris, a trainee PCO, to plant them. She sat through winter watching the barren stretch wondering when the burst of colour from the Tulips and Hyacinths would assault her eyes. January brought a lot of snow. She imagined the shoots kept prisoner under its thick blanket. February’s thaw revealed nothing and harsh frosts left the rest of the garden twinkling but the little spot remained hard, brown and bare.
By March she felt something was wrong so ventured up propped on two sticks. Sure enough the patch was empty. She teetered up further to see Nigel. The smell of fresh wood and tickle of sawdust greeted her nostrils. As they chatted she spotted a couple of punnets of bulbs under his bench. He saw her furrowed brow and explained he’d found the onions in their garden and had been selling them since just before Christmas at the Market. A very awkward conversation followed.
A week later Nigel answered the door to three policemen.
“We’re here about the bulbs”
Nigel stumble over his words. “I, erm. We, erm”
“Did you want to show your pals the fruits of your labour?” Sally interrupted, “Chris, sorry, there’s nothing to see. We think something ate them.”

The Words Unsaid, by Christa Loughrey

19/1/2024

The man attended funerals because the church was warmer than the streets, and there was usually a buffet of some sort down at the local pub afterwards. Nobody ever seemed to question one more among the crowd. It was interesting, he mused, that it took someone else’s death to provide him with the food and warmth he needed to keep body and soul together for another day.

He listened to carefully prepared speeches extolling the many virtues of the deceased person, and often found himself wondering – why did people always wait until someone died to say such lovely things about them?

Leaving the church one day, the man recognised a renowned poet among the mourners. He watched him help an elderly lady into a taxi, kiss her withered cheek, then turn to head for the pub.

‘Your mother?’

The poet turned at the question; took in the bearded face, the shabby clothes, and the clear, sharp blue eyes looking directly into his own. He hesitated, unsure of this stranger, but the circumstances called for politeness so he acknowledged that it was so.

The man put his hand gently on the poet’s arm.

‘We have not been introduced, but I know who you are. You have the gift of words. She is old; she will not be with you forever. Use your gift for her. Tell her the tale of her beauty within; tell it with love in every word. For your sake and hers, don’t leave it until it is too late.’

Then the man was gone, leaving the astonished poet deep in thought.

Two days later the old lady was sitting in her high backed chair in her neat little flat, one of several in a sheltered housing complex, waiting for her carer to arrive. Lately she had felt herself to be worthless; just a burden on society.

But today, she was holding a beautifully penned poem which reminded her of what she had been, and still was, at heart. In carefully chosen words her son had poured out all the story of her love and care of him; of his gratitude at the endless joys she had given him; of the great worth which he placed on her, the brightest jewel in the crown of his life.

Life suddenly glowed with a beauty she had all but forgotten. She was still cherished, and she knew that she had not lived in vain.

Snow Day, by Don Tassone

19/1/2024

The forecast called for a dusting of snow overnight, so I decided to go to the grocery and buy some milk, just in case.

The parking lot was packed. When I got inside, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d never seen a store so crowded.

The place was a madhouse. People were pushing bulging carts up and down aisles whose shelves were nearly bare.

I heard someone yell “Toilet paper!” A can of soup rolled toward me, but then a woman swept it up like a hockey puck and scurried away. In the candy aisle, an unattended little boy was pouring Skittles into his mouth. His face looked like a rainbow.

A middle-aged man, waddling like a penguin, was somehow carrying six gallon jugs of water under his arms. An old man pushed a gigantic canister of Metamucil down the aisle with his foot. A Husky had bitten open a 40-pound bag of dog food and was wolfing down kibbles, growling at shoppers who got too close.

“Clean up in aisle four!” someone cried over the loudspeaker. The overhead lights flickered. Someone ran past me dressed like a chicken.

By the time I reached the dairy case, it was empty except for a single half pint of chocolate milk. Staring at it, I was mesmerized. I could have sworn the cartoon cow on the package winked at me.

Then I remembered why I was there. Looking around anxiously, I grabbed the tiny carton and made my way through a throng of puffy-coated bodies toward the checkout, where I stood in line for 45 minutes. Shoppers jealously eyed my container of pasteurized goodness, as if they sensed it was the last milk in the store. I tucked it under my arm lest someone snatch it away.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, snowflakes began to pelt my windshield. Instinctively, like a bear preparing for hibernation, I grabbed the milk carton, tore it open and chugged it. It was sublime.

Exercise is Fun, John O’Keefe

19/1/2024

(Artwork by Toni Verkruyse)

“Maria, you’ve got to see this,” my girlfriend called me four weeks ago about a new program on TV. A fitness guru was on the Spanish-speaking channel showing exercises you could do without going to the gym or using a yoga mat and understanding Hindu. To my pleasant surprise, I could follow the instructions fairly well. Since then I haven’t missed the twenty-minute segment Saturday mornings.

Today she is dressed as a witch holding a broom. “I am going to show you how to do isometric workouts sweeping with a broom, followed by stretching.” It is truly creative and quite spectacular; most moves are a bit strenuous, the rest are good cardio. I feel energized and the nagging pain in my lower back is mostly gone. Bien hecho [well done].

Then, at the end, she says, “Now, when your beloved husband walks in the kitchen and asks, what the hell you’re doing, you just hit him over the head with the broom. He’ll know exactly why he got it.”

Frankly, I never once found that joke funny before but coming from her, and after a nice training session like this, it sounds so hilarious! Util y divertido al mismo tiempo [useful and entertaining at the same time].

My husband, his Spanish lousy and his nose bleeding profusely, doesn’t seem to get it.

Platero and I - Widow Polinka, by Hervé Suys

19/1/2024

Today, dear Platero, I chatted with widow Polinka at the market place.
I wanted to have a cup of coffee and a sweet almond pastry on the terrace of the taberna and watch the passers-by. You know I love doing that. Unfortunately, all the tables in the shade were occupied and I had forgotten my sunglasses.
Widow Polinka must have seen me looking around and waved at me, inviting me to the free seat at her table. I ordered coffee for the both of us.
According to her, she said after a while, she was ready to throw off the clothes of mourning, her widowhood had lasted long enough.
She had also noticed that there was no longer a black blanket under your saddle, Platero.
“Is the mourning period over for him as well?” she wanted to know.
“Not yet,” I replied. “The black has worked its way through his fur, straight to his heart. Just like it did with me.” I stood up and left, leaving a half empty cup of coffee.

That is New, by Jeremy Leariwala

12/1/2024

Caro and Terry sat outside their house for some girlish chat. The long holiday season had just kicked in and almost everyone was back at home. Beyond the fence, on the road, the noisy evening traffic flowed with its noise saturating the air with all manner of sounds that threatened to drown the ballads from the woofer. The two girls enjoyed each other’s company and hoped that, during their separation, they learnt something worth sharing. Then, just before the sun slipped past the horizon, a leafy tree beside the house erupted.

For the past six months, a battalion of tiny-noisy-birds had turned the tree into their home. Flying in at dusk, taking about half an hour settling in, spending the night there, and flying away at sunrise was their routine. The settling part had always been chaotic. What, with too much jostling for space and everyone screaming to either, summon a good neighbour or to warn toxic company. That evening, the energy in the little greyish bodies plus the hail of falling leaves was too high.

Caro looked up the canopy.

“What is up?” Terry wondered.

“Nothing; I’m just wondering! Like...like, where did these fellows come from? And again, when would they....” Caro answered, with her eyes still on the birds, but she couldn’t finish.

“Can you silence them, even if it is for a second or two?” Terry interjected.

Caro stared at her, amused by the request made.

“Well…” Caro started saying then paused. Was Terry trying to crack some wild joke? It was either that, or she hoped that Caro must have come back as a magician or a witch. Without a suitable answer, she opted for some vague query. “Can you end the war in Hamas, or soften the cyclones bashing the coastal strip?”

At first, a mischievous smile beamed off Terry’s face. Caro brushed the issue aside and a few minutes fleeted by filled with more of their previous conversation. Then, without warning…

CLAP-CLAP! Terry struck her palms together.

Dead silence! All the birds stopped quarrelling at once.

“WOOOW!” I wish you saw the smirk on Caro’s face.

Terry smiled but said nothing. A ball with a million ideas started rolling in Caro’s head.

Gradually, the birds’ chirrup resumed after a minute or two of serenity up the branches. Caro tried her luck...

CLAP-CLAP!

A hush fell over the compound, once again. Terry’s magic worked!

“How or where did you learn about this trick?”

Terry shrugged. “I don’t know! Maybe I stumbled upon it somewhere.”

“For real, this is new knowledge.” Caro’s eyes sparkled. “At least, for me, I have never known about it. Would you write a paper about it?”

“Write a paper about it? Why now? Don’t you know about the AI?” Terry fired back.

“Of course I know about the AI writer; a valuable tool for...” Caro suddenly seemed confused. Terry, again, curtailed her response.

“That AI thing can write better, anything, anytime.”

My PIcture, by Deborah Shrimplin

12/1/2024

I really like this picture of me. It looks like it belongs in a romance novel. I wonder if there is an author out there who could use my picture.

I'm hearing voices. The voices are arguing.

"I'll take the picture. The word rose is in the title of one of my stories," Mr. Faulker said.

"Hey, Mr. Faulkner, a rose is the central symbol in one of my stories. I want it," Mr. Wilde said.

"Readers loved my poem about a red rose. I could use it," Mr. Burns said.

"I used a rose in my play before any of you wrote it in your stories. So, I get it," Mr. Shakespeare bragged.

"Excuse me, Mr.Shakespeare. Have you read about Aphrodite in my epic poem the Iliad? I used a rose before you. I should get priority!" Homer exclaimed.

I hear a soft, meek voice.

"What a wonderful image. I think I'll write a story about it. Maybe someone will post it on-line," the little old lady said.

I hope she does. I'll be in another story!

Close Encounter, by Dan Keeble

12/1/2024

She is on the clifftop, looking towards Gelton. I can make out her small hands shielding her brown eyes from the morning glow. She is wearing a school uniform. Is this the only time she can be out on her own without Joanne, and Ray, the man who thinks one day Holly will call him Daddy? That will never happen. We were too close.
Between the jetty and the headland, eight grey-weathered groynes divide up the beach. We used to clamber over three. The rest we chased around, or scrambled under, searching for crabs when the tide was out. They were our obstacle course. I still come here each morning, though I no longer appreciate the cosseting of the wind and the yielding sugar-soft sand.
Holly doesn’t see me. She is looking down-beach towards the shore fisherman. He is silhouetted against the early sun, a back-lit scene we struggled many times to capture on our phones. I wonder if she is reflecting on those moments.
Before school, we would beat-walk, hammering our heels into the sand, leaving monstrous footprints. We laughed to think it might puzzle the dog walkers or scare other kids. I wish I could make those impressions with her once more. But I’m banned from being near to her again.
She mustn’t see me, and I have been told not to contact her. All I can do is mull over my foolishness and the short temper that took away my rights as a father.
Ray had it coming to him. He was the one that set down the harsh rules. He decided when and where, and for how long we could spend time together. And he enjoyed seeing me squirm until I lost control. I don’t regret pummelling his face and breaking his nose. But pulling a knife on a man half my size again was not a smart move. They tell me I got what I deserved. But I didn’t deserve this.
Staring up at my little girl, I can no longer ignore the punishing ache. Yes, there will be consequences. They might make it the last time I can be near her. But the need to be close again is overwhelming.
The thirty-foot cliff is no challenge, and I am beside Holly once more. She turns her head away from the ocean, and I look straight into her eyes. There is a contented beam of remembrance on her face as she steps through me and back onto the footpath.

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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.

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