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The Space Cadet, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

25/2/2022

 
Since my early formative years, as a daydreaming passenger on 600-mile weekend family road-trips to the Colorado River, I believed in most things that people didn’t: unicorns, Leprechauns, the Loch Ness Monster, telepathic tarantulas and was even convinced that root beer floats were the Ultimate Truth.

But let’s start with my appearance. I am short, rotund with blonde, balding hair. In fact, having a receding hairline, I once proposed marriage to a single hair follicle on Swedish Television.

That earned me a cool million and I parlayed that into a battery of tests. The psychiatrists and psychologists say I have an Emotional Intelligence equivalent to a complex bipolar-amoeba.

Conversely, neurosurgeons say I have an overactive frontal lobe and the central nervous system of a sleep-deprived Nietzsche on multiple energy drinks. My eyesight is 20/20 (I can see 20 M&Ms from 20 feet) and my toenails need trimming.

I seldom like to engage in shallow conversation, am the proud owner of three-percent of the world’s empty PEZ dispensers, dream in color, think in black and white and smell in sepia tones.

I typically obsess on such things as heavy gravity, wild termites, coffee enemas, putrid tomatoes and public speaking. The following speech was written and addressed by me during my officer’s training with the Vannapolis Space Cadet Academy.


To my fellow space cadet graduates, budding space cadet friends and occupants on our own individual planets, which we will be exploring like a hyperactive stick in the mud.

Sound check. Sound check. Is anybody out there, out there, out there? I really mean out there? You in the front row seem to be out there. Any other takers? (Everyone in attendance stands and breaks into a thunderous applause.)

You know, when you get profoundly intellectual about it, everyone is either like their own planet or like a snowflake; that is no two snowflakes are alike. Or planets, for that matter. Which brings us to the catalyst.

This catalyst occurs when Cadets channel the glacial snowflakes that melt inside their planetary minds, as the molten, bubbling logic oozes out of your ears and changes its state to pure oxygen.

That pure oxygen is then inhaled through the nostrils at a three-Liter flow rate, thus priming our contorted minds with a ninety-nine percent oxygen concentration level, laced with the one-percent smell of a cologne called “Irony.”

And with the smell of irony wafting up my nostrils, that—my fellow space cadets—is my commencement speech.


​
Exactly ninety-nine days after I delivered this speech, I had an epiphany, a vision, or was it just a coffee buzz?
Nonetheless, I saw something GRAND, something IMPROBABLE. Something ASTOUNDING.

It involved the entire 133-person Space Cadet class engaging in a variety of seemingly surreal mental exercises, such as “synchronized thinking,” “conceptual hiccupping,” “reverse-upside-down brainstorming” and the “wow-wow-wow experience.”

Of the four-mentioned exercises, the secretive “wow-wow-wow experience” seemed to grab hold of my attention—and now—it might never let go.

Counting Clouds, by Angela Carlton

25/2/2022

 
Rub the essential oil on your hands, wrist, take the orange capsule, swallow that rich color. Let it seep in. Drink the green tea, eat the raw walnuts. Place your head on the sterile pillow, and remember when we mixed glorious cocktails in the blender laying out on the lime, green grass til our skin glowed.

We were unstoppable, then, weren’t we, remember? We would look on toward the endless sky, counting clouds, those fat wishes, snapping our fingers to the boom box, singing.

Still, your voice was so powerful, an alto, like velvet, brushing all over me until I was misty-eyed.

Now, your days are filled with chemo, hair loss, and vomit. You drift on and away with morphine as I bitch to a God who will listen.

Finally, that day came, they set you free, so I rushed around opening french doors to bring the greenery in and pushed up the windows for a breeze. Later, I made the hot beverage with the berry fruit tray.

There-there-there, lay all of your troubles down, that’s it, shut your eyes, and dream as we wait for another day, the sun to come out once again.
​

Still Life Watching, by Rod Drake

25/2/2022

 
It’s nice living in an oil painting, hanging in the Art Institute of Chicago. A famous painting too, by French Impressionist Seurat no less, depicting a big crowd scene enjoying a sunny holiday on the banks of the Seine in 1884. If you’re interested, I’m the guy in the top hat, leaning against a tree, arm resting on my upraised knee.

The temperature in the museum is always perfect for old oil paintings, the lightning is bright but not glaring, and our picture is expensively framed, hanging magnificently as the centerpiece in the lavish viewing room. And, of course, there are always people, of all sizes, shapes, colors, ages and nationalities, coming by and pausing to look at our timeworn canvas in quiet wonder and appreciation. I enjoy watching them as much as they seem to relish seeing us, i.e., the painting.

Every day brings a new audience, some serious, intense art students, others just taking in a museum because they are in the city or think they should get themselves some culture and then children tours are always fun (if a bit noisy). Some of the tour guides could be better informed (although I can’t really fault them since they never knew Seurat and weren’t present
at our creation or in France during the 19th Century).

All of us captured eternally in this painting are busily engaged in commenting on the hair and clothing styles (as well as figures, both good and bad) that we see daily (but don’t always quite understand; what is with all this bizarre tattooing everywhere and this portable phone viewing?). We are so subtle in our secret whispered conversations that our human viewers never notice the flicker of movement and sound.

It is only when the museum closes for the day, and the main lights go out, and just a night watchman making his routine rounds with a flashlight for company, that we do sometimes feel the loneliness of being a still life work.

Still Life Watching, by Rod Drake

25/2/2022

 
It’s nice living in an oil painting, hanging in the Art Institute of Chicago. A famous painting too, by French Impressionist Seurat no less, depicting a big crowd scene enjoying a sunny holiday on the banks of the Seine in 1884. If you’re interested, I’m the guy in the top hat, leaning against a tree, arm resting on my upraised knee.

The temperature in the museum is always perfect for old oil paintings, the lightning is bright but not glaring, and our picture is expensively framed, hanging magnificently as the centerpiece in the lavish viewing room. And, of course, there are always people, of all sizes, shapes, colors, ages and nationalities, coming by and pausing to look at our timeworn canvas in quiet wonder and appreciation. I enjoy watching them as much as they seem to relish seeing us, i.e., the painting.

Every day brings a new audience, some serious, intense art students, others just taking in a museum because they are in the city or think they should get themselves some culture and
then children tours are always fun (if a bit noisy). Some of the tour guides could be better informed (although I can’t really fault them since they never knew Seurat and weren’t present
at our creation or in France during the 19th Century).

All of us captured eternally in this painting are busily engaged in commenting on the hair and clothing styles (as well as figures, both good and bad) that we see daily (but don’t always quite understand; what is with all this bizarre tattooing everywhere and this portable phone viewing?). We are so subtle in our secret whispered conversations that our human viewers never notice the flicker of movement and sound.

It is only when the museum closes for the day, and the main lights go out, and just a night watchman making his routine rounds with a flashlight for company, that we do sometimes
feel the loneliness of being a still life work.

I Killed the Pizza-Man, by Alex Blaine

25/2/2022

 
I confess I killed the fat, rude and disrespectful pizza-man. I confess to filling him with lead as I pumped the shotgun and unloaded it again and again. It had nothing to do with whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza nor that my pizza was cold, wet and three hours late.

I confess I killed the pizza-man. Not because he got my whole order wrong and forgot my can of Dr Pepper. It wasn't even because the chicken was like rubber. I killed the pizza-man, not because of his nationality or because he was scratching his behind whilst on the phone and preparing some other poor customer's meal. I confess I closed him down with a bellyful of buckshot. I confess I brought him face with his first salad, though it was full of maggots. He fell face down in a bowl of rotting veg, and the phone swung back and for against the wall... Clearly he'd made his last call. I confess I killed the pizza-man for the crude rude words he spluttered down the phone.

The Last Task, by Deborah Shrimplin

18/2/2022

 
Sheila slung her backpack over her shoulder, locked her SUV and passed through the back gate into the Horticultural Research Center grounds. Working at the center had been a dream job come true and the place where she met the love of her life, Robert. After today, she knew she would never return.

As she walked the gravel path leading to the work shed, she let her dark mood overcome her reason. She had gone over her plight dozens of times. There was only one solution to the rage boiling inside of her and today she would complete the final event in her plan.

Robert and she had worked together on plant genetics and married after a two year courtship. For the past three years they had worked together on a research paper. When Robert presented their research at a science symposium, something snapped in Sheila's mind.

"How could he have done that? There is no excuse for it." she thought as she walked past the fern grotto. "I did most of the work on that research project and he never gave me credit. That's unforgivable. His name should be wiped off the paper not mine. What a disgrace."

As she continued down the path through the fuschia garden, she replayed the moment she read his death certificate. The cause of death was an accidental fall while hiking a trail up Mt. Rainier.

"Accidental, ha! I remember his scream and look of horror when I pushed him." she thought.

Sheila came to the work shed and walked around to the back. She placed her backpack on the ground near the water drainpipe. She lifted the cover off the drain, pulled out Robert's urn from her backpack and poured his ashes down the drain.

Colonialism’s Lingering Shadow, by Sankar Chatterjee

18/2/2022

 
In the summer of 2015, Prof. Sharmila Basu of the Calcutta University, India took her senior students for a field trip to the Ellora Caves, a UNESCO World Heritage site, situated in the state of Maharashtra. Prof. Basu is renowned for her archeological discovery of ancient sites in different parts of the world from various historic periods. She wanted to expose her students to this wondrous site within her own country, one of the largest rock-cut cave complexes in the world, featuring temples belonging to Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism with artwork dating from the period 600–1000 CE.

In an early morning, the group began their exploration. By mid-day, they arrived at the cave housing a temple of Hindu god Shiva, a particularly notable temple due to its size, architecture and been entirely carved out of a single rock. However, the group noticed that at both sides of the entrance, two empty platforms. A local caretaker explained that historically both platforms housed the statues of Indian god Ganesh (elephant-headed), welcoming the devotees. But pillaging over the ages saw those statues disappear along with other invaluable artifacts.

Two years later, Prof. Basu delivered an invited lecture at Oxford on her latest archeological projects. Then she traveled to explore a well-known estate in the countryside, open to the public. The estate belonged to the same family throughout several generations. After securing an entrance ticket, she walked several meters, finally arriving at the entrance of a castle-like building. To her astonishment, she observed that on each side of the door, a stone statue of Indian god Ganesh was welcoming the visitors. Her heart began to throb. Looking at the architectural style, she had no doubt they were the same statues, once welcomed the devotees to the Shiva Temple in Ellora Caves. Later, strolling through room to room, she noticed more miniature statues of Hindu gods and goddesses as well as Lord Buddha in different meditative poses. There were historic paintings on the walls and gold and silver jewelries in glass showcases. She learned that at least members of two successive generations of this family served in India during British Raj.

Once outside, Prof. Basu sat on a garden bench. She thought about Germany’s efforts to return the treasures that the Nazis, under the Third Reich, looted from the Jewish victims. Nowadays, in the US, a discussion of compensating the descendents of the past African American slaves has been initiated. On the other hand, many powerful western countries that colonized poorer nations in both Asia and Africa in the past never held responsible for plundering their both religious and non-religious treasures, effectively raping their cultural identities. Many of the looted treasures were never returned, instead being showcased in palaces and museums.

With a heavy heart, she looked back at those two statues at the entrance, before leaving for the nearby station to catch a train to the Heathrow Airport for a return flight to her motherland.
​

Missed Opportunities, by Padmini Krishnan

18/2/2022

 
"Mom, why didn't you want me?"

Marie woke up, shivering at the toddler's question.

The doctor's deep voice still rang in her ears, "I strongly suspect your child may have Down syndrome."

A few days later, she saw a small replica of her daughter strolling behind her at the park.

"Mom, why are you staring at space? Come on." cried her daughter, giving Marie a strange look.

Wherever they went, the lookalike followed, her eyes cast down and a smile at the corner of her lips. However, the child neither stepped into their house nor took part in their family activities.

Days passed and Marie's daughter got married. Marie looked back to see a third bridesmaid, a teenager, holding the bride's veil. The teenager jumped up and down, as if in great joy. Marie wondered why nobody else noticed the exuberant girl. But the teenager was nowhere to be seen during the wedding ceremony or the family dinner.

Her major responsibilities fulfilled, Marie leaned back in the couch, trying to find peace. She prayed to be reunited with her second child that never saw the world. Marie felt a bright glow seeping inside her closed eyes. A teenage boy stood at the entrance of her room, looking at her with sharp, intelligent eyes. "High-risk pregnancy" were the last words she remembered. Her heart ached as she saw her son in various stages of childhood and early teens. She tried to cry, but could not open her eyes. Some force held her to the couch, preventing her from moving.

At last, she felt a gentle touch. "Mom, let us go home." ​

The Shaman and the Disappearing Ink, by Gabrielle Park

18/2/2022

 
Juniper gasped as she looked at her grandmother’s house. It was beautiful, and Juniper felt so lucky as she ran through the grand doors– right into her grandmother’s giant hug. It felt amazing to walk through the giant hallways and run through the huge rooms.
“So this house has always been in the family for generations?” Juniper said.

Juniper's grandmother sat still, then replied:
“Yes…But there was a time when the house was almost lost. When I was young, this house belonged to my grandmother. One day, a woman came and asked my grandmother about selling the house. Of course, my grandmother refused. Ms. Tarina, as the woman was called, had a reputation for being a famous shaman and connecting the living with the dead. I, however, always thought that she was a fake. Most shamans want to help others, but Ms. Tarina always wanted something in return. Unfortunately, my grandmother was desperate to talk one last time with grandfather, who had recently passed.

Tarina agreed to help grandmother “talk” to grandfather, but she demanded a return: while my grandmother was alive, she could keep the house, but after she died, the house belonged to Ms. Tarina. Ms. Tarina even watched my grandmother rewrite her will.

Weeks later was a terrible storm. In the morning, when things had calmed down, Ms. Tarina went to check on my grandmother. I think that Ms. Tarina was trying to see if my grandmother had died. She had not, but the windows had burst open and the winds blew away all paper and little trinkets that had been in the house. The will was nowhere to be seen.

Ms. Tarina told my grandmother to rewrite the will, and saw her do it.

After my grandmother died, the family lawyer brought out her will. When everyone got to the inheritance part, there was no mention of where the big house would go. Of course, Ms. Tarina went into a full rage-fest. Her face turned purple, her hands trembled, and she actually had the nerve to growl! The part about the house was missing- right between the part where my grandmother’s antique coin collection went to Cousin Edna, and her small plot of land in Idaho went to Uncle Tom. Since there was no mention of the house, my grandmother’s big building went to the nearest kin: my mom.”

Juniper gaped at grandmother and gasped just one word: “How?”

“I knew that a big storm would blow over. As it happens, I was doing a small science experiment on my grandmother’s ink. I wanted to see what a mixture of thymolphthalein, ethyl, sodium hydroxide, and water could do when mixed. I learned that they created a substance that people call disappearing ink - a quite useful ink, don’t you think?” Juniper’s grandmother winked. “I think it’s time for lunch!”

Chocolate Man, by Kim Favors

11/2/2022

 
“There’s the Negro again.” Dad slowed our pickup to watch a man fishing at Frogcreek Pond.

“We don’t call black people that any more,” I said.

“I s’pose I’m not to call him colored either,” Dad sounded annoyed.

Jimmy, my brother, elbowed me in the ribs. I ignored him.

“Miss Yurokov says the correct term is African-American.”

“Yurokov? That your teacher? What kind of name is Yurokov? Nevermind.”

Jimmy quickly turned on the radio to the local station; we rode the rest of the way home in silence.

The next time Jimmy and I saw the man fishing was when we were walking the creek path home from school.

“Catch anything?” I called out.

He looked up and smiled. “Not yet. Got any suggestions?”

We walked over. He looked to be in his 70s, in farmer overalls, with calloused hands and an easy grandfather-like smile.

We talked about fishing, the weather, everyday things.

On days when our dad didn’t pick us up from school, Jimmy and I would visit with our new friend.

We learned his name was Nathaniel. When he told us he had grandchildren living nearby, I must have looked puzzled. I couldn’t remember seeing any dark-skinned kids.

“We’re a mixture. I’m originally from Jamaica. My first wife was French. After she passed, I married a lady in Puerto Rico and became a U.S. citizen. Our kids didn’t feel tied to any race.”

“Then you’re not an African-American, like our teacher says,” Jimmy said, ignoring my elbow in his ribs.

“Well, I’m not from Africa. I just think of myself as an American,” Nathaniel laughed. And he didn’t seem to mind that two white kids were curious about the history of his skin color.

During one visit, Nathaniel asked if we liked chocolate. “Every year the grandkids and their moms create special Valentine’s Day sweets to hand out.”

He reached into a cooler sitting in the grass and pulled out a clear plastic container of identical hearts, some various shades of dark brown, light brown and even some white ones, which he said were also chocolate.

“I wonder if there’s a message here,” he smiled. “That in our hearts we humans are all the same, just sometimes we come in different colors.”

Our mouths were too full of chocolate to say anything other than “thank you.”

Then, once again, my brother elbowed me in the ribs. “Do you have enough that we could take a couple of pieces home,” he asked.

“Of course, take all you want,” Nathaniel smiled again.

Jimmy took a dark brown heart and a white heart, and put them in his shirt pocket. Nathaniel and Jimmy exchanged grins. They didn’t know I was watching.

“Tell your father I said hello,” Nathaniel called out as we waved good-bye.

Just a Nightmare, by Gabrielle Park

11/2/2022

 
Celeste gulped as she walked. Maintaining a straight posture was hard- especially when a million people were watching her- even for a celebrity. When she stood in front of an entrance, Celeste felt that her hairdo would almost reach the top of the doorway.

Celeste was about to enter through the doorway when she spied a reporter trying to capture a picture of her through the crowd. Standing on her toes, Celeste gave a stunning smile, then maintained that height as she stumbled through the entrance. Just as she was passing through the entrance, she could feel her hair getting stuck on one of the decorations. Then the horror: her hairdo fell on the floor, revealing that it was all a wig.

As gasps echoed through the walls, Celeste too let out a small “Oh, no!” and then woke up. “It was just a nightmare!” Celeste cried in happiness.

Suddenly, Celeste’s mother burst into the room and said, “Celeste! How ever shall we deal with the public! Your little horror story is all over the news! Next time, don’t wear a wig at such an important event!”

Celeste both wanted to scream and cry, as the warmth of realizing that her dream was “just a nightmare” left her.

The Life Class, by Tom Baldwin

4/2/2022

 
Leticia walked into the life-drawing class, shrugged off her robe and lay on the couch, adjusting her pose until it was to the teacher’s satisfaction.

‘Right, class,’ he said. ‘By now you can all draw a human figure to a reasonable standard. Today I want you to draw this woman exactly as she is, but also showing the person within — her personality. That is the aim of a true artist. A genius would also hint at her beautiful soul. You won’t succeed today, but I’m looking for a hint of that in your work.’

The students began. Some quickly drew outlines while others, more reflective, spent time just looking, trying to discern her inner life. The teacher prowled the room, praising here, suggesting there and occasionally snorting derision at sub-standard work. Leticia day-dreamed as the time passed.

Pencils hissed on paper, with the occasional scrub of an eraser on a faulty line or shading. Her knee ached a little and she stretched it before returning to her original pose.

Leticia didn’t mind people looking at her body, particularly dispassionate artists. She didn’t consider it better or worse than anyone else’s, and just thought of it as a vehicle to carry her, the real Leticia, around.

She knew her body presented a challenge to the class, as did her rich life experience within. The class may guess but could not know the details of her life and her roles in it. Leticia was proud to have been a wife, a mother and a grandmother.

And now she was a widow, and free.

Sisters, by David Milner

4/2/2022

 
Martha measured 300g of plant-based shea butter on the digital weighing scale. Mostly she prepared by eye, today there were guests – possibly ten in total – to entertain, and due to arrive a little after 2pm, so a little extra care and consideration wouldn’t go amiss. Martha placed the butter in a large glass bowl. She moved the weighing scale aside on the work surface. At the sound of Mary’s footfall on the concreted path leading to the kitchen, Martha halted. A moment later, ankle to collarbone in skin-tight black Lycra, Mary entered through the kitchen door, breathily checking her smartwatch, casually removing the red elasticated headband, her wavy blonde hair falling softly, to settle, quite naturally, onto the delicate slope of her shoulders.

“How many miles?” Martha enquired.

“Four point seven kilometres.”

“Are you slipping, Mary?”

“That funny fellow was in the park.” Mary said, using the heel of her left foot to close the kitchen door.

“We could report him… perhaps?”

Mary shrugged, “He’s probably completely harmless”, and off she sauntered in the direction of her bedroom.

Martha filled the kettle with filtered water.

Martha carried a cup of rosehip tea to the bedroom, placing it on a bedside cabinet while her younger sister wriggled her slim physique out of the Lycra.

“What time is Jonty expected?”

With a sigh, Martha replied, “Jonathan will be here at two o’clock.”

“With his entourage?” Mary giggled.

“Oh, honestly….”

Not especially tall at 5’11’’, dark-haired and handsome in a decidedly sporty way, Reverend Jonathan Helms was unmarried. For his 40th birthday Martha had baked a sugar free date and walnut loaf. This afternoon, as well as the loaf, there would be her sugar free almond and coconut flapjacks.

Both sisters had made disastrous marriages. Mary’s divorce even more rancorous than Martha’s. And both, left virtually penniless to boot! Mercifully their marvellous Aunt Harriet had requested in her last will and testament that the detached, luxury bungalow should be shared between them. Here, the two sisters had lived amicably, if not entirely happily, these past three years.

Covid restrictions temporarily eased, the parishioners, led by Jonathan, of St. Saviour’s Eco Awareness group had taken their meeting into the garden. Mary, wearing a wide brimmed straw hat – to shield her sensitive eyes from the sunlight – was seated, quite naturally, in the middle of the group, comprising two elderly ladies and, including Jonathan, five, not so elderly men. Mary was bare legged under a light summer dress.

In the kitchen waiting for her flapjacks to cool, Martha felt a familiar presence behind her.

“Mary isn’t much use in the kitchen.”

“She is what she is, Martha.”

“It begs a question, I suppose…”

Martha turned to face the handsome man.

“You are worried and upset about many things. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

“It comes quite naturally to me.”

“Join us, Martha”, the Reverend smiled, “Sit beside me.”

Even Worse, by John M. Carlson

4/2/2022

 
I hate this job, Alan Dick thought, as he sat down at the teacher’s desk.

A month or so before, he started substitute teaching. It seemed like a good option. The pay was decent. He didn’t need an education degree, so even his unmarketable liberal arts degree was good enough. There really wasn’t much work to do. All the job required most days was taking attendance, giving an assignment the teacher had left, and—the most important part—making sure the kids didn’t destroy the school.

But there was a dark side to the job. Most of the time, he worked at a middle school. This school was full of obnoxious thirteen-year-old boys, who thought that it was hilarious that his last name was Dick. Alan knew they constantly made crude jokes about his name behind his back.

What horrors await me today? Alan wondered. All he knew was that he was subbing for the health teacher—so today would probably be an assignment on something like the importance of a nutritious diet. He picked up the note the teacher had left him. He didn’t have time to read it before the first student, Jason, appeared

Alan grated his teeth. Jason was one of the most annoying boys in the school. It would be Alan’s luck to have Jason in the first class on Monday morning.

Another boy came in. “Look who’ll be teaching sex ed today!” Jason yelled to the other boy. “Mr. DICK!”

Both boys shrieked with laughter, as they headed for their desks.

Alan looked at the teacher’s note. Yes, the current unit was sex ed. And—even worse!—today’s reading assignment was on the male reproductive system.

This will be a terrible day, Alan thought.

    Longer
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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.

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    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.

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