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The Newcomer, by Kim Favors

16/2/2024

Another day, another newcomer. How do I know? She’s in the garden, sitting hunched over the residents handbook with a bewildered look on her face. Atop my favorite bench no less.

Which means it’s time for another intervention. Sigh. I suppose I should be grateful. I roll my wheelchair over and we introduce ourselves.

Soon I’m answering the usual questions about RestHaven Retirement Center. I choose my words carefully.

New owners and there’ve been operational changes since the brochure and magazine ads were printed.
Now we’re often required to eat meals in our rooms.
Our televisions show programs that management has selected.
We’re issued laptops but Internet access is available only in the library. And there’s a waitlist.
Smartphones are prohibited. And basic phones can be confiscated for inspection at any time.
Visitors must be pre-approved.
Everyone is issued a uniform, to be worn when military leaders and government officials are on the grounds.

I can tell she’s about to ask the question I hate the most — how long do most people…

“Hello ladies.” Just in time, RestHaven employee Michael approaches our bench. At least I think it’s Michael. With their angular chins, blond hair and stark blue eyes, these young male attendants often look alike.

“Mrs. Castenada, it’s time for your orientation class, and then your microchip will be implanted,” he tells my companion.

“And Mrs. Johnson, thank you for again helping our latest newcomer feel welcome.”

I nod. Yes, I’m still grateful. Grateful that years ago I voted for the right president. It’s been life-sustaining.

Behind the Wall of Smoke, by Malvina Perova

16/2/2024

We hide in the bathroom and hope for someone to get to us before the fire does. Stuffed between the sink and the washer, we count the series of blasts outside. The orange tongues are eating our backyard trees. They collapse at the wall and I order to bolt the window.
My fingers shake as I try to dial three digits on my phone. The boys are silent, big eyes filled with terror and absolute trust in me. I search for words of comfort, but the smoke steals my breath away.
It’s getting oven-hot, and the roof gives a deafening crack. I hold my boys close, and all words of comfort are now a half-forgotten prayer.
‘Over here!’ a voice comes from behind the wall of smoke. ‘Can you move?’
I barely see a firefighter squeezing through the cracked door, like a phantom in the puffs of grey fumes. ‘I’ll take the kids,’ he offers. ‘Hold on. And follow me.’
My boys are asleep. We carry them through the wreckage of our home, past the burning rooms and over the fallen beams. I wonder how smoke no longer stings my lungs, how well I can see. The firefighter’s suit is filthy and burnt, torn at the sleeves.
He looks back at me with his eyes shining. So bright it makes me smile in return.

Chopping Sticks, by Christa Loughrey

16/2/2024

The thump and crack of small wood being split with a hand axe. The smell of fresh cut wood; the small scattering of splinters on the ground. All at once, I’m just a lass again, out in the back yard, chopping sticks so that I can light the fire.

Thump. Crack.

I carry them in through the kitchen, where mum is kneading bread; rings on the table, hands sticky with dough; blue check apron dusty with the flour of many baking sessions. The sweet smell of home baking hits my memory with all the clarity of yesterday.

Thump. Crack.

Through to the living room, where I kneel by the empty grate; layer the sticks with old newspapers and cinders; set the damper; place a few new coals on top. That moment when the small flame begins to flicker and grow; holding my breath until the sticks and cinders catch, burn, bring the coals to life.

Thump. Crack.

Dad, home from work, settles down in his comfortable old chair; turns on the old black and white television; pours a little sweet tea from the cup into the saucer and blows across it before drinking. My siblings crowd in; choose their places by the hearth; nestle down like so many birds settling.

Thump. Crack.

And, like birds, they all left the nest long, long ago; grew into new identities; made new lives with other people. Mum and dad have both gone forever. Even the house has been stripped out, extended, modernised beyond recognition – my old home, as I knew it, has gone. Only distant echoes remain.

Thump. Crack.

I gather up the memories with the sticks, turning my face aside as I do so. Sticks wet with tears won’t burn.

Flying High, by John O’Keefe

16/2/2024

(Artwork by Toni Verkruysse)

We are convinced he has gone crazy. On live TV, standing next to the mayor, he introduces himself as Ron Branta, owl tamer.

Branta is a well-liked biology teacher, swim team coach and actor/director of the town’s community theater for the past five years (the reason he got the award). True, he does rescue injured raptors as a hobby, but being a biologist he should know that birds of prey are impossible to domesticate.

“I realize it’s a tall order,” he tells the reporter, “but if I put my mind to it, I’ll figure out the way. Eagles and hawks don’t pay attention to instructions and only acknowledge you when they want to be fed. Owls are different. They’re intelligent enough to be trained, although they tend to meditate a lot and the majority of them are quite superstitious. Hence the challenge.”

The mayor’s ashen face shows he just had an out-of-body experience. Everybody in attendance or watching on TV is wondering, is it possible to bounce back from this politically? No, probably not. We Canada geese are noted for our exceptionally long memory.

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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.

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

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Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

The Newcomer, by Kim Favors

Behind the Wall of Smoke, by Malvina Perova

Chopping Sticks, by Christa Loughrey

Flying High, by John O’Keefe

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