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Stasis, by Eric Smith

31/3/2015

 
I’ve known people who can’t stand stasis. They resign from good jobs and jump into others, presumably because they’ll have new opportunities and make more money, but really because they’ll work in a new facility, meet new people, and have a different boss—maybe one who’ll treat them better. 

These are the same people who keep moving to new neighborhoods because their house isn’t big enough, isn’t properly appointed or, maybe, they can’t stand their neighbors. 

These people tend not to stay married very long, either. They think divorce is the hottest thing on wheels. There’s always another partner out there somewhere who’s more compatible with them in terms of moral or ethical outlook or who’s better or, at least, different in the sack. 

At a minimum they have to sell their car and buy a new one every two years. They read up on vehicles on consumer-related sites on the Internet to make sure the new car meets their requirements. 

The reason I bring this up is that I’m not altogether sure I believe stasis exists—I mean I’m not sure things ever really stay the same. But I’ll give the movers one thing; they speed up the process. 

I found a job and had no idea how long it’d last. In fact, they threatened to lay me off after two years. If I’d been a mover, I’d already have been gone. I probably should have taken the layoff and looked for another job elsewhere. What did I do? To remain with that company I took a twenty-percent pay cut to perform far-less-pleasant duties—all so I didn’t have to look for another job. 

But you know something? Things changed anyway. Yes. I was still at the same company but I had a different job and made a different salary. Also, that company was small. But within a few years it merged with a larger firm and the corporate culture changed as a result. 

For example, when I came on board I wore a suit to work. Then only company officers wore suits—not peons like me. I wore slacks, a dress shirt, and tie instead. Then, in a few years we began observing “dress-down” Friday; we wore a tie only four days a week. Shortly thereafter, we began dressing down every day of the week. 

The culture changed the way people smoked, too. In the beginning, you could smoke at your desk. Then you had to go to a designated smoking room to light up. Finally, smokers were banished from the building altogether. 

The point I’m trying to make here is that things do change around you even if you give in to inertia and do nothing about it. 

During my time at the company I saw people arrive, dig in, climb the ladder, depart. They married, divorced, remarried, and conducted assignations. And I walked past more than a few caskets during those years. So there were plenty of changes--you just had to be patient.

On The Lake, by Bobby Warner

29/3/2015

 
We could have been so happy for the rest of our lives--I know we could! We had two wonderful years; we were inseparable. You called me your princess, and you were my prince. I just knew we would spend all our days together.

And oh how I thought that you felt the same.

Then she came into our lives; and when she left, she took you with her. Leaving me alone. How could this have happened?

We used to come out to the lake often, late at night, just as I am doing now. But I am alone. Alone except for my purse, and the little now-empty bottle of mother's pills.

I am getting so sleepy. I'll lie down in the bottom of the canoe, let go the oars, and just let the current take me where it will.

The moon is rising. Everything is so still and peaceful. I am so sleepy I cannot hold my eyes open any longer. The moon glow is fading, and so am I.

If I cannot have you, I want no one at all. The darkness is almost complete.

Goodnight, my sweet, sweet prince . . . .

I Saw You, by Bobby Warner

26/3/2015

 
Oh, yes. I saw you last Tuesday night. We all knew he would be alone in the cabin. But it had to be you who came and smashed his head with the large rock.

It was only a matter of time. Everyone hated him. Only why did it have to be you? Well, it was, and that's that.

I was there myself to do it, but you--you beat me to it, spoiled my pleasure of braining him myself. No one hated him more than I and no one deserved the right to kill him more than I. You took away that right, and that I cannot forgive.

So I shall watch and wait, then chose my moment well. You must pay for what you did.

You won't even see me coming.

Best-Selling Author Gets A New Publisher, by Bobby Warner

25/3/2015

 
Best-selling author Zobann Renieu slouched into the editor's office of his new publisher.

"Finish the first novel for us yet, Mr. Renieu?" the editor asked.

"Yep. Left it down at the loading dock."

"I don't understand," said the puzzled editor.

"I do my writing on steno pads with a No. 2 pencil. You wanted a longish novel to begin the series--and you got it. All 829 steno pads, hand-written. You'll have to get someone to type 'em up. Hope you like the book. Send a copy of the proofs to my hotel and I'll correct 'em. 'Bye now."

And with a vague wave of his right hand, the best-selling author slouched back out of the room.

"Saints preserve us!" groaned the editor. "No wonder Gooch Brothers Publishers finagled to shunt this guy off on us. Oh, well, he is best-seller quality, so hopefully his books will make enough to give us all substantial bonuses!"

He lit his pipe, bent over his cluttered desk, and began making phone calls to arrange the transformation of 829 hand-written steno pads into a hardcopy manuscript. After than, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and tried to figure out some way of persuading Zobann Ranieu to use a computer to compose his next novel.

Phobia, by Bobby Warner

21/3/2015

 
Eric Toleman had always had a feeling of fear. But fear of what?

He could never pin it down, or put a name to it.

When he met and married Pam, the fear receded. It was still there, but greatly diminished. Pam had that effect on his life.

Then he finished work early one evening, rode the elevator to their 40th floor apartment--and found Pam in bed with another man. Enraged, he leapt onto the bed and began choking the intruder.

Someone--it had to have been Pam--truck him on the back of his head with a hard, blunt object. He fell forward, crashing through the bedroom window.

As he plummeted toward the street, Eric suddenly knew what he had always been afraid of: falling to him doom from a great height.

Luck Or Skill, 1972, by Eric Smith

18/3/2015

 
Jack didn’t wash his hands. He looked into the bathroom mirror noting the permanent lines gouged into his forehead, his hairline creeping up his scull and the full beard curling high on his face—some of his friends called him wolf man—almost up to his tired eyes, anchored in his face by the bluish-black bags underneath. 

He couldn’t believe it—he was no longer a young man. He was thrity-seven and looked every bit of it. Thirty-seven and what had he done with his life? He’d avoided making decisions, taken the path of least resistance at every tough turn in road. He was rootless, wandering through life without direction. 

He’d already thrown back six pints of beer but felt steady on his feet. He could use at least three or four more. When he pushed the door open a big guy was shuffling in and said something threatening without looking at Jack. 

“Watch where you’re going, asswipe.” 

Jack ignored him. You could usually get around guys like that if you didn’t say anything. If you didn’t challenge them they wouldn’t feel they had to fight—no reason to make a federal case of it. 

Things had changed while he’d been in the john. First, when he left Cat Stevens was singing “Wild World,” one of his favorites. But when he returned to the bar The Doors were shouting “Been Down So Long.” 

Butch sat in the same place, the table top littered with empties, a little forest of brown glass. But now a girl sat beside him. She wore a black hat with blonde hair flowing down and out both sides of it. And she had a fatuous smile plastered on her face—definitely Butch’s type. 

She insisted her name was Sunshine. For some reason Butch was trying to find out her real name, but he wasn’t getting far. Maybe Sunshine was drunk and so had an excuse. No such luck. She sounded sober. 

Since Butch was driving, Jack figured he might have a tough time making it home now that Butch would have company. Jack would either have to hitch or sleep on Butch’s uncomfortable couch. 

Jack looked at Sunshine a minute and then said, “Catherine.” They used to call you Cathy, with a C, right? You reinvented yourself, decided to go by Sunshine, particularly around strangers. You think it gives you a certain cachet. Actually, most people think you’re a dolt. You’re divorced with kids, two maybe, but your mother takes care of them. 

Sunshine stared resentfully at Jack. “What the hell do you know? You clairvoyant or something?” 

“No, Cathy, it’s just that I can read you like a book.” 

Sunshine stood and left. Without looking back, she sat down a couple of tables away with friends. 

“Thanks, Jack.” 

“She wasn’t built to last, anyway.” 

“Who cares. What’s wrong with tonight?” 

“I care. I want a ride home,” Jack said. 

“Okay, so where do you know that girl from?”

The Sticky Horror, by Bobby Warner

15/3/2015

 
I fell asleep eating. I'd worked like a slave all week, and was exhausted.

Suddenly I was woken by a terrific clap of thunder, and reached over to turn on the lamp. Nothing. Darkness engulfed the bedroom. A storm had knocked out electrical power.

Getting groggily out of bed, I felt something sticky on my hand; on both hands--even on my clothing and bedcovers. It was as though the darkness had taken on substance, and was smearing me with loathsome stickiness--had indeed become a hideous fiend out to undo me ere I could escape.

Something fell to the floor at my feet with a sickening PLOP!--and I jumped up and stepped on it. Arrgh! How horrible and slimy it felt.

I made a dash for the door, hoping to escape from the fiendish thing that surely pursued me. My hand touched the doorknob just as the electric power--and lights--came back on.

Suddenly my spirits lifted, and I laughed joyfully. For there on the floor, beside the bed, where I had squashed it into a sticky mess when I stepped on it, was the remains of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had been snaking on when I fell asleep . . . !

One-Sentence Smoker, by Eric Smith

13/3/2015

 
One of those guys who could “think into a typewriter,” he let the first cigarette of the day dangle from his lips unlit—a butt with a recessed filter, the full-flavored king variety, the other nineteen nestled snugly in the box that sat on the desk to the left of the manual while the wooden kitchen match waited on the right for him to stop when the moment arrived so he could light it with his thumbnail, touch the flame to the end of the coffin nail and return to work—as he pounded the keys, the desk shaking under his heavy touch, he looked down occasionally as the paper, the twenty-fifth page, filled with prose, yes, the best he’d ever composed, without a doubt, his confidence grew, as the plot rushed toward the climax, the characters expanded and continued to surprise, the sense of place blossomed in his head as he felt himself walking the same streets, sitting on a chair in the same house, the crisp staccato dialogue filling his head, he lost all sense of the time that had passed but felt an urge, a need, for something (what was it?) and then he knew; so, he stopped typing, stopped thinking, reached for the match and lit it deftly with his nail and drew the flame into the brown weed and paper, concomitantly pulled his first drag deep into his lungs, and lost all memory of what he’d been writing—it was gone.

Blocked, by Eric Smith

12/3/2015

 
He stared at the empty screen. How would he fill that sucker up with scintillating prose? Maybe he needed to think about the genre—fiction, nonfiction, fantasy, science fiction, young adult, literary fiction (whatever that is), short stories, self-help? How about “The Compleat Idiot’s Guide to Growing Hemp”?

Or maybe he needed to nail it down—yeah, greater specificity. He’d write a bodice-ripper, police procedural, court-room drama, or why not a memoir of an obscure person who became addicted to something or got sent to prison and who overcame great odds—or maybe a faux memoir with the words “Confessions of” in the title.

No, he had to establish it more specifically still. Say, if he wrote a police procedural, how graphic and hard-boiled could it be? Would he detail grisly crime scenes and autopsies or would he treat his plot with circumspection and taste? He’d have to decide who his readership would be and how wide a fan base he’d aim for.

Would the main character, the investigator, be a woman or a man? Would they be young, —hot or handsome—while wet behind the ears—not a desirable trait but it would open things up for a wild sex life—at least in terms of frequency, every 15 pages or so, with multiple, inappropriate partners. Or, would the protagonist be beyond middle aged, wizened, their best years behind them, but with the experience and guile to outwit the most wickedly brilliant sociopath?

How about their moral character—would they be a goody-two-shoes or would they constantly buck the system and so find themselves frequently called on the carpet in the boss’s office?

Would they be a big-city cop or maybe a small-town sheriff? Or better yet, how about a game warden or ranger who discovers mauled victims in the forest—something a grizzly might have done, but only the hero has the perspicacity to discern and prove the perpetrator is human? That would put a nifty spin on things.

But no, that had been done. Wait a minute. Hadn’t everything been done? The crux of the matter was not whether it had been done, but how well. That’s the ticket, he thought. Just pick something he felt comfortable with and then do it better than anyone else ever had. He’d write about something he knew. Isn’t that what they always said? Write what you know? Besides, research is a bore, too much trouble, even though necessary to achieve verisimilitude.

He continued to stare at the screen. After surfing the net awhile, he came back to the blank screen and glanced at the clock on the computer monitor. It was time for lunch. He could drive into town for a sandwich and watch the people. That almost always gave him an idea. By the time he returned he’d be ready to fill the page with his first 100 words. And it would be good.

Twins Of Mischief, by Len Nourse

8/3/2015

 
Sally and Betsy were born on Christmas day holding hands with a smile on their tiny faces. 

“Joe, the nurse said they were born with smiles on their faces. Did you see these smiles and what was your interpretation? “

“Yes Daph, they certainly had smiles on their faces, but why do you ask that question?” 


“I asked the nurse the same question and she said they were smiles of mischief, almost wicked. That frightens me.”

“Don’t do that to yourself again, remember our twin sons also smiled when born, and you worried, yet there’s nothing frightening about them.”

“Yes, but that nurse said they were smiles of joy.”

“Yet your superstitious mind interpreted that as bad luck. You do this with everything, and to date none of your misapprehensions have materialized. In their ten years nothing has or will happen with the boys. Rather be happy that both you and our twin girls had an easy birth and are healthy. I think them born with a smile is delightful, not mischievous because that sounds like fun. I don’t see how she could have seen roguishness in their smiles. 

“Sally, Sunday is our tenth birthday, and it’s a Spring-tide high at 8pm. We have been invited to have dinner at the Earl’s mansion and the bottom of the drain slide will be under water, so let’s play some tricks on our hosts, especially their droopy sons. Since they will be at church most of the day, as well as most of their staff, we’ll tell Mom and Dad we have homework to finish and stay at home when they are at church.”

“Great idea Betsy, that’ll be fun. We’ll likely find no one at the Earl’s stables so let’s get hold of a couple of saddles, saddle up two of their horses and go for a gallop around the mountain and on the beach. At the same time we’ll let all the horses out of the stables and chase them down to the beach and let them roam as they like.”

“Oh Sally, you have one mischievous streak after another. The horses will love to run free instead of been cooped up in the stable. That will certainly cause a ruckus in in the Castle and the village. It’ll be fun."

"Even better Betty, let’s put his slippery slide on the water drain that runs down to the beach and smear it with soap. Then at 8pm well entice the Earl’s sons to the outlet of the drain and push them down the slide into the sea."

“Sally and Betsy come to breakfast immediately,” shouted Joe sitting at the table.” When they were all seated he continued, “What do you two have to say for yourselves?”

“What do you mean Dad?” 

“Don’t come up all innocent. You know what I mean. If any of the Earls horses were hurt it would have cost me a lot of money. Furthermore, your brothers say you pushed the Earl boys down the ramp. Is that true? You told me you stayed home to write your essays. Did you?” 

“Yes to both questions. Betsy has written such a funny one, you won’t half laugh.” 

“OK I’ll accept that but don’t believe you; yet I don’t blame you for missing church; I always found it a bore at your age.” 

“Come on Dad, admit it you still do, and those boys are wimps,” echoed the twins. 

“Joe! Don’t you dare answer that? It will just encourage them to play more of their silly pranks. Earl Hanks is furious, and should something like that happen again his wife Natasha says she’ll report the incident to the police. She, as Chancellor at the University, could influence their acceptance when their time comes to go to university.” 

“Yes, Daph, you are right, but I don’t think that will happen with what we know about her, and the Earl for that matter.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“It’s our secret.” 


“Why can’t you tell me?” 


“Mom, if Dad tells you the whole school and college will know.” 


“Joe, are you going to let them talk to me like that?” 


“Yes Daph, in this case I’m going to ask you to accept my judgement and that’s the end of this conversation. But twins, do show more respect towards your mother.” 

“Again Daph, it seems your worries about our girls are unfounded, they were accepted into college without a to-do. Also, they are sailing through college with top marks.” 


“True Joe, but it seems you have not been reading all the reports about their behaviour outside their studies. They really are wicked.” 


“I have, but that’s just the college pranks of two spirited girls. I’ve spoken to them about it and they tell me it was just because they were bored with how easy they have found their studies and did that for amusement. Their exam marks, all A’s confirms that, and surely that’s the main objective of going to college.” 


“You call swindling the college club out of $10 000 just a prank when they were on the college fund committee.” 


“They gave it back and never intended keeping it. They told me they just did it to show administration how poor their security system was.” 


“Joe, they have you twisted around their little fingers, and mark my words, they are up to something. Luckily they graduate this coming Friday and will be off our hands and hopefully will land good jobs with excellent pay”. 


“No Daph, that’s just your expectancy, they are both going to start their PhD’s next year. Their BS degrees have been updated to Honours because of their excellence.” 

“Sal, here’s a rich one coming out of the Ritz.” 


“Yes Betsy, ideal. He’s good looking too and definitely past sixty. I could even enjoy him under the covers when I get him there so that you do your part. 


“Wait until he passes that tree. Don’t hurt yourself or else you won’t be able to perform.” 


“Watch where you’re running young lady, oh, I see you’re bleeding.” 


“Sorry Sir” 


“Let me look at it. It’s bad. I’m a doctor, come to my rooms and I’ll dress it.” 


“May my friend Betsy come too? 


“Sure, you look like twins, and your name is? 


“Sally.” 

“Read about it in the Sunday Herald – police trap Alluring Twins….” 

The twins are still smiling and holding hands behind bars while planning their escape.

Maybe Things Aren't What They Seem, by Marilyn R. Freedman

7/3/2015

 
Perhaps the best way to introduce this story is to allow Marilyn to do so herself.

"I suffered a deep loss at the end of January. My cat Dragon died. He was the best of cats, charming and dignified, affectionate when affection was earned and tolerant beyond belief. Even when the twins were tossing him at each other--much to my dismay--during their early elementary school days, never did he raise a claw to them. This story was inspired by a card sent to us by the vet who euthanized him. It included a poem based on a Norse myth about the rainbow bridge, pets, and their human companions."

MAYBE THINGS AREN'T WHAT THEY SEEM

I crested the hill. A meadow spread out below. Leafed-out trees glowed in the sun. Settling my pack on my shoulders, I was grateful for grass and not scree on the steep grade.

In the distance I saw a structure. With no particular destination—where was I?—I headed toward it: a bridge, with something dark moving back and forth in front.

I couldn’t place the familiar sound I heard. But my heart beat faster. I picked up the pace.

Something black streaked toward me. I dropped to my knees as a black cat launched itself at me. In the light I could see brown stripes ripple among the black. When he lifted a paw and tapped my cheek, I knew. “Dragon!”

“Lots of mice here. Will you finally learn to hunt?”

Another Wish Is Granted, by Bobby Warner

7/3/2015

 
Karl Noodze chanted the spell to evoke the Great Black Slimy Demon Gro'ze-Mei-Oudticus. The fearsome creature appeared in a gigantic POOF! of smoke and glared down at Karl.

"And what is your wish, oh insignificant mortal?" the demon demanded.

"Holy jumping miracles!" Karl laughed hysterically, jumping up and down in glee. "The spell really worked!"

"Be quick and tell me what you wish for," said the demon. "I don't have all day. You wouldn't believe my workload this close to the holiday rush!"

"I'd like a billion dollars in pure gold," said Karl, his eyes all aglow.

"Easy," said the demon, snapping several of his claws. "Hold out your hands." Immediately a billions dollars in pure gold materialized a dozen feet above Karl's head.

"No! Wait--I can't hold all that in my hands!" Karl screeched as the demon released the mass of precious metal--which promptly smashed the poor man into the ground.




"Tsk, tsk," said the demon. "I keep forgetting these puny mortals can't handle heavy loads. When are they going to wise up--and ask me for a check!

No Such A Fool, by Bobby Warner

3/3/2015

 
Mosbey and Clette staggered out of Happy Fred's PLace with a snoot full of bourbon and beer chasers. Mosbey stepped in a hole and bumped into Clette, who was trying (unsuccessfully) to dig his car keys out of his pocket, and sent his pal sprawling. Clette jumped up, brushed at the mud on his new jeans and whined, "Why'd you do that for?"

Meanwhile Mosbey had come across a big fat wallet someone had dropped in the street.

When they finally got to the car, Mosbey held the door open so the overhead light stayed on, looked in the wallet, and almost passed out. It was stuffed with hundred dollar bills. The sight immediately sobered both men.

"I think we're rich," grinned Mobley. "How'd you like to have half of this, seein' as how we share everything."

"I don't know," said Clette, as though trying to make up his mind. "You know I'm takin' that correspondence course to be a preacher."

"Okay. If you don't want a share, I'll keep it all for myself," Mobley said, starting to put the wallet in his pocket.

Clette grabbed his arm. "Hold on. Just hold it right there, old buddy. I might be plannin' on bein' a preachin' pastor one these days, but I'm darn sure no such a fool as to turn down a pile of money like this. Count out my half and let's say a prayer of thanks for this Bountiful Gift from Above!"

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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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    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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