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The Tale of Donna, by Gordon Lawrie

31/3/2023

5 Comments

 
Will to survive
Donna was a woman of easy virtue who lived in the quiet Mid-West town of Spitsville. She made no attempt to hide her source of income; far from it, she advertised on television, sponsored local events and handed out leaflets outside church after Sunday services. Donna loved the limelight. And for the most part, folks around Spitsville just shrugged their shoulders, accepting that every town needed a Donna like it needed a sheriff: and Donna provided an ‘education service’ of sorts.

No one, including the IRS, knew how much Donna earned. But as she grew older, what did become clear that she was using hard-earned dollars to buff up her image. The hair was always blonde, her face botoxed and there were even rumours that she wore a wig. She continued to earn, but with age and experience came power: town officials and politicians discovered Donna was not a woman to cross. If Donna thought Spitsville needed a new shopping mall, it was as good as built.

Things changed completely the year Spitsville decided to elect its town prostitute. Forced to seek Republican Party nomination, Donna found herself up against a Joanie-come-lately in Lolita Leybrand, a young Democrat brunette. The campaign was dirty. In the event, Lolita was the clear winner, but Donna was having none of it. On the very day Lolita was due to be sworn in, a party of Donna’s most loyal clients stormed the town hall. Four people died, including a police officer.

A furious Spitsville split in two. The Democrats wanted to charge Donna for insurrection; Donna’s supporters insisted that no such assault on the town hall had ever happened, it was all “fake news”. What was needed was hard evidence of serious lawbreaking.

But this, of course, was Spitsville, and even if folk weren’t that bothered about an attempted revolution, financial cheating was another matter. Daniel Storm, an old client of Donna’s from way back, came forward to testify he’d paid her $500,000 in service fees, but she hadn’t paid anything in local taxes. Locals had starved because of Donna’s greed. Clearly Donna was therefore a witch. And Donna agreed: it was a witch-hunt, she said.

Donna was therefore put on trial in the one way that would establish if she were indeeed a witch. Tied to a stool, she was ducked in the town pond. Innocent, she’d drown; guilty, she’d survive.

Fully five minutes later, the stool re-surfaced. A triumphant Donna had not only survived, she’d emerged triumphant, waving and promising to “make Spitsville great again”. For half of those watching, it was proof that Donna was guilty as charged; to the other half, Donna was a god, the new Messiah. The two groups started to argue, then they came to blows, then the guns came out. Until then, folk in Spitsville had always wondered why the US needed a Second Amendment, but now their no-longer-quiet town had finally found a use for their weapons.

Meanwhile, Donna just stood and watched. And grinned.

(Another ineligible contribution.)

5 Comments

Ceremonial, by Adrian McRobb

31/3/2023

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Tradition
The black mirror of polished toe caps reflect the old buildings, Horse Guards frowns down upon the assembled soldiers waiting...they've seen it all before.

A lone woman rider approaches the dais, it's her birthday, the band strikes up Hearts of Oak.

As the red jacketed soldiers move off, the crowd of spectators starts applauding, arms move in unison in time with the pace.
Boots hit the gravel with a sound like crunching cornflakes, red striped trouser seams crease as their owners march as one toward the dais.

When the first rank breasts the platform the guards commander orders "eyes left" the bear skinned heads snap round until they pass, then they snap forward again, in a rippling effect.
Brass buttons gleam in the early sun, competing with the Life Guards cuirasses as they ride towards the Queens Troop horse artillery.

Tourists cameras flash as the parade is freeze framed in a thousand lenses, sensors working hard as the high speed whine blurs the shutters.
The band now plays the Grenadiers March, the pressed crowd applauds again jostling forward to get a better view.

Row upon row of guardsmen pass the dais their officers saluting with their sabres, the dressing is superb, their legs and arms rise and drop as one, holding the line ruler straight...
​
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Terrible Memories of a Terrible Past, by John M. Carlson

31/3/2023

2 Comments

 
Will to survive
“I really chose a great time to visit Mom!” I snarled to myself, as I followed the detour. The detour, I thought, would probably take my past my old high school. Which was the last place I ever wanted to see again.

We moved here when I was 14. I’d heard that it wasn’t easy coming to a new school, but nothing prepared me for how awful it was.

My problems started in PE. The boys’ PE teacher took a very hands off approach to discipline. He didn’t care what happened, just as long as it stopped short of boys killing each other. “Boys will be boys!” he’d say. Thus, the gym was virtually a war zone.

The worst part of PE wasn’t getting hit hard by a dodge ball. It was the other boys bullying me in the showers. They’d make jokes about my body. They regularly snapped me hard with towels. And someone would urinate on me at least twice a week.

I tried skipping the shower. Which resulted in more bullying from the others. “Afraid to shower?” they’d taunt. And Mr. Brown would scream at me that the shower was required. “We don’t want the school smelling like your sweat!” he yelled. Even though PE was the last class of my day, and I went straight home after.

Somehow, I lived through that time. I lived through it, day by day. I lived through it shower by shower.

Even outside PE, my school life was miserable. I had no friends. Everyone knew that associating with me would mean attracting the attention of the boys who bullied me in PE.

Somehow, I managed to survive high school. I had regular thoughts of suicide—but I was always able to stop myself simply thinking of how happy my tormentors would be to learn of my death.

The memories of high school hell raced through my mind as I drove through the detour that day. I was pulled back to the present when I saw a curve coming up. After I went around that curve, I knew I’d see my old high school. I braced myself for what was to come.

After going around the curve, I saw heavy machinery at work, demolishing the school. Soon, there would be no sign whatever that this school had ever existed here.

I just wished that my terrible memories of a terrible past at that school couldn’t be totally demolished, too.
2 Comments

The Vineyard, by Mary Wallace

31/3/2023

1 Comment

 
Tradition
It was such a busy time at the vineyard, there were both strangers and friends who came to help every harvest. Anna managed to escape from the house and lose herself amongst the vines, absorbing the chatter and the laughter and the warmth of the sun. The illusion of secrecy made for a day of adventure.
With the leaves shading her neck, she sat directly below a cluster of beautiful purple globes and attempted to pluck them off using only her mouth. She had surprised a bee doing this last year, but had been lucky because he was fat and full and had been too sleepy to sting.
The time went quickly in the morning, the sun never got fierce until after lunch. She chose her hideout very carefully, staying ahead of the pickers until she was full of grapes then dropping behind them when her belly felt too big.
She let the noise and laughter wash over her, not everyone had such a fun day. She had watched harvesting at Uncle Doug’s, he had a machine. It had scared her, grunting and shaking its way through the vines, taking grapes and leaves, leaving the vines looking as if a storm had gone through. She had begged daddy not to buy a harvester and had been content when he said he wouldn't have the money for another three years.
Their vineyard was much nicer. It was noisy, but it was filled with happy chatter and soon they would all get to sit at the long table to have lunch.You couldn't have lunch with a machine.
After the pickers headed back to work, Anna thought the table looked like the vines at Uncle Doug’s property after the machine had gone through. She sneaked back into the rows before she could be caught to help clear the table.
There was a lovely vine near the end of a row, she tucked herself under it brushing a few webs aside. She used to be scared of spiders but every spider she saw ran away. She closed her eyes for a minute and woke to hear her mum and dad talking. She lay very quietly.
Mummy said” that money will make a big difference, we could even get a harvester like Doug earlier than we planned”
“If I hadn't promised a certain someone that it would be three years before we got one,” daddy replied.
“She won't remember, it was only three years because we had to save, now with this windfall...”
“I'm still not sure that a harvester is the way to go, yes it's cheaper, but it will take the fun out of harvesting, less social. No, I promised her. We can wait three years. Three years isn't long”.
When they left, Anna skipped back into the middle of the pickers, she was surrounded by gossip and laughter. Daddy was wrong, she thought, three years is a very long time.
​
1 Comment

When Harry Met Jake, by Sandra James

30/3/2023

3 Comments

 
Will to survive
He slumped in the day room corner, a new resident who clearly didn’t want to be there.

‘That’s Harry,’ whispered Nurse Jenny. ‘We’ve tried everything but he’s lost the will to live.’

I continued on to Mum’s room, spending an hour telling her the latest news. She’d forget and I’d tell her again next visit but she loves visitors.

Harry looked up as I walked towards the exit and I recognised a familiar, haunted look.

Next visit, Jenny said Harry’s wife died the previous year and he had no family. ‘I try to involve him in activities but he says he’s useless now, no good for anyone and better off dead. He used to be a pilot. The only time I see any spark is when he sees a plane flying overhead. It doesn’t last but for a moment I think he’s up there in the sky again.’

Not long ago I felt the same. My husband deserted me after years of trying unsuccessfully for a baby, then announced a pregnancy with his girlfriend six months later.

I was lucky. Someone special helped me find light at the end of my dark, dark tunnel. Now I was back teaching at the local primary school, a job I loved. I had an idea.

I wheeled Mum into the day room, pointing out the colourful flowers outside Harry’s window. As she gazed at them, I started a conversation with Harry. It wasn’t easy but after the end of the visit, I knew my plan could work.

One of my students, Jake, began acting up after his father was killed by a drunk driver. I couldn’t blame him for his attitude but knew his bad behaviour needed stemming.

I spoke to his mother, a wonderful woman doing her best to raise three children alone. She gratefully agreed.

I took Jake on my next visit and suggested he wait in the day room while I fetched Mum.

‘Sit near Harry,’ I said. ‘Harry used to be a pilot.’ Jake hoped to be a pilot when he grew up and immediately the bored look on his face changed to interest. I headed towards Mum’s room, my fingers and toes crossed. Jenny promised to keep an eye on them.

Ten minutes later I returned to find the pair looking through the window at a jet high in the sky. Animated conversation followed. They barely notice my return.

Over the ensuing weeks, Jake visited Harry frequently. The change in both was amazing. Jake’s behaviour and grades improved and Harry joined in many of the nursing home activities.

Recently, Harry motioned for me to come closer while Jake helped Jenny fetch craft supplies.

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve given me my life back.’

‘I know a way,’ I told him

Next month Harry will walk me down the aisle when I marry the wonderful man who helped lift me from my darkest days. With Jake in attendance, of course.
3 Comments

True Love’s Kiss (or not), by Peggy Gerber

30/3/2023

14 Comments

 
WINNER, SIDERIUS LONGER FLASH FICTION AWARD, 2023
Heroism
Snow White’s eyes flew open wide as she bolted upright in her glass casket. “What do you think you’re doing” she hissed at Prince Charming, “Have you been living under a rock? You can’t just kiss a woman without her permission. For God’s sakes, haven’t you ever heard of the Me Too movement?”

Upon seeing her awake, the seven dwarfs whooped with joy and raced to Snow White’s side to help her out of the casket.

As they took her hands to assist her, they scowled at Prince Charming who stumbled backwards and stammered, “But, but, but that was true love’s kiss. I am Prince Charming, your hero, who has come to take you away to be my wife. I love you.”

“First of all” sneered Snow White, that was not true love’s kiss. That was breath so bad it actually woke the dead. Secondly, you say you love me just because I’m pretty? What about my personality, what about my hopes and dreams, what about what I want.” Snow White stared into the prince’s eyes and said. “No thanks. I decline your offer of marriage.” She spun around and began walking towards her cottage in the woods.

Prince Charming chased after her and began shouting, “What do you mean what about what you want? What about what I want? I am a future king and I demand that you become my wife.” He began to pout, “How can you turn down the offer to be my queen.”

Snow White shook her head and sighed. “Men” she muttered under her breath. “I already have seven, I don’t need one more.”

As a last ditch effort to win her over the prince grabbed Snow White’s wrist and made a solemn promise. He said, “Marry me Snow and I will get revenge on your wicked step-mother. I will cut off her head on the day of our wedding.”

“Ewww” said the seven dwarves as they shuddered in disgust.

Snow White glared at the prince, “I don’t need your help. I already have a plan. My wicked step-mother is growing older every day. I figure in about five years, her magic looking glass will tell her there are loads of women fairer than she is. She won’t be able to stand it. She’ll storm off to a far away land and I will become the rightful queen. My father was a king, I am a princess and one day I will rule over my kingdom with kindness and compassion. That will be my revenge.”

Prince Charming, not accustomed to being treated that way, climbed on his horse and shot Snow White a look of contempt.

,
As he rode away, Snow White took a deep breath, turned to Grumpy and laughed, “Is that a smile I see on your face?” She then wrapped her arms around her seven friends and said, “Let’s go home.”
14 Comments

You're My Hero, by Dee Lorraine

30/3/2023

4 Comments

 
Heroism
“I live to sing,” Andrea Saylor told Nigel Cayman.

Andrea met Nigel when his family moved next door to hers in the spring of her junior year in high school. He played lead guitar in a four-man college band that practiced in Nigel’s garage.

She asked if they wanted a female singer.

“That’s not our concept, but come jam with us on Saturday.”

Andrea went to Nigel’s garage Saturday afternoon. The band was playing oldies.

“Do you know ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings?’ The song about being a hero?” Andrea asked.

Nigel nodded, and the keyboardist began playing.

Andrea’s voice took flight like a majestic eagle.

Nigel grinned. “You sing like a champagne glass. Clear and classy.”

She blushed. “Thanks.”

Andrea’s parents acknowledged her talent but discouraged her from pursuing a singing career. “Finish school. Get a real job,” they said.

“I will.”

Andrea took a job at Pop Frazier’s Hardware Store. She worked all summer, and when school resumed, she worked Saturdays. Frazier, a retired carpenter, appreciated Amanda’s enthusiasm. He taught her tricks of the trade and paid her well. When the store wasn’t busy, he enjoyed her singing as she stocked shelves.

At Thanksgiving, Andrea surprised her parents. “I want to attend trade school in Lewistonville for carpentry. Carpenters make good money.” Her parents beamed.

She continued working at Frazier’s store and saved her earnings.

The week of high school graduation, she told Frazier of her trade school plans for the fall. He hugged and congratulated her and paid her a bonus. She kept the job until late August.

A few days later, she packed two suitcases and a footlocker. When her parents went to work, she called a cab and left home. Her note said she was heading to Lewistonville.

She had lied.

Andrea took a train to Barkston, 150 miles north of Lewistonville, rented a small apartment, and looked for work. She impressed a local carpenter with the knowledge and skill gained from Pop Frazier. The craftsman hired her as his assistant.

She found a weekend waitress job at Ben's Place, a jazz supper club downtown. Using her smartphone, she recorded the setlist that Frances, the vocalist, performed. Andrea practiced at home every night.

A month later, while setting the club’s tables, Andrea overheard Ben telling the bartender about Frances.

“Her appendix ruptured. She’ll be out for six weeks. It’s Friday night, first of the month. Everybody in town has money to spend. We can’t afford to cancel shows and miss out,” Ben said.

The bartender nodded.

“Who can we call? No decent singer is available now, and we open in two hours.”

“I can sing, Ben.”

“Right. So can I, Andrea.”

“I'm serious. I know all the songs.”

Ben went to the piano, began playing the setlist, and Andrea sang. He played three more selections, then the finale, “The Wind Beneath My Wings.”

Andrea’s voice soared. Ben shook his head.

“Go home. Get dressed for your new job.”
4 Comments

The Journey Home, by Jocelyn-Anne Harvey

29/3/2023

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Will to survive
Each Saturday James made his way down the hill to the RAF club. He sat at the bar, ordered a whisky mac and said nothing. The beams hung low in the converted Sussex cottage. When someone entered the room James would shout out before turning back to his glass and the mirror’s reflection.

James was tall, limbs leggy like a crane fly. He’d had to fold himself into the cockpit. At the end of an arduous eight hours, his navigator would help him down the ladder. These were his seldom shared memories, though his great-grandchildren liked to ask, triggered by poppies or school projects.

The scent of onions and beef gravy reminded him of the pasties he’d shove near those pipes before they’d set off. He never knew who had the idea first, probably that Australian chap. But when they saw the White Cliffs, they were tucked into, with relief, with often wonderment why they were the sole bomber to return.

Sated with lunch and a few more glasses, James’s stick tap tapped out the unsteady pace of the return climb. Once home, he picked at some grapes and fiddled about with the modem. The only wireless he knew was George his operator. A steady fellow. Like Eric, who’s plane was lost. Then there was Arthur who’d trained with him on those biplanes. Dylan got killed on his first raid.

James studied the pictures on the walls. The signed certificates from monarchs now deceased. A card from the King was hidden between the books.

When his daughter visited later, she found him feverish. He lashed out at the paramedics, clutched the doorframe, calmed only when strapped in with a blanket.

Plane trails crossed in the sky. Family gathered: words landed silently.

The next day she went to the ward where porters pushed loaded trolleys. She heard a familiar voice shouting, ‘Give me more pie!’
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An Other Skin, by Mark Szasz

28/3/2023

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Will to survive
I think that Gigi is a snake child. The signs are all there; taut skin; beaded eyes; decreasing body mass as the base person who was swallowed to make a frame is digested. Gigi enters the room with shuffling feet, like two awkward tails slithering with the mien of a zombie. She takes her desk, basking in morning sunlight as it heats the goosebumps that scale her: this is when she seems happiest. At lunch she doesn’t eat like the other kids. She watches classmates inhaling their pizza slices and chocolate milk, her tongue occasionally licking past her lips. Gigi draws the flicked probe back lightning fast, embarrassed someone might notice. On the playground she looks for dark nooks to seclude in, like the underside of the old slide that isn’t played on anymore. If people come too near, she wriggles away, often unseen. But I see her. One day, an exceptional day, when I am feeling outgoing, I may sneak next to her and see if we can both warm our scales in the sun. I am not territorial
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Anglers Paradise, by Jamie-lee Morton

27/3/2023

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Heroism
"Every five years we do this little one" a gruff voice calls out.
"And now I can come with you to the sea!" A young boys voice replied.
The large gruff man with a scraggly sea washed beard beamed at his child, pride shining in his eyes.
'Da!" The voice piped up again. "Do you think we'll get a big haul today?"
"Hard to say lad." The father replied. "Nobody can predict the day, even with the best readers in the eleven seas."

A flurry of movement and the nets are raised. The father watches as his son brings in the catch with the rest of the crew.
"Da!" The little one shouts happily as he pulled in the nets.
Fish of all colours thrashed in the nets, pulled up by the strong armed crew and dropped into the water filled hold below. Every five years these fish went into an unknown frenzy and would amass in several spots of the ocean, particularly where they're ship floated above. An anglers paradise as it were.

A new day rose and the father and son stepped out again to fish. The son bouncing on their heels in excitement.
"Can we start now Da?" He called excitedly.
The father looked around, his beard swaying in the breeze and inhaled deeply. The air was crisp and clear for the morning, the sun shining across the horizon with the rising dawn.
A slight nod followed and they both quickly clamber to the nets to begin the days work.
An hour or more had passed, the rest of the crew having awoke and started their own day, the father and son worked on the nets, bringing in small batches of fish by scoop. Unable to lift the net over by just themselves alone.
"This one's black Da!" The child shouted. "Like it was covered in ink!"
The father who had stepped away a moment to see to his crew, turns back, his facd growing white with fear. His eyes flickered to his son as he watched him reach in to grab the strange dark fish.
He ran across the deck as fast as possible, his son placing two hands around the fish. The fish tugged and he was raised into the air, the father rushing in and grabbed his child by the leg and tossing him aside. At that moment, a large gaping maw rose up, wide with fat lips and jagged sharp teeth. The dark, black fish was attached to a stem protruding from the monsters head, it's mouth opened wider, orbs glistening in the sun as the father turned, fear on his face and offered his son a weak smile before the jaws snapped down on the father.
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Memories, by Gerald Kamens

27/3/2023

2 Comments

 
Will to survive
“Mom, do you remember the red sandbox in our backyard, where Maxine and I used to play?”

Angela has brought her sister, Maxine, visiting from the West Coast, on the older sister’s customary visit to see their mother, who lives in the memory wing of a sprawling assisted living community across town. Sitting in the colorful wooden chairs facing Roberta, the two sisters recount stories of their mother’s childhood, told the girls decades earlier by the young Roberta, as well as tales of their own childhoods. Angela’s husband, Baxter, sits silently, along a back wall, by a large bay window.

As in previous visits, Angela hopes to spark a recollection or two in the brain of their implacable and uncomprehending mother, who doesn’t seem to have a clue about the identity of these two younger women. Several times, Angela sees her sister quietly crying.

On one long-ago morning, the younger child, Maxine, had been trying to build a tall tower of wooden blocks in that red sandbox, After her tower fell down for the second time, she let out a yell and threw one of the blocks at, but narrowly missed, Angela, just as their mother was coming out on the back steps from the kitchen, to call them in for lunch Their mother was pleased to see Angela trying to console her little sister, and said nothing more as they followed her into the house.

In their early teen-age years, Roberta had more than once asked Angela, in private, to try to watch out for Maxine when the two were out in the world, when Maxine would start to “act up.” Or was it “act out?” Nowadays, thought Angela, her sister still seemed to have a hard time in life, in LA for years, constantly struggling to make ends meet, both emotionally and financially.

For the second part of their Saturday ritual, Baxter rearranges the blue and green chairs in a circle and joins the sisters as the three of them describe some of their doings of the previous week, what Roberta’s grandchildren are up to in school, Baxter’s medical practice, Angela’s volunteer activities.

Maxine sits there, silent. until, suddenly and softly, she says “Mama, I haven’t given up. I came back East looking for the right job for me. One that will make me feel fulfilled. And, this time I will!”

When the aide enters the room to take their mother to the dining room, the three visitors quickly get up to leave for their own lunch. Just before their exit, quietly sobbing once again, Maxine turns to lock eyes with Roberta, and is happy to see what looks like a glimpse of recognition and a bare trace of a smile on her mother’s face.
2 Comments

Justified, by Larsay Waalian

27/3/2023

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Will to survive
We were share-the-bathwater poor. My belly was a veteran in the war of going to bed hungry. Breakfast was grits without butter or cheese. Cinnamon toast was for special occasions: butter and sugar on white bread with the mold trimmed off the edges. It was almost as good as a birthday cake. Almost.

Mama went to daddy’s funeral alone while I looked after the kids. She put all her stock in me, the oldest. I got the clean bathwater and the least-worn hand-me-downs. In exchange, I sold hot dogs in the mall and wore a top-hat-tall paper chef’s hat. I learned how to play the part, however humiliating. Because I had a family to feed.

Now I have a bigger family. Thousands of people. I take care of them all day every day. I gave them my life, even my salary during the downturn. I gave them security and jobs so they could bathe, feed and clothe their families. Who was going to take care of me? So if I sold off a few stocks, that’s me taking care of me. And if I used the private jet, it’s because I needed to. I deserve it. Where’s my thanks?
​
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Keep Going, by Malvina Perova

27/3/2023

1 Comment

 
Will to survive
It never hit here before you say and keep polishing your nails to the orchestra of the air siren.

But it hits here this time. Everything happens so fast—there is no chance even to get scared. The blast wave crashes through the walls, and the furniture falls on top of you. You lie pressed between your wardrobe and bed, cough, pant, and call for Makar and Sonia, but can’t hear the answer behind the agonizing whistle in your ears. A dazzling beam of flashlight pierces through the clouds of dust, and someone’s firm hands drag you out. Paramedics cover your shivering body and the old lady from the flat downstairs, wrapped in a blanket like yours, pats your hand. “You’ll be fine.”

It’s not that you don’t believe her, you don’t believe it’s happening. But when they find the bodies of your husband and child, reality bursts in with the power of a rocket. Only this time, it does kill you.

A shelter room in a hostel smells of desperation. Minimal allowance is all that connects you to the world as you know it—nothing else is the same. You ponder about your family, twisting the imaginary dagger in your heart, and feel void. Your heart has burnt with the house. You can’t make up for it. Why bother trying? But you scrap the remnants of hope and go back to work in a fortnight. Sit at your desk in the tidy bank office and open credits for people’s dream homes, cars, and all that makes little, if any, sense. You don’t need this job, but you need to keep going.

Your friends send you sorry messages and buy you dinners. You nod to their smiles and jokes about Putin and don’t believe a single word. Behind the glass wall of fragile safety, they are just like you before the hit. Now you know, coffee doesn’t smell strong, songs carry no meaning, and all you have, you’ll give away one day. You turn into a walking clock: your body functions on its own. No matter what, it keeps going. You breathe, you talk, you buy yourself a winter coat; you save a little, and obediently, you walk down the bomb shelter when the siren sings.

Then, gradually, you begin to understand why you really live. It has nothing to do with things you want, people you love, or those who throw rockets at your home.
​
1 Comment

The Light in the Dark, by Lorna Ye

26/3/2023

1 Comment

 
Will to survive
I crouched on the wet, sludgy ground of the sewer tunnel, my eyes gaping wide. The darkness and the stench in the air were my best shield.

In front of me, a tiny spot of light drilled through the dark and swirled towards me, flickering, swelling. A tip-tap of footsteps drew closer, slowly but steadily.

My body trembled and my breathing quickened and choked. They would find me and take me with them. The thought brought a sizzle of pain that hurt even more than my bleeding legs. I still remembered their raucous laughter when they whipped and whacked me.

The sound of footsteps echoed louder and louder. As the light dilated into a blinding pool of rays, I closed my eyes in despair.

A soft hand stroked my head. I opened my eyes and saw a young woman kneeling in front of me and using her warm fingers to caress my matted fur, a flashlight in her left hand.

“Poor baby. You are safe now,” she murmured as she slipped a pink leash around my neck and held me in her arms.

I was rescued.
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The Fairy Godmother's Guide for Finding a New Client, by Allison Symes

26/3/2023

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Tradition
Follow the twelve steps below to find the right client for you to help you progress as a fairy godmother. Each step must be followed exactly. It is tradition.

Doing this means you can have a long, rewarding career, assuming you’re not eaten by a dragon or cursed by a witch. These are occupational hazards. After the course, you will be their occupational hazard.

Check the client’s attitude. Are they kind? Humble? If they’re arrogant, you may still have them as a client but you will need the Teaching the Proud an Overdue Lesson in Humility booklet from your welcome pack. For this lesson, we will assume the client is nice.

Is the client ill-treated? Stepmothers and offspring are the usual suspects. If yes, you have found your client. Do not under any circumstances help the stepmother and/or offspring.

Check what your client needs as opposed to what they think they need. These never match.

Check when the client is always alone. That will be when you arrive, do your wand act, and get your client on their way to a better life. Only you and your client witness the magic. No hangers-on here.

Check your books, plan what you need magic for, and rehearse those spells at home. Get every word right. Don’t use magic where common sense will work. Encourage your client to do what they can to help themselves. Save the magic for when only that is the answer. Glorious ball gowns and glass slippers do need magic to bring into being, especially when under time constraint.

Bring ingredients when you help your client. Not everyone has a supply of pumpkins to hand.

Warn your client to avoid suspiciously shiny, red apples. You don’t want a witch bumping your client off. Only your client’s survival can lead to you getting a good review later.

Reassure your client magic is beneficial. If you need to transform other species, that’s fine, but put a limit spell on so they return to what they were. This will reassure the environmentally aware client. Nobody wants animal cruelty. (The sooner the witches stop using eye of newt the better).

Remind your client of what they must do. Perform the spell.

Stay out of sight of your client as she goes to the ball but find a watching position so you can help if things go wrong. This is known as following through and is the hallmark of the professional fairy godmother.

Once the client is home, check they’re okay. If they were running late, reassure them they got home and only you two know what happened. You’re bound by client confidentiality. Tell your client to contact you to report developments.

When the wedding invite comes, smile at everyone, and don’t have too much cake. It plays havoc on the waistline and can make taking off for flying difficult. Oh and start looking for your next client.

Good luck!
0 Comments

Football Heroes, by Jo Riglar

26/3/2023

0 Comments

 
Heroism
Did ya see that Patsy? Did ya see how he cool he was..?
Just five minutes on the clock, he strolls up like a giant and takes a piledriver of a kick right into the top corner. The likes of that was never seen in St Michael's Field.
Did ya see that Patsy?

Aw Shut up Donnie! He ain't much good.

He ain't much good he says! What's up with you Patsy? He was fantastic. A hero..

Aw crikey Donnie. Just shut up will ya? You don't know nuthin 'bout him..

I know he can play football. I know he can play better than anybody on the Carrig team. I know that I do!

So now you're a flippin' expert on soccer, are ya? Since when, eh?

What's up with you? Stop pushing me... Just because I say what I seen.

But that's it, Donnie. You didn't see that at all. He was only ok.

Three goals is only ok. Oh Yea. I guess so...

Mickey R set him up the first time and the second was just lucky.

Oh Come on Patsy.. How can you say that?.. I was watching... I saw

Oh yea. And I was playing right there so I was. I saw better than you so I did.

And the way he broke through for the last goal then? What about that then? It was up for grabs and he grabbed it. I saw that so I did. I saw that.

You don't even know what you're talking about. You just worship him like he's Renaldo or someone. You're blind.

I saw what I saw. Guess you're just jealous cause I think he's a hero.

A hero? Come on man. You wouldn't know a hero if he stood up and poked ya.

Come on. Hurry up. Mam is waiting with our tea.

Bacon and colcannon.

She's the real hero.
0 Comments

Sohan Never Returned Home, by Sankar Chatterjee

25/3/2023

2 Comments

 
Tradition
Millennial Sohan was in a hurry. Pings on his latest smartphone were buzzing continuously. Friends were responding positively to his request of meeting at midtown. He was about to run out of the front-door when his mother Sudeepa noticed his hurriedness.

Sudeepa: Why are you in such a hurry, son?

Sohan: Organizing a peaceful protest march from the city-centre toward the Parliament, Mom.

Mom: For what cause?

Son: To raise our voices against current administration’s attempt to trample on democracy. Don’t you see how the opposition views getting suppressed, TV channels parroting only their views and big money industrialists funding their corrupt politicians?

Mom: But they’re powerful.

Son: Don’t you worry. Our country became a technological and economic superpower, but inequality also climbed to the sky level. Have you already forgotten about the lack of hospital beds and oxygen tanks for the ordinary citizens from Covid days? For poor people, good jobs and enough money to buy foods are always lacking.

Mom (nervously): But, what if the armed forces begin to gas and fire upon all of you?

Son: Mom, growing up, didn’t you tell me about the bravery of the Grandpa, when he fought against the power of colonialism and you’re a little child?

Mom: But that was to liberate our country after two hundred years of brutal occupation. First they‘d appeared as friendly traders; soon their ruling kingdom took over.

Son: But after capturing Grandpa, their armed forces broke every piece of his bones and pulled out all his nails. Then they transferred and hanged him in the notorious prison in that remote island. You even took me there once to pay respect and the gallows still stood.

Mom (desperately): But he was a freedom fighter, fighting for motherland’s independence.

Son: Mom, nowadays the word “freedom” took upon a completely new meaning in free societies. It is the “freedom from injustice”, “freedom from hunger”, “freedom from discrimination based on your color, ethnicity, and gender.” I can go on Mom, but I need to go, friends will be waiting for me.

At high noon, Sohan arrived at the designated square. Via social media, the words spread. Thousands of college students, members of trade unions and city’s intellectuals gathered. Each group carrying protest placards and flags began to march toward the Parliament. But the informants of the local authority soon created a disturbance, thus allowing armed forces to discharge tear gas and rubber bullets. While the dispersed protesters remained peaceful, the authority began to arrest the leaders of various groups, transferring them to the same building that once housed the forces of the rulers of the colonialism. Sohan was mercilessly tortured inside a dark basement room, happened to be the same room where his Grandpa underwent similar treatment, sixty years ago.

At midnight, Sohan was lined up along the banks of the river at city’s edge. Two bullets went through his head. His lifeless floating body, glistened by the full moon began a new journey.
​
2 Comments

The Fragments of Kabul, by Michael Talledes

25/3/2023

3 Comments

 
Heroism
The lights on the 4th floor of the Baxton Health Care Center sting my dry eyes. For two nights, I have not slept. Katherine Ranford, an old college friend and nurse at this nursing home in Boston texted me a message at 3:32a.m. on Monday morning. It was a message I never expected to receive in my lifetime: “I think I found him.”

~

I came to terms a long time ago that he was dead. In August of 2021, when the United States withdrew their military operations from Afghanistan, Baba Ayaan—my grandfather, like thousands of other Afghans, fled in desperation to the Hamid Karzai International Airport in Kabul with the hopes of escaping the Taliban takeover. At 60 years of age, he rushed me—his 4-year-old grandson, to the perimeter wall of the airport. Carrying me with his last will of strength, he begged the U.S. marines for my safety. As his trembling hands released me to the soldiers over a barbed-wire wall, he faded away into the stampede ensuing behind him.

~

Standing by the entrance to his room, my body paused at the sight of his name on the door tag: Ayaan Aziz. Closing my eyes, the sounds of screams, the roaring of the C-17 cargo plane engine, the gunshots… It disappeared. My soul surrendered to a warm feeling that was forgotten a long time ago, the love of family.

Katherine cups my hands into hers. “Are you ready, Hashim?”

I nod, exhaling a breath as I enter the room. Their he was... By his bedside window, a frail figure sitting hunched over and motionless in his wheelchair. “Ba—,” My voice cracks, “Baba Ayaan?”

“He can’t speak, Hashim.” Katherine remains close.

I kneel beside him. A beam of sunlight shines on both of us, revealing the emptiness in his eyes. Holding his hand, I observe him, searching for my answer. In the pocket of his left breast, a small square outlines beneath the fabric.

“Hashim…” Katherine steps forward as I reach for the pocket.

“Katherine please…”

The photo is half bent. On the picture side, an image of a younger and heavier-set version of himself holding an infant in front of a house. On the blank side, a name and date is scribbled.

“Is it him?” Katherine asks quietly.

Kissing his forehead, I place the photo back in his pocket and whisper in his ear.

“No,” I turn to Katherine, patting her shoulder. “The photo is from 2021 and the name on the back is Maryam Aziz. I think it’s his granddaughter.”

“I’m sorry, Hashim. Do you think they were there that day? Like you and Ayaan?”

“They had to have been.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what did you say to him?”

Turning back to Ayaan, I take a few steps forward to roll down the curtain, blocking out the sunlight.

“I said the same thing I would have said to my grandfather: Thank you.”
​
3 Comments

Our Hero, by Bill Cox

24/3/2023

1 Comment

 
Heroism
I’ve never thought of myself as a hero. That’s what people are calling me now, but I’ve only done things that any man who really loves his country would do.

If I’m honest, I didn’t start down this road because of any great desire to stand up for what’s right. I only joined National Defence because I was bored. Lonely too, which is a sad thing to admit. After I left school, I found myself isolated at home, spending most of my time playing on the PlayStation and stuffing my face with crisps and beer in my living room. Well, my Mum’s living room.

What else was I supposed to do? I wasn’t going to get a demeaning supermarket job, no matter how often Mum nagged me. Why should I work for minimum wage when foreigners can just saunter into this country and get handed a house and all the cash they need?

On a trip to the corner shop, I noticed one of their flyers. I liked the name – ‘National Defence.’ It sounded strong, masculine. Of course, the lefty press characterises them as a ‘far-right hate group’, which is just rubbish. Anyway, I went along to the hall where they met. I recognised some faces from school, enjoyed the games and the craic.

I didn’t pay much attention at first to all the political stuff. I just wanted to have a bit of a laugh with some mates. Eventually though, it did get me thinking, about my own life, my Mum’s, our estate. I began to see how we’d all been let down, by a Government intent on helping others but not helping its own. It got me really angry.

Some newspapers and some of the politicians were obviously on the side of people in this country, but it wasn’t enough. Someone needed to do something to wake everybody else up. Somebody needed to be the hero that this country needs.

I didn’t try to hide from what I’d done, so the Police caught up with me pretty quickly. Everyone I know says I did the right thing, that it was about time to take a stand. Even the press and some politicians, although they can’t support me directly, said they ‘understood’ what had motivated my actions.

The judge though, I didn’t like him. He kept on going on about the suffering of the immigrants as they burned in the hostel, but they shouldn’t have been here in the first place. This isn’t their home.

Strangely, a lot of his ire was reserved for the press, for politicians and the ‘dehumanising’ language they used. He said that this had radicalised me, which is a lie. Heroes aren’t radicalised.

The last thing he said before he sent me down though, well, I can’t get it out of my head.

“This young man thinks himself a hero,” he said.

“Ask yourself this. If we get the heroes we deserve, then what kind of society creates a hero like this?”
1 Comment

The Lupine, by Jennifer Duncan

24/3/2023

1 Comment

 
Will to survive
Although Kristin was born and raised in a small town, as an adult, she moved to the city of Reykjavik. But after a few years of urban life, she felt burned out and depressed so she returned home to try to heal.

One afternoon, she took a long walk in a gravelly, barren tract of land near her home. In a small dip, she found a single lupine growing in the rough ground. The emerald-green leaves and strong upright stems lined with beautiful violet flowers were in stark contrast to the bleak landscape the lupine was growing in.

Her mother told her that there were areas full of lupines and that all the lupines were the descendants of a few seeds someone had brought from Alaska many years ago.

Kristin read about lupines on the internet and discovered that they were nitrogen-fixing plants that could be foundation plants in a process to make soil fertile again. The lupines could survive in very poor soil and, each year when they died back, their leaves and stems broke down into humus that other plants could grow in.

She found out who owned the land where the single lupine grew and asked if she could attempt to rehabilitate the area. The owner laughed at her idea but gave her permission to try.

Near the end of the summer, Kristin collected seeds from the lupine plant. She dug holes about half an inch deep and planted the seeds about a foot apart. After a few weeks she began to see sprouts. When the first snow of winter came, the plants had half a dozen leaves that would be protected by the cold blanket.

The next spring, Kristin was pleased to see that almost all the lupines had survived. In the summer, she watched them grow into large plants with tall, attractive spikes of purple flowers. That fall she had hundreds of seeds to plant.

Encouraged by her success, Kristin decided to move on to the next stage of her planting scheme. The following spring, she researched what kinds of trees might be able to survive in that environment, and she planted some Sitka spruce, Russian larch, and black cottonwood.

Every year she expanded her patch and planted more varieties of trees, shrubs and grasses. She dug a small pond to be a ready source of water. Birds, insects and animals made her garden their home. It became a place of regrowth and healing for Kristin.

When she inherited money from her grandfather, she bought several acres of the land she had been rehabilitating. People started to visit her project and were inspired to try similar projects elsewhere. Out of barrenness had come life, beauty, and hope for the future. The stalwart lupine's will to survive in the most difficult circumstances was a lesson for everyone.
​
1 Comment

Little Peter, by Yap Swi Neo

24/3/2023

1 Comment

 
Heroism
“Peter, don’t. You don’t want another Little Peter, do you?”, Mum warns.

It is a sunny Saturday morning. Ben, Peter’s best friend and his group all of fifteen-year-old boys had ventured to the edge of the forest to challenge one another to climb the tallest branches of trees and jump down as they had often done. It was the jump from the old birch tree that Little Peter was created. It could give a mean kick.

“Come on Peter, mummy’s boy”, the boys tease and he gives in. They reach the forest. Everyone climbs up, each on a branch of several trees and bellow Tarzan calls.

“Come on Peter, it’s so much fun up here”, Jack shouts from the lowest branch. “Look at me, I’m jumping down.” He does with much aplomb. He grins, “Next one, one branch higher.”

Steven teases, “Little Peter knock on your wood brothers, show them you have a leg up.” Everyone laughs.

“The branches are scared Little Peter might want a brother, or two or four!”, Joe sniggers.

The boys climb and jump several times from several heights. They have great fun. Peter thinks perhaps his dad is right. He should face his fears to overcome his fears.

He looks up the canopy, the thick foliage embraces him. The specks of blue sky and streaks of sunlight wink at him. They whisper, “Come, Peter, come up to our branches. We are your friends. Come play on our branches.”

His friends at the top, happily swing from branch to branch, swing their legs, clutch the leaves, and toss them at each other. Peter, a lone soul looking up, sees himself on the ninth branch ready to jump from branch to branch down. He slipped, landed on his left leg, crushed.

“Ben, the trees are calling me.” Peter is visibly distraught.

“I’m not sure Peter. Have you climbed since?”

“No, but Dad says I must face my fears.”

“Peter don’t do it because you are teased.”

Aaron yells, “Hey everyone, here I am five branches up. Watch me jump down one branch at a time to the next down.” And he did, swiftly and gracefully.

“Hey Peter look, I’m on this sixth branch up. I’m a hero. And you are a coward!” Charles goads.

Several of the boys chorus, “Peter is a coward! Peter is a coward!”

Peter angrily yells, “I’m not a coward! I’ll show you!” and defiantly walks to that birch tree. He trembles and wonders if Little Peter feels the same.

He suddenly feels peaceful and calm. He knows it’s not right for him to climb.

“Ben, they call me a coward, but I feel peaceful and I don’t care what they think.”

“Peter you are a hero, a hero because you choose to do what you know is right for you, You are a hero because you cannot be bullied. You’re my hero.”

Ben and his hero walk home happy.
​
1 Comment

The Family, by Tom Baldwin

23/3/2023

2 Comments

 
Tradition
The young king could look back on a thousand years of tradition to guide him in every aspect of his life, his reign, and even his thoughts. Now he needed a wife to bear him sons and continue the line. All his predecessors had chosen from the huge and intricate Family, which had intermarried and multiplied endlessly over the last millennium.

He was shown beautiful young women from every branch, all guaranteed to be fertile, and all promising to love, honour and obey him, but none appealed.

His choice of a commoner, with no trace of royal blood, displeased the Family. They could never allow it. He would not back down, and neither would they.

The Chronicler and his assistants leafed back through centuries of archives to find protocols or precedents to prevent such a marriage. At last they found one, from seven hundred years before.

In due course the king’s unexpected and tragic death was announced. His amenable younger brother would inherit the crown, and the Family looked forward to a state funeral, a coronation and heirs to continue the line, the Family line.
​
2 Comments

New Dragon Arises, by Gabrielle Park

22/3/2023

0 Comments

 
Will to survive
There were once two girls who did everything together.
Beth Min smiled as she lay in bed, thinking of her and her older sister’s adventures. How life had been simple back then…

Beth was in a small village. Everyone was outside, pointing at the sky. “The sky! Look at the sky!” A huge dragon appeared in the sky.
Beth was next on a huge mountain. There was the red dragon, sleeping. No, Beth realized. It wasn't sleeping. It was bowing. A bigger dragon was in front of it, with magnificent gold scales…
Beth Min gasped. It was morning, and a steady glow of light was streaming in through the windows.
What could it have meant? Beth wondered.
However, there was no time to ponder about dreams. Beth and her husband, General Yi, were going to Queen Kate Min and her husband, King U.

Arriving at the palace, Beth Min exclaimed, “Kate! It feels like such a long time since I’ve seen you!”
The sisters embraced.
Queen Kate Min was pinning up her sister’s hair into a traditional bun when they heard the men talking about war.
“War?!” Beth said, “What do you mean? I thought we were at peace.”
Queen Kate sighed. “The invaders near the northern border are getting aggressive. The King needs to appoint a supreme commander to defeat the invaders. But I’m worried. All the generals seem over-ambitious. They want the throne, I’m afraid.”
Beth said, “Why don’t you make my husband the supreme commander? You can trust us.”
Queen Kate brightened. “Of course! I will talk to the King.”

Soon after, Beth Min and the newly promoted Supreme Commander Yi left for the North. While leading the vast army, Beth told her husband: “We have to do something about my sister and the King. They are too weak. I think it’s time for a new dragon.”
Beth explained her dream to Commander Yi.
“What? I cannot betray my loyalty to the King!”
Beth Min looked ready to explode. “If another general takes the throne, his faction won’t just kill Kate and King U. They’ll kill all potential rivals, especially us! How about your oath to protect me and our children?”
“But…What should we do?”
“After we defeat the northern invaders, we take the throne. We will become the new dragon king.”
Commander Yi nodded. “I’ll prepare the troops.”

After stopping the invasion, Commander Yi prepared a huge victory banquet for the King and Queen. When the royal family arrived, the Commander’s troops quickly arrested the King and took over the government.

At the public execution was a tearful Kate, the deposed Queen, her head forcefully bowed down to the new Queen, hailed as the ‘Dragon Queen’.
“Why would you do this, Beth Min?”
“My will to survive was greater than yours,” Beth replied.

​
0 Comments

Before I Saved You, by Angela Carlton

21/3/2023

8 Comments

 
Heroism
Before I saved you, I had to leave everything behind.

I packed my bags and told my father goodbye. “There’s work to be done Dad, a flip on Grandad’s shack,” I sighed. When he asked me about you, Anna, I felt a tightness form somewhere in my body before I said, “Anna’s mixed up in something bad.”

Still, I drove straight to your apartment and parked by that faulty streetlight, the one that’s burning out. I thought about all those times you tried to break free-free-free, some say it was a modern-day spell since he was known to dabble in tarot cards. Some say it was you, that you were hooked but I knew the truth, those blue-greenish bruises, the bloodshot eyes from a lack of sleep. All those times you tried to call me but the phone went dead and that day, the day, the, one time, you were finally able to reach through, and connect to me. You were crying when you said you were pregnant before the phone went click-click once again.

Now, “Tarot boy” was out on one of his “beer binges” at some slimy pub, the moment I offered you the escape to the horse farm, a place far away where the rush of the creek, the great, sharp, light of the moon would be our daily vibe, the place I would work hard with my bare hands to mold and shape the hut into something solid, real.

When you climbed up into my red Ford pick-up, your belly was a bit swollen underneath that tattered lace dress but your rootbeer-colored eyes were bright. And, I knew the silky row of stars above us, would be the pathway of light to your secret nest, our kingdom.
​
8 Comments

Down to the Cutlery, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

20/3/2023

0 Comments

 
Tradition
Farley enquired about the lineup of foods for their festive meal. What he heard had him rattled.

“What, no turkey?”

“No turkey,” Eleanor confirmed.

How can their celebration go so off the rails, he thought. Then he remembered. Darn son-in-law!

Farley could accept subtle changes. Like having their cat, Mr. Whiskers, removed from the house when the newlyweds visited. Better that than Gregory succumbing to a sneezing fit from its hairs, hence souring the evening for everyone.

Changing eating traditions to solely vegan this and vegan that? Gone too far. The cat ate meat or fish every day and Farley insisted on the same for him.

But how? He was powerless. The women in his immediate relations controlled what went into his stomach. Thank goodness he could have the pleasure of an occasional burger from a drive-through close to work.

“Hon’, did you set the table properly?” Eleanor inquired. “Do you know where the forks, knives and soup spoons go?”

Farley was about to return a nasty remark when he thought it best to comply, thereby sustaining peace.

One hour went by before the doorbell sounded. One hour enough time to simmer down and be respectable for their dinner guests, Farley rationalized.

Hugs and kisses planted, the visitors carried themselves and their goods into the foyer.

“For Mom,” Carla said, presenting a bouncy bouquet. “I give her daisies and she gives me carnations. It’s a tradition.”

“Here’s something for you, Pops,” grinned Gregory. “Vegan whiskey from Scotland!”

Mealtime went splendidly. Farley became overwhelmed with an acute appreciation of his wife’s culinary skills. He was surprised how everything he tasted turned out delicious.

Furthermore, he realized that she was placed in a difficult predicament, as was he, with their daughter having converted to her husband’s moral belief of going vegetarian.

“How did I do with the table-setting?” he asked, following their guests’ departure.

“Soup spoons on the wrong side of the bowls. Other than that, you observed tradition protocol.”


“Dinner was tasty. I guess I don’t mind vegetarian some of the time.”

“That’s great,” Eleanor smiled. “…because Carla and Gregory invited us for the next festive gathering.”
0 Comments
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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.


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

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