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24th April, 2017, by Sankar Chatterjee

24/4/2017

 
Bhaskar Sen, a science student throughout his high school and college days in India, would decide to pursue his PhD in Chemistry in an American University. He was offered scholarships from a number of institutions of good repute. But he would decide on the one in central Pennsylvania, surrounded by the green nature and picturesque Nittany Mountains. He hoped the serenity surrounding the campus would provide the Zen-like calmness that he might need during his attempt of envisioning new ideas, to be followed by experimental validity. But the process of higher learning had its own price. It took a long four years for achieving the successful outcome of his well thought-out scientific ideas. That’s when he decided to take a break to visit his family back in India. While there, one of his loving aunts took him, along with her two younger sons to visit the seaside town Puri along the shore of the Bay of Bengal. For two weeks, the entire family enjoyed the sandy beach, sea-breeze and local fresh “daily catch of the day” fish. They also visited some magnificent historic ruins in nearby towns that were once a part of a kingdom. Bhaskar would return to US, fully invigorated, to finish writing up and defending his thesis to earn his PhD degree. That was thirty years ago.

Dr. Sen then stayed back in US and enjoyed a successful career in science. On a recent spring day in April, he was going through his original Safari briefcase that he had carried from India on his first trip. He was looking for an old document. He wanted to show the document to his next-door neighbor Richard Tusman, an Indo-phile who enjoys Indian snack papri-chaat and desert golub-jamun, while listening to the ragas of late Ravi Shankar. While scrambling through various aged yellow documents, Dr. Sen stumbled upon his expired first Indian passport. He lifted it up, when a series of black and white photographs fell scattered on the floor. He picked them up one by one to look at. He remembered that they were taken during that Puri-trip. There was one where three cousins were posing against an incoming wall of wave, as if to defy the ocean. But, the one that froze him was the picture of his aunt flanked one side by his cousin Gautam and the other side by him. It was taken in front of a huge marble statue of Lord Buddha in a meditative pose. In the picture, it appeared that as if Lord Buddha was blessing the trio with his open right palm. In a couple of years of taking that picture, Dr. Sen’s aunt, at a very young age, would suddenly depart the earth on 24th April.

Dr. Sen looked at the calendar on the wall in front of him. It was 24th April, 2017.

The Picky Little Princess, by Laura Beasley

17/4/2017

 
The youngest princess would only eat strained radish. The queen dropped the pink cupcake on the floor.

“Rabbit, you deal with her.”

Rabbit had been the queen’s nursemaid. Rabbit had cared for ten generations of the female royal line. She patted the princess on the head,
“You’ll eat cupcakes when you’re ready, darling. I’ll get your radishes.”

“Can I please use my special spoon?”

“Of course, sweetie. You remembered the magic word. What a clever child!”

The queen called Rabbit to her bedside that evening,
“She’s not like her sisters. What am I doing wrong?”

“She’s not like the others, your majesty. You are a good mother and were a good child. We have to wait for her to grow up,” said Rabbit.

“Rabbit, you always say the right thing. I’ll try to remember how little she is.”

The queen took her three daughters to the spa. The two oldest were willing to cooperate. They changed into their bathing suits for the mud bath and started to wallow. The youngest princess refused to participate. The queen lost her temper,
“What do you mean, you won’t get dirty? You’re not acting like a princess!”

The queen stopped and sent a servant to fetch Rabbit.
“Please take her to the castle. She needs Rabbit time. Chamomile tea and a story.”

“Certainly, your majesty. She is young and needs to nap. Perhaps you can check on her later.”

After the queen and older girls returned to the castle, the queen stepped into the nursery. She sat in Rabbit’s comfy chair next to a stack of picture books and flipped through the pages of her favorites. Her youngest daughter woke from her nap.
“Momma, please read me a story?”

“Sit on my lap, darling. I’m proud you used the magic word. Who taught you that?”

“Nana Rabbit.”

“She’s a clever nana.”

They rubbed snouts and cuddled. Queen Pig and the youngest princess decided to read together every afternoon. When the princess was older, she learned to eat sweet treats and wallow in the mud. Best of all, she flew through the sky with her mother and sisters. The pig family lived happily ever after.
​

46 West Drive, by Bruce Levine

11/4/2017

 
I never liked the house. We were living in Manhattan and I was commuting to a teaching job (more about that another time) on Long Island. The commute was a killer. Sometimes it took as long as 3 hours to get home. Traffic on the Long Island Expressway came to a near standstill once I hit the Queens border. The 42 mile trip, that should have taken an hour or less, became a nightmare; it was an hour to get to Queens, an hour to get through Queens and an hour to get across town from the Queens Midtown Tunnel to our apartment on the West Side.

For about 5 years we’d talked about leaving Manhattan. Both of us had been born there and lived most of our lives there, but it seemed to be time to leave. But we weren’t leaving Manhattan, Manhattan had left us. It had changed. It was no longer the Manhattan we knew, grew up in, lived in and loved.

Then I got the teaching job (mistake number 1, but more about that another time) on Long Island and we started looking for a house.

We looked at house after house with a realtor. We scoured the listings and my wife finally saw what she thought was the perfect house. But then it was gone. Every night, after the 3 hour commute, she urged me to ‘look again’. Then, all of a sudden, it was back. There it was; the perfect house.

I was tired from a day of teaching plus the 1 hour commute to Long Island in the morning and the 3 hour commute home after school. But that didn’t matter. The house was listed again.

We called. My wife couldn’t wait for another day, just in case it disappeared again or was sold in the interim or something like that.

The owner called their realtor and called us back. If we wanted to come out tonight everyone would be there so we could see the house.

We gobbled down dinner.

At 8:00 that evening, after another hour plus drive out to Long Island, we arrived at the house.

We looked around and, after taking one look at my wife, I knew she wanted the house. So I made a full price offer which was accepted.

We went through the process and became the owner of the house at 46 West Drive.

For 10 years we lived in the house.

I never liked the house.

Worse, I hated the neighborhood and the area. Every time I pulled off the Long Island Expressway, now going East instead of West, and turned into the immediate vicinity of the house I started to feel nauseous as I looked at the other houses on the final leg of my half hour to an hour and 10 minute commute, depending on traffic, and then onto West Drive itself.

For 10 years we lived in the house. And I taught at the school where the false promises and lies had turned other dreams into nightmares.

But the reality was that we got out of the house and the teaching job.

Now we live in Florida.

When In Doubt, by Mileva Anastasiadou

10/4/2017

 
Tom had always wanted to be a detective. His favorite pastime, back at school, was solving riddles, as I perfectly remembered when I approached him. Instead, he became a therapist. Which is rather close to his first choice, as I see it; instead of solving difficult crime cases, he explores the mysteries of the soul.

I asked for his help some years ago, when I found myself in the unusual position of experiencing guilt. The feeling was so overwhelming that it did not let me sleep. When I decided I could not avoid professional help, his name came to my mind at once.

I immediately told him everything, thinking he was confined by medical confidentiality. I didn’t know it yet, but in cases of crime, confidentiality does not apply. He obviously advised me to turn myself in. Facing the consequences of my actions was the only way to redemption, he claimed. Murder had not been my intention when I clenched my fingers around Tina’s throat. I just wanted to make her stop. I had used all non violent methods at first. When she saw me stealing cash from the gas station, I denied everything. I claimed it was some one else.

Gaslighting: the subtle art of making someone believe they’re crazy. A fine technique that has been used by people and politicians throughout human history. Combined with “triangulation” if necessary, when the victim is not that easily convinced. Some easily manipulated people come to confirm your lies. In politics, it’s propaganda. In my case, it was my best friend who offered me an alibi.

I have to confess my incentive was greed. I was never poor or anything, so I had no excuse for stealing. To my defense, that’s how the world works; You can’t live on a salad for long, you have to grab the steak when the opportunity arises. My actions were justified, yet Tina did not agree.

When in doubt, be a writer. You may not be able to say what you feel you have to say, yet your made up characters are. Tom could go directly to the police. He chose to write a book instead. A novel describing my crime in full details. He had always wanted to be a detective after all. Writing a crime novel was a satisfactory alternative. He offered it to a colleague of his who was married to a police officer.

I am now in jail. That’s where I belong. I could perfectly live with stealing but not with murder. I sometimes think I did not choose my therapist by chance. I made a conscious choice, picking Tom. Tom healed me. I don’t feel crippled by guilt anymore.
My therapist did a good job.

Lost, by Fatima Okhuosami

9/4/2017

 
The alarm went off around four in the morning, and at that time Nancy was on her third box. She woke up by 2am to put everything together. Peter would be coming on the first flight in an hours and it was wiser and safer that she clear out before then. She sat on the box too full to zip shit and tried to force it again and again. The box would not budge. She kicked it angrily and started to cry.

Our story begins six months ago when Nancy wed Peter in a celebration of wealth and love. The young couple met on LinkedIn and had a whirlwind romance. Three months later they were married.

The first sign came two weeks into the marriage. Peter got up from bed at night holding unto his head and speaking gibberish. She tapped him but he screamed and pinned her to the bed.

You witch. You are trying to kill me he screamed.
She could feel the life going out of her. Peter please it is me Nancy. Snap out of it.
I will kill you he bellowed. I will destroy you. He ran out of the room and locked himself up in the bathroom.

Nancy slowly got up and tried to understand what just happened. She knocked on the bathroom door; Peter please open the door let's talk.
But it was of no use. She could hear him snoring from outside.

The next morning she got up to find her husband by her side on the bed. What can this mean? Did I dream it all? Her husband woke up and did not remember anything of the event. Honey c'mon I sleepwalk sometimes but I’m never dangerous.

It became a regular occurrence until one night Peter did get dangerous.

He woke up as usual and fastened his hands on her neck bellowing profanities.
She kept still but her husband had other ideas.

He ran off to the store and got a bat.

Immediately Nancy saw it, she ran to the bathroom and locked herself in.

Divorce on grounds of insanity was denied. The jury ruled that there was no evidence of any abnormal and/or dangerous behavior.

Peter’s family and friends testified for him. The case was dismissed and she got a caution for wasting the court’s time.
The nightly terrors continued and got oftener and longer and scarier.

She snapped out of the reverie. I can leave without all these. I already have the car keys and the C of O for two landed properties. That’s my payment for this farce of a marriage.

The knocks tore through her thoughts. Who is that?

It’s Ella ma.

The neighbor’s girl. Why now? What is the problem dear she asked after opening her door.

Its my mother ma. I think she’s choking. She can’t breathe well.

My God. Let’s go let’s go. She took a step forward and turned to look at her boxes.

She could always leave after Peter’s next trip.

    Longer
    Stories

    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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    Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any stories – writers appreciate it.
    Just at the moment, though, we're moderating some of them so there might be a slight delat before they appear
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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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