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A Wrong Turn, by Sankar Chatterjee

30/4/2019

Scientist Doug Lloyd was already late for evening’s dinner invitation. After earning his PhD degree from a prestigious university in California, Doug accepted a job offer from a start-up biotech company located 20 km outside Philadelphia, his hometown. However, as a young bachelor he decided to stay inside the city to have access to Philly’s burgeoning nightlife. In addition, Doug via social media re-connected with some of his past high-school friends, now living in various parts of the city.

Tonight, one of the friends invited him for a dinner. Not having a car yet, Doug decided to walk to his friend’s place instead of taking public transportation. He was following the GPS-direction on his i-phone when he realized that he had taken a wrong turn at some point, now arriving at a dimly-lit narrow street. From a distant, he noticed a few youths were hustling near a narrower side-alley, while exchanging some objects. That’s when he figured that his mistake might have landed him in an illicit drug trading area.

Like all big cities around the world, Philadelphia also suffers from the modern-day scourge of drug epidemics, especially city’s opioid-crisis headlines national news. However, Doug maintained his common sense, gently pulled out a ten dollar bill from his denim’s pocket, and exchanged it for a small package from the seller, while also getting the direction for the street of his interest. Embarking on a lighted avenue on the other side, he opened the package and found a lollipop on a stick. Looking back, Doug noticed that the next buyer, who had followed him, already started sucking on his lollipop.

Now, for his PhD thesis, Doug had worked on a novel method of delivering medicine to severely sickened patients, especially those in cancer treatments. For reasons still unknown to medical professionals, some of these patients would suddenly experience severe breakthrough pain making them even unable to swallow a pill. Four years of hard work in the laboratory allowed Doug to invent a unique method of formulation of pain medicine in a lozenge form for the patients to suck on it, thus alleviating pain. His scientific work was well-recognized by the scientific communities as well as the medical professionals.

But, the “miracle-turned-Genie” had come out of the bottle. The entrepreneur drug dealers must have found some rogue scientists to work in clandestine facilities to formulate the illicit drug substances into the similar lozenge form on a stick, giving it a lollipop look.

*

Under bright city lights and surrounded by high skyscrapers, Doug kept on walking towards his destination. At the same time, he wondered how many more lives would now be ruined with new drug-epidemics exploiting his invention that was intended for the welfare of the society.

Please Hold, by Marjan Sierhuis

25/4/2019

1:00 p.m.
Lottie’s flash fiction story is nearly complete. But she suddenly loses her internet connection. This can’t be happening she says while she stares at her computer screen, willing it to connect. Poppycock, I still need access to an online database. [Lottie calls her company’s service line.
[Ring ring]
[Click]
Lottie: “Hello, I would like to speak with...
Robot: “I’m sorry our agents are currently busy helping other callers, but your call is important to us. Please hold. We will be with you shortly.”
Lottie: “Yes, but…
[Music starts to blare from her phone’s speakers]
1:30 p.m.
Robot. “Thank you for waiting. We will be with you shortly.” “Have you checked our website?” “It may be able to answer your questions.”
Lottie: “You have got to be kidding,” she says in a frustrated tone.
3:00 p.m.
Robot: “Thank you for continuing to hold.”
Lottie now has a headache and rubs her forehead. She runs into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of water, holds it against her forehead and returns to her computer screen. Still no connection. She curls up in a chair, balances the phone against one ear and falls asleep.
4:00 p.m.
Robot: “Your call is important to us.” “Please continue to hold.”
Lottie wakes up as soon as she hears the recorded message.
Robot: “If you would like to leave a call back number where you can be reached, please do so now.”
Lottie shakes her head in disbelief. She yearns for a live voice.
6:00 p.m.
Robot: “Please try again tomorrow.” “We are open for business at 8:00 a.m.” “Goodbye.”
[line disconnects]
Lottie swears and goes in search of a dictionary.

Pebble, by David Berger

23/4/2019

The Holy Man walked barefoot down a path. Suddenly, he felt a flash of pain. He looked down and stuck between his big toe and the one next to it was a pebble. He bent over and saw that the pebble had cut him slightly, and there was blood on it. He saw that the cut was superficial. In fact, the bleeding had already stopped. So, the Holy Man tossed the pebble over his shoulder and continued on his way.

“All existence is one!” he heard a voice say, just before he heard the clink of the pebble hitting the ground.

The Holy Man turned and looked behind him. He could see nothing, so he turned back and went on his way.

“All existence is one!”

He heard again. This time, the Holy Man turned and tried to find the pebble with his blood on it that he had tossed behind him. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, he abandoned his search and gave up to continue on his way. However, before he could take a single step, again he heard from behind him.

“All existence is one!”

Again, the Holy Man searched for the bloody pebble, and again he couldn’t find it, and again he turned to go and again,

“All existence is one!”

The cycle of events occurred three more times. It was getting dark, the road was lonely, and a storm was brewing. The Holy Man turned his back, once more, and began to walk.

“All existence is one!” he heard again.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard that somewhere before,” and he continued on his way.

“All existence is two? Three? Four?” the Holy Man heard from behind him.

“Try five,” he said and continued on his way.

She, by NT Franklin

20/4/2019

Midge and Helen sat together at the funeral service. There were two houses between them and that’s about as far apart as anyone ever saw the old spinsters.
Midge shuffled uneasily in her seat. “Think she’ll show?”

Helen turned to her, “Not a chance.”

Midge looked straight ahead. “She was at the last one.”

“Yeah, well, that was different. Tim was the fragile sensitive twin. Everyone liked him.”

Midge looked for something in her pocketbook. “But he killed himself. That’s not a Christian thing to do.”

“Stop fidgeting, Midge.”

She closed her pocketbook. “I wish they’d start. First Tim, and now Tom. So sad. We watched those boys grow up.”

Helen let out a long sigh. “Yes, Tim’s death was sad.”

“What about Tom?”

Helen composed herself before she spoke. “Now don’t go telling me it is not Christian to speak ill of the dead, but you watched Tom grow up, same as me. Trouble with a capital T.” Helen paused, waiting for Midge to interrupt her, but it didn’t happen. “You know full well the beatings he gave that poor girl. The whole town looked the other way for years. All because they were the preacher’s sons.”

“Helen!” Midge said, a little too loud. Heads turned around and looked at the pair. “Oops.”

Helen looked straight ahead, staying above the fray. When the heads returned facing forward, Helen continued. “She got even didn’t she? Got tired of the beatings and took up with his twin brother. That had to hurt more than her bruised cheek.”

Midge opened and closed her pocketbook again. “Do you think she could’ve known Tim would kill himself when she left him?”

Helen stared at Midge until she stopped fidgeting. “I don’t see how. Any more than she could have seen Tom taking up heavy drinking when she left him.”

“I guess,” Midge said. “You think maybe he killed himself too, or wanted to? Driving that fast on the swamp road.”

“I don’t know. Bound to happen sooner or later with his behavior.

Midge shifted in her seat. “Think she’ll show?”

Helen shook her head. “Not a chance.”

Predmeditated Fraud, by Bruce Levine

20/4/2019

A deal was a deal. I had accepted it under duress, but it seemed like the easiest way and the end justifies the means – usually…
She owed me the money. She admitted it, in writing, but she wanted to insure that I would show up and sign the papers. If I didn’t sign she didn’t get the one thing she dreamed of obtaining most. And she would lose both money and her dream.
It was a stalemate. If I didn’t agree to sign she wouldn’t send any money.
So I accepted – as I said, under duress.
She’d send me half now and give me the other half at the signing.
I knew that she was trying to insure that I’d show up and that I’d sign.
She sent me the first half and the check cleared and so I waited until the appointed day for both the signing and receiving the second half of the payment.
The day arrived – I showed up at the location and I signed the papers – her dream was coming true. As I was about to leave she handed me a check for the second half of what she owed.
On the way home I deposited her check in my bank and waited for it to clear.
Everything seemed fine and the full amount was credited to my account. Then, a few days later, it hit the fan – a notice from my bank that her check had bounced.
I went to my bank to get a copy of her cancelled check and find out why. My bank gave me the copy, but couldn’t state why her check bounced. They advised going to her bank for the answer.
“She stopped payment,” I was told. “It was stopped the same day it was issued.”
It didn’t take much thought to realize what her plan had been all along. She was determined to get what she wanted by any means.
She felt that part of obtaining her dream included me paying for part of it – obviously I had no intention of paying anything since this wasn’t my dream. She wanted to deduct what she thought was fair and when I’d refused she put her plan into play – fool me into to coming and signing by pretending that she’d pay the component she felt was my share.
As I said, the day arrived, we all arrived, I signed and I went on my way with a check that had already had a Stop Payment attached to it.
When the police read the emails stating that she’d pay the full amount and offering the original deal and then the follow-up email stating that she’d send me a check for the amount minus the amount of my component which she “thought was fair” – SHE thought was fair – they immediately agreed – deliberate, PREMEDITATED FRAUD!

As Dead as if He'd Died, by John M. Carlson

19/4/2019

Bill would never forget the accident. Bill was driving home with Stacy, his wife, that night. They’d been arguing about something or other. Stacy started to say something that she said was important. Suddenly, a large SUV came out of nowhere, and smashed into their car. He could still hear in his head the loud crash as the SUV smashed into them.

Bill nearly died. Stacy, fortunately, had only minor injuries.

The accident had dominated Bill’s life ever since. Surgery. Physical therapy. And the seemingly endless battle as they fought the SUV driver’s insurance company. At one point, the whole ordeal was so awful that Bill gave serious thought to killing himself. He resisted. I can’t do this to Stacy! he thought.

But all that was now over. At least as over as it ever would be. The doctors had done good work piecing him back together. He wasn’t 100% perfect, but he’d be able to have a fairly normal life. He still had nightmares at night, sometimes, but they weren’t as bad as they had been.

On the first Friday of spring, Bill decided he’d cook a special dinner. It would be a surprise for Stacy. It would celebrate the advent of spring, and also celebrate putting the accident behind them.

At six, Bill sat in the living room, waiting for Stacy to come home. A fire crackled in the fireplace. A small table near the fireplace was set with their best china. Dinner waited in the kitchen, along with a bottle of nice wine.

Stacy arrived home. “What on earth?” She stared at the table.

“I just decided it would be fun to do something special. Celebrate spring.”

“I see. I hate to tell you this, after you’ve put all this work in. But...well...I’m going back out for an appointment.” Stacy sighed. “I maybe shouldn’t tell you this now...but maybe it’s better that I tell you. I’ve been meaning to, but I keep putting it off. Our marriage is doomed. I’ve felt this way a long time. That night of the accident—right before that clown plowed into us—I was going to tell you that I thought maybe we’d better separate. Of course, after that accident, while I was still unhappy, I decided I’d better wait. You are better now, and so I think we need to start talking about divorce. Particularly since I met someone.”

“You met someone?” Bill said weakly.

“Yes. While I was waiting for you at the doctor’s office one day. I’m sorry...but that’s the way these things work. Anyway, I need to go out tonight. I’m looking at an apartment. I’ve just got to grab something, and I’ll go.”

Stacy left a couple of minutes later. Bill sat, staring at the fire. He felt dead inside. As dead as if he’d died in the accident.

Sea Change, by Ella Craig

19/4/2019

He puts on the linen suit Wendy said would be so classy and perches a Panama hat on his head at a rakish angle. The mirror reflects a picture of sophisticated elegance, except for his expression. He forces his face into a smile; now he is ready for the Beach Terrace Café reception. This is where we will meet the right people Wendy had assured him. He will do this for her because all he ever cared about was making her happy.

‘How do I look?’ Wendy appears in the bedroom doorway, dressed in lilac, the colour of old age. Her hat resembles the light shade his mother had on the standard lamp in their front parlour. A fusty room for entertaining the guests who merited the best china, and where he would sit in polite formality wishing, he were anywhere else.

‘You look nice.’ What else can he say? He misses her ethnic prints and the bold palette of colours she used to wear. Now she favours the bland tones of safety and respectability.

His smile fades as he escorts her along the greeting line. She simpers and air kisses with the best of them.

He remembers a time when Wendy drew attention with her shine and dazzle, and how she moved among people not caring if she said the wrong thing or wore the wrong clothes.

Now she tries too hard, her smile is brittle, her laugh is too loud, and they brush her off like a fly from honey.

She bows her head, and he moves to her. ‘Don’t cry, Wendy.’

‘I am not crying; I’m angry with them and with me. What are we doing here?’

‘You insisted we come because making new and better friends was one of your conditions for us to start again.’

‘I was wrong.’ The sun disappears behind a cloud and Wendy shivers.

‘Do you want to go home?’ He struggles to contain a burgeoning hope.

‘I want to go back.’

‘Stay here. There’s something I need to do.’

He finds a dark corner in the bar and strips to his underpants, letting his clothes fall to the ground. A waiter approaches him.

‘Sir, are you all right?’

‘Never felt better.’ He takes a drink from the tray and steps outside.

A woman screams and drops her glass. The throng of people stop talking and stare at him in silence, except for two children who giggle and point.

He winks at them and hands his drink to the woman. ‘There you go, enjoy!’

He strolls over to Wendy. ‘Are you ready?’

She nods but does not look at him.

He crooks a finger under her chin and lifts her face to his.

The sun comes out, and Wendy smiles with a radiance that is blinding. His heart bursts with love.

She rips off her hat, takes his hand and they run, laughing, down to the sea.

The Underground Railroad, by Sankar Chatterjee

19/4/2019

Mr. Robert Williams, a prominent African-American civilian judge in the High Court in Phoenix, Arizona was returning home after a long day’s work. While driving past the city’s bus station, he noticed a parked green van, its side-windows reinforced by metal bars. The van belonged to the immigration department. Federal law enforcement officers, in brown uniforms, were busy in pulling out several adults and children of various ages. They were carrying their meager belongings either in backpacks or tiny luggage. As soon as, the last person was dropped off on the sidewalk, the van sped away. The group stood motionless on the sidewalk, while a few ordinary citizens, both men and women started to appear near the crowd and began interacting with the group. Judge Williams’ curiosity forced him to park the car at a distant and walk back to the scene.

Soon, he learned that the original group of people, none spoke English crossed the southern border that morning fleeing poverty; gang-violence, and religious persecution in several neighboring poor countries, while seeking asylum inside his country. They were rounded up by border patrol and throughout the day presented in front of an immigration judge to file their initial petitions. Those applications would now go through byzantine legal processes over many months. But at the end of the day, the trespassers collectively were dropped outside the bus station since the private bus company won’t allow them to enter the building without a valid ticket. In fact, they didn’t even have any money to buy tickets or cell-phones to contact any relative living inside the country. However, the volunteers from local social enterprises and religious institutions created a vast network of similar-minded citizens providing food, temporary shelters, and further assistance to these helpless migrant masses.

Judge Williams ordered a cup of coffee from a nearby café and sat on a chair watching the process unfolding. As the sun began to set behind the distant mountain-range painting the whole sky in a subdued pink hue, he started to remember the pages from a hand-written diary. This was kept by his great-great-grandfather who as a young boy, along with the rest of the family, was able to escape the dragnet of their masters when President Abe Lincoln freed the slaves. Traveling only in the dark of the night, the family had inched out of the southern states over several months. Then they came in contact with the volunteers from the northern states running a vast network of escape route for the newly-freed slaves. The history-books would later term the network as the “Underground Railroad”. Growing up, Judge Williams visited several of these historic hidden escape-shelters, spread out along the north-south corridor.

He looked at the sky, now slowly darkening. As a direct descendent of freed slaves, he couldn’t fathom the fact that even after 150 years later, the country needed a new underground railroad to protect the current vulnerable members of the humanity.

The Stranger, by Avijeet Das

12/4/2019

Life was throwing different problems at her and she had no way of overcoming them. She was increasingly feeling sad and depressed. And the people she had around her were not even able to understand her a wee bit! She felt she had to do something about her life. She loved writing and that was the only thing that made her happy.

And then she remembered the Stranger. She had met him on an April afternoon. And then in his presence she had felt feelings that she had never felt before. The Stranger had touched the innermost parts of her heart by just his words. And his presence had made her experience something unusual. It was as if being connected to the Stranger put her in a spell.

Today she was feeling restless. She was feeling sad and melancholic. And she wanted to feel that unusual feeling all over again!

She was desperately in need of speaking to the Stranger. But the Stranger was not in touch with her. They both had last spoken to each other since a month ago. And it was she who had tried to have a distance between them. So she had not kept in touch with the Stranger.

But today she felt she had to talk to him again. She needed him. No matter what happened she had to speak to the Stranger. And then she called the Stranger's number.

She: "Hello, how are you?"

The Stranger: "I am okay. How are you?"

She: After a long pause "I am not okay! In fact I am depressed. I can't find anyone who can understand me. Can you help me?"

The Stranger: "How can I help you?"

She: "You understand me so well! You are my balm. You are my medicine. You are the Healer!"

The Stranger: "Why do you feel so!"

She: "You give me strength. Your words make me happy. You make me feel alive!"

The Stranger: "Thank you for feeling so! You understand me well too!"

She: "Thank you for your presence in my life!

The Stranger: "There is a reason why you and I met! We don't meet anyone by chance!"

The Crash, by NT Franklin

6/4/2019

Robert stood on the window ledge of the high-rise building. He looked down at his expensive shoes, bought last Christmas with his huge bonus. Briefly lost in thought, he focused beyond his shoes and the tiny cars way below him came into focus.

He snapped back, keenly aware of how high he was above the sidewalk, and wobbled a bit. Gathering courage, Robert started talking out loud to himself. “Why worry about a wobble? You’re going to jump anyway.”

After a deep breaths, Robert straightened up and pressed his back against his office window. He could hear the newsfeed from the monitor suspended from the ceiling…crude down one dollar per barrel and projected to drop through the month…energy futures are holding steady at this point, although experts expect them to drop in the short term…

Robert started perspiring. “Crude dropping, who cares. The Dow is already down ten percent, on top of yesterday’s twenty percent-drop."

One More Day, by Marjan Sierhuis

5/4/2019

Today he is fifty. He will remember the day well.

Grey hairs creep uninvited into his temples. There is very little energy left to blow out the birthday candles.

Nathanial sits in his favorite leather chair but he is in no mood to celebrate. Instead, he is tormented by feelings of doom as his heart beats rapidly in his chest.

When he tries to take a deep breath, beads of perspiration trickle down his face. A look of concern crosses his wife’s features but disappears in the blink of an eye, fleeting as a wisp of smoke. Emma gently strokes her husband’s arm, kisses his
cheek and whispers in his ear, “I love you.”

Nathanial tells Emma he is fine. He says his pain is fleeting. There is no reason to be alarmed.

“It is probably indigestion and like always will go away,” he says as he grimaces.

But Emma calls 911.

The ambulance siren screams a warning as it races through busy city streets towards an acute care hospital. A whooshing sound accompanies Nathanial’s stretcher through emergency room doors. Hospital staff run to his stretcher. They shout his name, tap him on the shoulder and ask if he can hear them.

He drifts in and out of consciousness and prays for the first time in his life.

Nathanial prays for one more day.

The Red Feather, by Jim Bartlett

5/4/2019

As Owen steps into the room, he’s handed a long soft feather and told to have a seat along the far wall. The feather is bright crimson, causing him to wonder if maybe it came from a cardinal. Or maybe an exotic species of parrot. With a shrug he sits, an impulse driving him to brush the feather against his wrist. But the light touch, which should tickle, instead sends a stab of panic deep inside his heart.
“Red.”
The call comes from a tall but pleasantly plump lady angel who stands at the doorway to the counseling center, and he jumps up, making his way to her side.
“You must be Owen,” she says, a twinkle in her eyes. She takes the feather and points to a door that moments ago wasn’t even there. “Right to the end of the hall. He’s waiting.”
The “hall” is nothing more than a wide slice in the puffy white clouds disappearing into the far horizon. Yet with just a couple of steps he’s standing before a large marble desk cluttered with stacks and stacks of parchments, behind which, in a high-backed chair made from an odd assortment of pillows randomly stitched together, sits an older man with white wings, a white beard, and wild white hair atop his head. He peers down through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses dangling at the end of his nose as his crooked finger traces along the page of a giant book, its ancient edges trimmed in gold. A little placard on the front of the desk reads: CLARENCE.
Owen stands for moment before finally clearing his throat, causing the angel to look up. When he meets Owen’s gaze, a smile breaks across his face, one so deep and sincere, Owen suspects Clarence may have saved it just for him.
“Owen. So good to see you.” He waves a hand toward the side of the desk. “Have a seat.”
As Owen sits, the angel continues. “So I understand you’re having a little trouble adjusting to Heaven?”
Owen nods. “It just doesn’t feel like I’m supposed to be here. I mean everyone is nice enough, but I can’t connect. And there’s no night or day...I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”
“I see,” says Clarence. He flips a few of the oversized pages, before finding one that catches his eye. Squinting, he leans in for a closer look. “Oh...my...” he says with a gasp. “This is most certainly interesting.” But then he smiles. “No worries!”
Rising slowly from the desk, he places his hands on Owen’s chest and gently presses in. “This’ll fix you right up!”
With a start, Owen - wet, naked, and lying next to the tub in his bathroom - spits out a breath, his eyes popping open to a paramedic pushing down on his chest. Another EMT is wrapping thick gauze around the deep slashes in his wrists.
“We thought we’d lost you,” says the paramedic. “But you’re gonna be okay.”

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Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.

However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

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

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

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