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The Redlands, by Don Tassone

18/4/2025

 
In the Southern Ocean, between South America and Antarctica, there is an island chain called The Redlands.  Historically, few people have lived there because the climate is so harsh.  But with global warming, the ice and snow have begun to melt, and the population has ticked up.

The Redlands are a sovereign state.  In the 1800s, they belonged to England.  But as the British Empire began to unravel, The Crown let go of the islands, thinking them of no real value beyond a safe harbor for ships making their way through the treacherous waters of the Drake Passage.

Except for the crews on those ships, few people had even heard of The Redlands. That changed in 2026, when large deposits of the rare earth minerals scandium and yttrium were discovered just beneath the newly exposed surface of the islands.

The world took note. Many countries wanted those minerals. The US made the first move, extending a lucrative offer for mining rights.  China, Russia and Europe quickly followed with offers of their own.

But the 22,000 inhabitants of The Redlands weren’t interested. Concerned excavation would ruin both their land and simple way of life, they politely declined all offers.

This didn’t sit well with the American President, who angrily vowed to “get The Redlands, one way or another.”

Most nations no longer trusted the US. Even once staunch allies now saw America as a threat.

When they heard the US might “get” The Redlands, China, Russia and Europe decided they’d had enough. They jointly issued a warning that any invasion by the US would be met with a “swift and forceful response.”

“They’re bluffing,” sneered the President.

Then he ordered his military to take control of The Redlands. But the President had badly misjudged his counterparts. As soon as American soldiers set foot on the islands, China, Russia and Europe unleashed nuclear strikes on the US. America tried to mount a defense, but the combined attack was overwhelming. Within a few hours, the US was decimated.

When the dust settled, China and Russia divvied up America, on the eve of its 250th birthday; Europe stepped up as the new leader of the free world; and The Redlands remained undefiled.
​

Cold Cuts, by John O’Keefe

18/4/2025

 
Italian deli; only a handful of guests, most sitting by themselves.

I check the counter first. Bologna, hard salami, Black Forest ham, pepperoni, roast beef, smoked turkey breast, prosciutto, corned beef, liverwurst, cheeses.

“Nice place,” I tell the heavyset bald man, probably the owner.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he says. “Business is slow, though. People no longer eat out or no longer see eye to eye, I dunno. Jus’ a few come here anymore.”

“You’ve got smoked beef tongue?”

“Irish-Italian neighborhood, ma’am, nobody would touch that kinda thing here. Although I remember, my old man liked it also.”

There’s a TV on the wall next to the counter; on the screen we see a deep crater where a hospital was standing a few hours ago. The deli man sighs and shakes his head.

An elderly woman who entered the store right after me joins the conversation. “Beef tongue! Sounds disgusting. It’s probably like French kissing a cow.”

“I like it,” I tell her. “Acquired taste, I guess.”

“Well, I for one wouldn’t want to acquire that taste.”

The TV announces that during a friendly soccer game a rocket slammed into the pitch killing a dozen kids. The deli man sighs again and murmurs a few words, the four-lettered type.

“In a bad mood today, are you?” I ask him.

“Always, ma’am,” he says. “What a world we live in!”

I order roast beef on Russian rye, mustard, pickle. And an extra pickle to help ponder the world we live in.

Moonlit Romance, by Dart Humeston

18/4/2025

 
Ryan parked the car along Fort Lauderdale beach. The night was warm as the full moon rose from the dark Atlantic Ocean, bathing the waves and sand in purity.

“What are we doing?” Mary asked.

“Take your shoes off, we are going to tip our toes into the Atlantic Ocean.”

Mary shook her head, smiling. “You are such a romantic fool.”

They walked carefully, holding hands to steady each other in the soft sand.

Ten meters from the waves Ryan dropped to one knee in the sand.

“Ryan, are you okay?” Mary knowingly asked.

A bikini-clad girl and a guy with long shorts emerged from the
waves, paused to watch.

“Mary, you are my very best friend, and I love you like crazy. Will you be my wife?” Ryan asked, looking up into Mary’s misty eyes.

“Oh, my God!” shrieked the bikini girl, hands to her mouth. Her boyfriend took her hand, and they watched the romantic scene play out with a few other bathers.

Mary giggled. Ryan swayed about, his face grimacing with pain.

“Can you guys help him up? He has a bad knee,” Mary asked.

Ryan waved them off, saying,” Not until I get my answer.”

Mary, her hands over her chest, tears in her eyes, said, “Of course I will!”

Beach goers cheered and a few clapped. The bikini girl’s boyfriend helped Ryan to his feet.

“Wow, that is awesome, how long have you been dating?” The girl asked, her eyes misty too.

“Ah, well, we actually have been married for fifty-one years. My husband insists on reenacting his proposal every year. He is a hopeless romantic!

“Oh, my God! How awesome!”

Just then, the bikini girl’s boyfriend dropped to one knee in the sand.

The bikini girl shrieked again.

Predictions, by Tom Baldwin

18/4/2025

 
Arnold hated his job. As a government statistician, his work in investigating population densities and changes, death rates and the like was unchallenging, to say the least. But with only two years to serve before retirement and a pension he knew he had no choice but to struggle through the boredom.

One evening, after some particularly depressing world news headlines, he wondered if it might be possible to statistically predict and, ideally, prevent wars.

For a year he looked at the problem in his own time from all angles, and at last he saw a possible way forward, involving novel variations of several accepted statistical equations.

He gathered the data he thought he needed from his own and a friendly neighbouring country’s published information and set his computer to calculate the results. It quickly produced an answer: his country and its neighbour would be at war within two years, plus or minus three months, with a likelihood of eighty per cent, plus or minus six per cent.

Horrified, Arnold checked and double-checked his data and equations, found a few minor errors and re-ran the program. This time it predicted war within twenty months.

That Monday morning an apprehensive Arnold took his results into work to show his boss, who would undoubtably take it to the department head, and maybe up to the President, which was exactly what happened.

Within an hour of the President seeing his work, three grim-faced men strode into Arnold’s office and took him, his laptop and his printed results to a sub-basement room he had never seen before. ‘Who else knows about this nonsense?’ said the most intimidating of the men.

‘No-one,’ said Arnold. ‘I worked entirely alone in my own time, and brought my results in today to let the government know there is a strong possibility of war. If a few variables are changed war can be delayed or even prevented. I was sure the President would want to know this rather than sleepwalk into a conflict that could cost many lives.’

‘Good,’ said the President when he was told that Arnold’s work had not been disseminated elsewhere. ‘We’ll go ahead with the invasion as planned, just a little earlier than I would have liked in case anyone else figures this out. Increase the defence budget by three per cent per annum from today, run intensive exercises involving all armed services and bring forward the plans to commandeer civilian aircraft and shipping. Oh, and get my trust to increase its holdings in military-industrial stocks, using the usual nominee accounts and offshore companies.’

‘Yes, Mr President,’ said everyone, making a mental note to do the same.

In solitary confinement, Arnold spends his days with pencil and paper calculating his chances of release. The answers always came back as zero.

    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.


    Picture
    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
    .

    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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