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Bugged, by Roberta Beach Jacobson

31/5/2024

Your paws stay busy, scratching your ears, your neck. Bathing helps things a little, at least temporarily.

I can’t prove it, but when you sleep I think these tiny critters leave your fur and migrate to me. Is it my imagination? Are these dog fleas, cat fleas, or something more sinister? I scratch my arms, then my chin. It’s endless. I can’t sleep through the night, worrying about it.

Days I busy myself washing bedding, rugs, whatever can be cleaned. This is how the term spring cleaning originated, from frantic dog owners just trying to keep up.

Such is our standard routine this time of year. Soon plant shoots will appear and the rest of nature will awaken. Nymphs of two broods of cicadas are starting to emerge (and invade). Zillions of them! As part of the cycle, I’ll leave more fruit out for our yard possums.

We got this, bud.

Vantage Point, by John O’Keefe

24/5/2024

“Frankly, dear, I am scared to go to your house. Your owner might just shoot me. He is a hunter, and hunters in this state seem obligated to shoot stray dogs.”

“Don’t you worry, mister. Once he sees I am in love with you, he’ll understand. He’s going to get you a nice comfortable doggie bed and give us more than enough pet food and bones every day.”

“Bones, that’s good. Any meat left on the bones?”

“But of course, my love, always a little meat left on the bone. And nice chunks of pure meat, quite often.”

“How many times a week?”

“Meat? Hard to tell. Definitely on Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving plus on birthdays. I almost forgot paydays and when he wins in poker. If he’s done well hunting or fishing that’s also a guaranteed feast.”

“Sorry, I am not going. Of course, we can remain lovers and whenever you’re in heat, we’ll meet secretly here in the forest.”

“Why, what’s wrong? Guaranteed food, you live in a dry, warm house with a nice couple and their children who love you. Is it the meat issue that bothers you, love?”

“No, not at all. Here in the wilderness I often go without a scrap of food for days. What’s most disturbing to me is that your entire fate depends on your owner’s mood and prosperity. Once he thinks you’re too old, or sick, your best bet is to run away and join us strays. You’d better keep a close eye on the guy’s body language and facial expressions.”

Howard and the Freezer Guy, by Gordon Lawrie

24/5/2024

Howard and his two children emerged from home to find a giant delivery lorry parked across his entrance gateway. Howard had three cars parked in front of his driveway, and could move none of them.

The van’s driver Joe, a powerful man-monster, was struggling to handle a huge freezer intended for Howard’s next-door neighbour. Not that Howard cared.

“Excuse me, I need to drive my children to school. Could you please move?” Howard’s words sounded polite, their tone wasn’t.

“I’ll only be five minutes,” Joe grunted.

“But we’re late.”

“Should’ve left earlier then.”

“Look,” Howard said, “every minute you hold us up is costing me in school fees.”

By now, Joe had managed to manoeuvre the freezer onto the pavement and was trying to catch his breath. He turned to look at Howard.

“Lucky you can afford to waste your money like that,” Joe said. “Do you think those kids of yours will grow any better because they go to a fancy school?”

“They’ll grow up to be better than you. They’re better than you already. Look at you, reduced to a job like that.”

Joe folded his arms and grinned. “And you want me to move my van? Well, after that, I think I need a bit more of a rest,” he said, leaning back against the freezer.

It was the last straw for Howard. He walked up to the freezer and tried to push it out of the way. When he couldn’t because of Joe’s weight, he pushed Joe instead. It was a big mistake. After Joe ‘pushed back’ with his fist, Howard found himself on the ground, propped up against his own front gate.

The police were called, by the very neighbour to whom the freezer had still not yet been delivered. He’d seen the entire exchange from an upstairs window, and his account was largely verified by the two children. The neighbour added that Howard had form in situations like these, particularly with anyone he saw as an inferior being. As next-door neighbours they exchanged ‘hellos’ in passing, but weren’t friends with each other.

The attending police officers took some details, but suggested that it might be as well just to try and calm things down and avoid taking things further.

Howard was incensed. “Are you going to let that beast off scot-free? He deserves to be charged.”

The senior police officer, an experienced woman in her forties, sighed. “I think we decide who deserves what, sir, not you. And tell me – would you like to be him?”

Howard looked bemused. “Like to be him? Someone like that? What do you think?”

“Then it’s your lucky day. I think you should reflect on that, sir, don’t you?”

As the police officers turned to go, leaving Howard fuming, the police woman muttered, “I don’t suppose the delivery guy would like to be him either.”

Not Like That, by Dorian J. Sinnott

24/5/2024

Prom was supposed to be happy. Bidding the end to senior year, on a floor of glittering dresses, caught in the lights. Surrounded by beautiful bouquets and better friends. But, for her, it was just another night. A night she wished would end.
She held her knees, playing with the pleats in her dress. And she waited, trying not to let the tears fall. Not let them smudge her eyeliner.
For just this once, she wished he would be late…
That was because she knew she didn’t love him. At least, not like that. He was her best friend. And the love she felt was deep. But…
Not like that.
When her eyes met his headlights pulling into the drive, she couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. They fell, heavy. Breaking through her makeup as she knew her words would his heart. And it was hard. So very hard…
And that was because she loved him. Really, truly loved him.
But just, not like that.

The Neighbor, by Don Tassone

17/5/2024

When his longtime backyard neighbor moved out without telling anyone, Bob was surprised. But when his new neighbor moved in, Bob was shocked.

His old neighbor had kept his yard in pristine condition. It looked like a nature preserve. But the morning after his new neighbor moved in, Bob heard the roar of a chainsaw out back. He looked out and was horrified to see a man cutting down his old neighbor’s beautiful trees.

“What the f**k!” he said to his wife.

“It’s okay,” she said, rubbing his back. “Maybe he just wants to start over.”

Bob hoped she was right. But each time he checked out his neighbor’s yard when he was cutting his grass, the situation had grown worse.

His new neighbor was starting over all right. He was turning his backyard into a junkyard, filled with an array of bizarre objects, including a seesaw and a geometric dome, half-completed projects and dead trees. What was once a paradise had become a wasteland.

Bob wanted to ask his new neighbor why he was doing this. But whenever he saw Bob coming, his neighbor turned and walked away.

“Maybe he needs help,” his wife said.

Bob hoped his neighbor would move. He prayed for foreclosure. He fantasized about welcoming a normal new neighbor and helping him clean up the mess and begin anew.

But his crazy neighbor stayed, and the crap in his backyard kept expanding. Cutting grass, Bob could no longer bear to look. Seeing all the clutter only made him angry. If he did take a gander, he’d be upset for days.

Bob began fertilizing the trees in his backyard every few months, hoping they would grow faster and obscure his view. He planted new trees too. His backyard began to resemble a nursery.

One snowy winter afternoon, Bob sat in his sunroom on the back of his house, warmed by a gas fireplace. He sometimes went out there to relax.

But through the leafless trees, his neighbor’s backyard was on full display. Bob dropped an f-bomb. But then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to think pleasant thoughts.

What came to his mind instead, though, were dark remembrances of times when he had felt maligned. Each of these events had haunted him. Now they flooded back all at once.

“It was not my fault!” Bob cried out.

Trembling, he opened his eyes and saw his neighbor, in a T-shirt, pushing a red wheelbarrow through the snow into the middle of his backyard. He set the wheelbarrow down and stared at it for a minute. Then he trudged back to his house and went inside.

That’s not my fault either, Bob thought. And yet he’d taken it on. He had allowed others’ behavior to ravage his life.

But then the snow stopped and the sun broke through the clouds and Bob let go of his neighbor’s yard and all the things that had caused him to suffer.

In Sunsets, by Dorian J. Sinnott

17/5/2024

Junie spent the evenings on her back deck, eagerly watching and waiting for the sun set. The closing of another day. And while beautiful and serene, it brought a sense of sadness to her. A twinge of loss. Of farewell. But not for the day…
For him.
It had been many years, and still, she felt the heaviness in her heart. The heaviness of saying good-bye. Of letting go. Watching the sun set behind the mountains as her bus pulled away. As he waved.
The last time they saw each other…
And she broke her promise. Her promise to keep in touch. But they had fallen out of contact. And she knew it wasn’t her fault. Nor was it his.
Still, though, she kept one promise. The promise to never forget him. For he was in each and every sunset. And he always would be. She only hoped that she was still in his, as well. Thousands of miles away.

A Developing Story, by Mary K. Curran

10/5/2024

A black SUV and white van entered the headlands adjoining Parker's place and pulled up beside the granite outcropping called Angus Rock.
A fellow in brown pinstripes stuck in the ground a pole topped by a red flag marked with a black "BS" inside a white circle. He posed like a rum-peddling pirate as another man took photos. The suits left and workmen got busy with strings, stakes and theodolite.
Parker's buddy, Duncan, showed up with whiskey, coffee and donuts.
“What a nasty flag,” said Duncan. ”Heard downtown the big noise, Bertram Steele, and his mouthpiece, Jacob Wheeler, are sweet talking the Board of Selectmen about that prime piece of waterfront.”
“Angus MacMaster will be pissed,” said Parker. “Gave those acres to the Town over a hundred years ago to leave as is.”
“Steele said it could be improved with asphalt walkways, picnic tables and porta-potties. Betting he's scheming to build a McMansion.”
“Good luck with that,” said Parker.
The old friends played chess on the porch, drank and laughed until late afternoon when a big yellow backhoe arrived. Workmen checked survey markers and drove off leaving the backhoe parked by Angus Rock.
Dark clouds soon rolled in and birds stopped singing. Parker and Duncan put down their drinks and picked up their binoculars.
Angus Rock shuddered as the ground moaned, heaved, tore itself open. The backhoe tilted precariously over the edge then slid sideways into a massive black hole. The opening burped and snapped shut.
“That never gets old,” said Parker.
The men raised glasses of Scottish whiskey and shouted, “Slainte, Laird Angus!”
Next morning workmen returned and called the police. A cruiser and the black SUV came immediately.
Parker called Duncan. “Get over here. Sgt. Bristol's questioned the workers and sent them off. Steele's raging and pushed Wheeler up against the Rock. Now shouting at the sergeant and pointing this way.”
Duncan and Sgt. Bristol arrived at the same time.
”Gentlemen. You see anything, hear anything, know anything about a missing backhoe?”
The two men slowly shook their heads.
The sergeant scanned the wide ocean view, sighed and headed back toward the headlands.
Suddenly the sky darkened and the birds went silent.
Duncan exclaimed, “No! Not now!”
Parker stood and shouted, “Bristol!”
Angus Rock shuddered violently knocking Steele and Wheeler off their feet. The ground growled, heaved, tore itself open. The screaming men, their black SUV and nasty flag tumbled into the abyss. The hole snapped shut with a loud belch before Sgt. Bristol could get there.
“Good God. That was unexpected,” said Duncan, staring at the murder scene.
“Ayuh,” said Parker. “It's going to be one hell of an incident report.”

Fancy Eats, by Roberta Beach Jacobson

3/5/2024

While you enjoy your shrimp scampi on a Saturday night, you won’t see me. I’m dressed in scrubs, standing at the restaurant’s kitchen sink, either scraping dirty plates or rinsing them to load into the dishwasher-sanitizer. My shift starts an hour before we open for dinner. I’m responsible for adjusting the window blinds, making coffee, setting tables.

Our restaurant is decidedly upscale. Our meals cost a small fortune. If you assume your server is a caste or two below you, chances are you’d place me even lower. Oh, she’s just the stupid dishwasher, right? Well, I have two college degrees. I don’t drive, and this was the only job I could get near home. I’ve worked here eight years, longer than any of our chefs.

Long after you sip the last of your fine wine and finish your lemon sorbet, I’ll be bustling around the kitchen. Clean dishes need to be put away. Trash must be taken outside. The kitchen floor awaits sweeping and mopping.

Your tip helps your server survive in these tough times. As for me, I’m forced to survive without tips, from you or anyone else. Whatever superpowers I possess come from within.

Fire in the Sky, by Tom Baldwin

3/5/2024

The Elder they called Zed hacked his way through the undergrowth of the forest, being careful not to damage the tribe’s last machete. The others followed him. They believed a ruined town which may have useful artefacts to help their survival lay in that direction. His blade hit something that clanged and made his hand tingle.

‘What is it, Zed?’

‘I don’t know, but it looks artificial. Something from the Old Days, perhaps.’ The men of the tribe helped remove the branches and leaves and at last the object lay revealed. It was a battered silver tube with windows in the side and a tall, thin rounded structure at one end. They peered through the windows, then leapt back, screaming. The skeletons inside grinned back at them.

‘I think I know what it is,’ said Ell. ‘My grandfather used to talk of silver machines that carried people high in the sky, before he was born. I never believed him, but perhaps this was one of them.’

Everyone laughed, except Zed. ‘My grandfather used to tell me the same story,’ he said, ‘and I thought it was one of his tall tales. He said it was before the Great Fire in the Sky, before our tribe fled from the cities that glowed in the dark.’ Everyone knew the story of the Great Fire in the Sky, which had been handed down the generations, varying slightly with each retelling.

‘Who’s brave enough to enter it?’ said Tee. ‘There could be something of use in there.’ Nobody spoke. The skeletons were there to guard whatever the tube held, and no-one dared defy them.

Zed led the tribe away from the tube to resume the search for the town. He knew it was fruitless, that there was no town. But the tribe lived in hope, hope of anything to ensure the survival of their dwindling numbers, and Zed always tried to feed that hope. It was all they had now their babies were being born deformed and sickly, living only a matter of days.

Zed wondered how long they would believe him, and what they would do when they found he had been lying to them.

The May Queen's Flowers, by Lisa Williams

3/5/2024

I sat to stitch in the kitchen with ma singing as she stirred the pot. The scent of lilac drifted through the back door. The nearest bush in bloom was in the church yard so I thought it odd to smell its sweetness all the way from there. I thought nothing more of it, and focused on making my stitches as neat as I could. My needle skills were not great; the concentration made my hand tremble some. Ma rested her hand on my shoulder and I put down the needle.
It felt momentous; every May Queen for as long as anyone could remember had worn this apron. Even my best frock was as tattered as a rag so I was glad I’d have this pretty covering. Delicate embroidered flowers nestled along the edge of the apron. Before the procession I had to add my own flower. I chose a spot not so on show, to less stitch, more stab my haphazard little daisy.
I tried the apron on that evening; ma pointed and named the flowers to teach my younger sisters a little more of our world. She lingered over the lilac, stitched as a spray of purple French knots; a tear forming as she revealed.
“This, this was your grandmama’s flower all those years ago.”

Tuning Sessions, by Marinela Dobrescu

3/5/2024

Noreen cuts the onions into small pieces, dribbles some Cretan Prince oil into the pan and sautés the hell out of them, the fumes blasting like fallen angels in the kitchen. “What are you doing?” he asks, his shoulders touching both panels of the door. Her smile is just a tightening of the flesh across her face, drenched in tears. “I’m cooking. For you.”

************************************

On the evening, when the sky goes stone and droops exhausted, barely distinguishable from the pavements, and the trees shiver, their veiny leaves like hands about to hit, she’s laying the table, fingers trembling, making sure all forks, knives and spoons are in the right order. The lack of salt was a mistake. So was the palm on her left cheek.

************************************

Globes of blueberry hiding in whipped cream crawl down her throat, forcing its muscles to snarl into bright, fierce knots, while the bone sockets of her eyes, the roots of her back teeth, the cavities of her nose, shoot pain in high-pitched spasms, holding her mouth prisoner. The cashmere sweater crackles under her fingers, whispering:” Why her?”

************************************

The fist strikes Noreen, in the head or in the chest; and, in a moment, wholly, filling her with an anguish that she could never in her life have imagined, that she surely could not endure, that even now she could not believe, has opened her up; has cracked her wide, as a brittle vase shatters beneath the sledgehammer, as bricks break up; has ripped her and felled her, so that she has not felt the wound, but only the agony, has not felt the fall, but only the shame; and lays there, helpless, screaming, at the very bottom of darkness.

************************************

Her eyes struggle to open and slowly the furniture rearranges itself in the living room, returning to the old design. Sofa to the left, two chairs at the table near the window, books and knickknacks back on the shelves. She has learned that fear makes its home in the guts. It moves in, shifts stuff around and empties a space for itself, echoing the wingbeats of breath. There’s nowhere to go, yet she stands up and runs.

************************************

Each drop of rain crashes into her body, as if eager to wipe out the reds and blues and yellows, memories carving jagged canyons in the landscape of her brain. She has been standing here, wet and burning, debating whether she wants to know. What will happen if she does? Will anything change? The thought that twists like a kite’s tail, curling itself in her mind is: please. Let it not be like this. Let it not have been now. Let him have died of an aneurysm, stroke, struck by lightening. Let him have contracted some rare, incurable disease. Just let it not have been in a muddy yard, with a bullet in his heart, in the velvet gray of dawn. Please.

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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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