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Another Day In Paradise, by Bruce Levine

21/6/2019

 
Another hot and humid day. His dog had awakened him at her usual time – ten to seven – and, again, he wondered if she had a built-in alarm clock.

It was the usual morning routine: race to throw on some clothes to take her out for her first walk. And, as usual, as soon as they’d gotten a couple of hundred feet from the front door it started to rain – again. It was always raining. Even if the sun was shining when they left the apartment it would start to rain a few minutes later.

Another day in paradise – another day in Hell!

Morning routines accomplished he sat down at his desk to check his e-mail and do some work, but the heat, humidity and rain persisted in his brain, overtaking his mind to the point that he couldn’t think of anything else.

The calendar said that it was fall, but the thermometer seemed to have neglected to notice. High eighties, the weather forecast had predicted. Unseasonably hot. Didn’t anyone ever tell the seasons that there are supposed to be variations in temperature, he wondered?

The day’s To Do list was filled with errands, but would he get through it without regularly trying to wait out the torrential rain that happened either while he was in a store, forcing him to wait inside, or as he was driving to the next location, forcing him to wait in his car in the hope that it would stop long enough to race inside without getting drenched – again.

Another day in paradise – another day in Hell!

Three sets of soaking clothes later he sat at his desk again. He’d given up on the errands and he’d given up on getting any work done.

He turned on the television, but the pundits on the cable news channel were regurgitating the same punditizing they’d regurgitated in their never-ending quest to fill up the twenty-four hours a day the channel broadcast. At least they got paid for platitudes, ideology and dogma rehashed and dissected ad nauseam.

And he’d seen the murder mysteries run and re-run to the point that he could quote the dialogue verbatim. That, plus the deterioration of the other channels into a miasma of the sophomoric or the pandering to the intellectual level of a flea, of what appeared to him to be the viewing public, sent his hand reaching for the off button on the remote.

Too hot and humid to read.

His dog asked to go out again. He looked out the window – it wasn’t raining. Maybe, he hoped, they could get through a walk without the rain starting again before they got home. He doubted it, but the look in his dog’s eyes forced his decision.

Still dry on their return, an event he almost felt warranted recording for posterity, he returned to his desk.

He pulled over a pad, picked up a pencil and started to write –

Another day in paradise...

Ghost, by Mary Wallace

21/6/2019

 
It’s ridiculous to think ghosts could be about in sunlight, but there she was, I had
seen her before and I wasn't scared. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I sipped my coffee. The ghost was openly studying me, so I in turn gave her my full attention. Perhaps she was twelve or thirteen with a steady gaze and soft brown eyes, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.
Daylight, no sheet, I could just see my husbands eyebrows rise in that supercilious
way if I told him that there was a ghost, wearing jeans, in our kitchen. She was certainly a ghost, the kitchen clock said 10.20 and I could read it through her shirt. What do you say to a ghost? I waited hoping she would speak first.
If I reached out, would my hand go through the shirt?
The ghost smiled,could she read my mind? That wasn't in any movies. I suppose I’ll have to speak first, perhaps it's ghost etiquette to only speak when spoken to. The ghost smiled again.
“Now look here,” I said,’ I don't think you should be able to read my mind if I can't read yours”
'What makes you think you can't read mine' the question was there, but the girl hadn't spoken, I could feel her speaking to my heart.
How silly, drinking coffee and mind reading with a ghost.
“How did you die?”, the words came more easily.
“Do you have unfinished business?” Surely all those movies couldn’t be wrong.
'Well no, I haven't died, but I’m not born yet either', her spirit sounded small and lost,
'I need your help because I want to live.’
“I don’t understand, who are you?” I gasped as I felt her reply.
'You're my mother,or you could be if you help me.’
“How can you be mine? If you can read minds you know I take contraceptives.”
How could I bring any child into this marriage? I studied my bruised cheek in the window.
“I’m not your mother and you wouldn’t want him as a father.” It sounded harsh,
“I can’t protect a child from him. I’m sorry, I wish you were mine.”
'I could be if you leave before he comes home,” her eyes were warm and pleading.
‘Leave and I will be your child in the future, stay and he will kill you tonight.’
“I can't leave, he will come after me.”I panicked,“You can't want him as a father , you would never be safe”
'He isn't my father, my father is in your future. A safe future, if you leave now.’
This beautiful girl could be my child , I stepped closer, her image wavered.
‘Hurry, leave now!’
“How will I know your father?” I asked, grabbing the case hidden in the broom cupboard after yesterday's beating.
The child had gone, but the thought came to me with her laughter,
'I have his eyes'
​

The Moral Darkness, by Sankar Chatterjee

19/6/2019

 
Ms. Nora Miller and Mr. Victor Cohen first met each other behind the barbed wire in the Auschwitz Death Camps. She was rounded up in Budapest, Hungary, he in Warsaw, Poland. Both came out from box-cars on the same platform at the end of the train track that snaked throughout the camp-area. Victor arrived in a morning. Being young, he was selected by the Nazi general to work in an area known as “Canada” inside the camp. The guards at the rail-station would collect luggage of arriving prisoners (they’re promised new job opportunities during arrest) and bring to “Canada”. Victor joined fellow prisoners there to pillage through suitcases for valuables. That same evening, Nora disembarked from a different box-car and was selected by Dr. Josef Mengele, the “Angel of Death” to assist a female Nazi nurse helping the doctor carrying out macabre medical experiments on prisoners.

Amidst all the mayhem around them, Nora and Victor found each other, fell in love at first sight, and continued their romance even under the watchful eyes of the Nazis. Both were optimistic in nature. They believed that their fates were testing them, especially the nature of jobs they’re forced to perform and soon this nightmare would be over. It would be another two years when the allied soldiers would liberate them at the end of the World War II. They moved to New York City, resettled, got married, and became the parents to the baby boy Peter.

Growing up, Peter would notice the blue prisoner number etched on his father’s arm in death camps. During his teenage years, both parents would describe to him their experience in the Auschwitz. They would remind him the lesson that kept them sane and alive through humanity’s worst crime: “Never give up even in life’s darkest moments.”

Two score years later, Dr. Peter Cohen, now a renowned psychiatrist was lying on a sofa inside his medical office with front-door locked. A moral crisis was slowly engulfing him. One of the multinational pharmaceutical companies had convinced him that their newly marketed migraine drug could be beneficial, at higher doses, for alleviating suffering in depressed patients too. However, they only had animal-data but no human-data. Based on incentives he received from the company for such an off-label use, he prescribed the medicine to his recent patients. In an unpredictable side-effect, two of them became more depressed, entered into so-called “dark tunnels of hopelessness”, and committed suicide. Remaining three had been admitted to hospitals under “suicide watch”.

Gradually, Dr. Cohen started descending into his own dark mental abyss. He loosened the knot of his tie, raised it up to his neck, and refastened as tight as he could. Just before taking final breath, he remembered his deceased parents’ lesson to him in childhood. He unfastened the tie, got up, and composed a long letter of guilt to submit to his professional society taking full responsibility for his moral darkness.

The Partner, by Jim Bartlett

14/6/2019

 
Dragging his carry-on suitcase behind him, Carl wearily pushes through the door. After three connections and a delayed flight, he’s finally home.

Wiping his brow, he looks up to see Marci, their “babysitter,” lost in a book sitting in the recliner. She’s brought back to the real world only when he clears his throat.

“Oh, Mr. G! You’re home. Mrs. G said you’d probably be late. She had to go to work.”

“Yeah, the wonderful world of flying. How’s Mark?”

“You know, other than grumbling about me having to be here, he’s lost in that video game, Dark Fantasy.”

Carl smiles. “Something about being 12 makes you think you’re ready for the world.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his wallet.

“No need, Mr. G, Mrs. G paid already.”

He nods, but yet pulls out a 10. “Here, a little extra for all you do...and puttin’ up with a 12-year-old’s attitude.”

She laughs and takes the bill with a thanks. Tossing her book in her pack, she starts for the entry.
“You need a ride or anything?”

“Nope, but thanks. Got my dad’s car.” She flashes another quick smile and waves, then slides through the door.

Carl moves over to the front window, keeping an eye until she’s safe in the car and on her way. Loosening his tie, he heads up the stairs, giving a light tap on Mark’s door before stepping in.

“Oh, hey, Dad. Didn’t know you were back.”

“Just got in. How’s Mom?”

“Good. Think she had to work or somethin’.”

“So I heard.” Carl juts his chin in the direction of the curtained window. “You know, there’s this bright thing called the sun out there calling for you. We could go out and toss a ball or something. Supposed to be nice tomorrow again and I’m off...maybe we could go fishin’?”

“Thanks, Dad. Maybe some other time. I just got to Level 16, Shadowland.” He takes a deep sigh.
​
“But I’m kinda stuck. My partner has been off line since last night, and you really need to team up for this next demon.”

“Partner?”

“Yeah. T-Rex44. He’s really a cool dude. We’ve been kickin’ as...uh, butt together since Level 5.”

“A cool dude, eh?” He smiles and shakes his head. “Okay, well I’m gonna get these stinkin’ work clothes off and kick back for a bit. I’ll come get you for dinner later.”

“Can’t we just order a pizza?”

Carl gives his head another shake. “Okay, sounds good.”

He heads down the hall, tucking into the master bedroom, twisting the lock on the door as he closes it behind him. He tosses his suit jacket and tie on the bed, then slips into the “sitting nook,” a little alcove in the large room. He sits at the desk, jet lag taking its toll, and fires up the PC.

A beep tells him the PC is alive, and clicks on the application. 
 
DARK FANTASY
LOGIN:

He types: T-REX44

Fried Chicken, by Bruce Levine

14/6/2019

 
Fried chicken. She didn’t know why she’d been thinking about fried chicken, but she had been for the past three days and now it was becoming almost an obsession. It wasn’t as if she had any specific desire for it and she certainly didn’t have any desire to cook it, but the two words remained stuck in her brain. Over and over they repeated themselves like a mantra that becomes a fixation.

Thursday passed and then Friday and now it was Sunday and she wondered if it were somehow connected to some story or television show she’d seen where there was a Sunday-after-church dinner. She wondered about those. Were there really families who gathered every Sunday afternoon as a family and had dinner together?

It was a nice thought. One that she couldn’t quite imagine having grown up in Manhattan, the daughter of two neuro-surgeons who were either constantly in the hospital doing some surgery or in their office seeing patients. One person they rarely saw was Stephanie.

As usual she was alone in the eleven room penthouse apartment on 5th Avenue overlooking Central Park. Stephanie wandered around aimlessly. Everyone was gone for the day. Her parents were doing rounds at the hospital and even the maid had the day off. Stephanie wondered if she went to church and then to a Sunday-after-church dinner before she came back to 5th Avenue? And did she have fried chicken for dinner? Had she mentioned it and that’s how it became stuck in Stephanie’s head? Stephanie didn’t remember even talking with Jenny, their maid, about it. So why the fixation on fried chicken?

Stephanie went to the kitchen, looked in the refrigerator as if compelled to see what it contained. Nothing very interesting. And she wasn’t even hungry – Jenny had made her a big breakfast before she left and it was now only two o’clock, not even hungry enough for a quick sandwich and certainly not a full dinner which, she suspected, would be in about an hour in those fantasy homes. How did people eat dinner so early? And didn’t they get hungry again? What did they eat then? The whole process seemed so completely out of her realm of experience that it was just a part of stories she’d heard and read.

“Okay. This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. “I will not be ruled by some fixation on fried chicken or fantasy about Sunday-after-church dinner. I’m seventeen years old. I can fend for myself and eat what I want when I want to eat it!”

With that said she picked up the book she’d left on the end table a couple of weeks before and settled down to read. Three minutes later she was up and wandering around again. Another three minutes and she was back in the chair. That repeated itself about five times before she slammed down the book and announced – “That’s it!”

She went to her computer to look up the location of the nearest Kentucky Fried Chicken.

A Father's Love, by Doug Bartlett

14/6/2019

 
It seemed like yesterday that he graduated from high school. Now here he was getting ready to graduate from college. Not just any college, but a prestigious university. Fortunately, his wealthy father could afford it. Unfortunately, they had a terrible argument when he first left for school and hadn’t spoken to each other the entire time. His father tried to reconcile many times but wasn’t successful due to his son’s pride. One day he received a phone call from his father’s neighbor. The neighbor said his father had just passed away and he wanted to let his son know that he loved him, was proud of him, and had a graduation gift for him. The son decided to make the long trip home. He found himself thinking more about the gift than about his father. What could it be, he thought. He finally decided that it must be a new car. He had worked hard the last several years and besides, his father could easily afford it. As he parked in front of the house he noticed the driveway was empty. He peered through the garage window but it only revealed his father’s old car. He entered through the front door and as he walked through the house he noticed the nicely wrapped gift on the kitchen table. He quickly disposed of the card with his name on it, and began tearing into the package. He was extremely disappointed and upset when he discovered it was a Bible. He tossed the Bible back onto the table as he stormed out of the house slamming the door behind him, never to return. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the shiny key peeking out from a page of the Bible where his father had circled a single verse. The key had an attached tag of the local car dealership where the son’s brand new sports car was waiting for him. Oh, the verse? “Matthew 7:11-” “So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask.”

Something in Common, by Brian Taylor

12/6/2019

 
Twelve-year-old Katy Moore sometimes thought jealously of her friends, who all were seemingly having a great Summer. Going to the mall, having pool parties, talking about boys, and at least two of her friends had their first boyfriend.

But not her. She was invited to do things, of course, and sometimes she went, but when she did, she found it hard to pretend to be happy. It was the middle of July, and it felt like mostly what she had done this Summer was either listen to her parents fighting, or wait in dread for the inevitable next one.

They fight about a lot of things, but one thing that stuck in her mind was when her dad told her mom they had nothing in common anymore, and that was one thing she agreed with him about.

It hurt her when they fought because she loved them both. She yearned for their happy family again. Or at least, she used to. Lately, she mostly felt resentment towards them because of their never-ending fighting about the same stupid things, and how they hardly ever talk to her anymore.

She used to hide in her room and cry when they fought, but now she just felt kind of numb. She didn't even really fear them getting a divorce anymore. She sometimes wondered why they didn't just get one, instead of torturing themselves and her.

It was a hot, sunny Saturday morning and even before the fight, she felt the same old tension in the air. She sat at the kitchen table, playing with her hair, and stared at the bowl of Frosted Flakes that she didn't want anymore. Her mom had walked in and stood over by the oven. Her dad had followed and stood by the refrigerator, and right away they started arguing. As usual, they didn't seem to even care that she was there.

Nothing in common, Katy thought, angrily. I wonder if I could change that today?

She'd thought about it for a while, and it was becoming more than just a morbid fantasy, but something she thought she could really do. In fact, the thing was in her room right now, hidden under her bed since early this month, and all ready. She smiled bitterly. She was tired of all this.

She got up from the table and went into her bedroom and shut the door. Neither of them noticed.

***

They continued.

"That's not it, at all,” he said.

"Then what is it? Why don't you just tell me that?” she said.

"Your goddamn attitude, for one thing!" he yelled.

"You made me have this attitude!” she yelled back.

"Oh, bullshit! You—"

A loud bang roared through the house. They both screamed in surprise and stared at each other, eyes wide and mouths open. All their anger was forgotten.

"My God, that sounded like it came from Katy's room!" her mom said, frightened.

They both yelled her name and ran to her bedroom together
​

Deep Inside A Brain, by Sankar Chatterjee

10/6/2019

 
Richard Smith, PhD was turning leisurely the pages of the New York Times (Sunday edition). A brilliant biologist, he had suffered a major depressive episode two decades ago. At the time, his psychiatrist colleague Robert Wood, MD, had prescribed him a new generation of anti-depressant medicine, touted to have novel mode of drug-action. It took several weeks for the medicine to kick in. Eventually, he would come out of the episode living a normal life and a productive career. But whenever he attempted to discontinue the medicine, various unwanted symptoms would appear in full force. Dr. Wood was of no help since there was no guidance from the pharmaceutical company. In fact, no clinical study was ever undertaken to address how to withdraw this psychiatric class of medicine from patient population. Instead a myth of the permanence of the disorder was created allowing the industry to popularize the class of medicines worldwide as a lifelong treatment. Thus, Dr. Smith remained on treatment, never sure whether he really needed the medicine or a so-called “placebo-effect” was in operation. However, slowly he also developed a new skill of authoring flash fictions in 50 – 500 words, a modern-day phenomenon. He was not sure whether it was an unintentional benefit of the medicine.

Now, Dr. Smith stumbled into a provocative piece describing the research outcome (with some added twist) of two British psychiatric scientists. Like him, both experienced episodes of a major depressive disorder two decades ago, were put onto different medicines from same biological class, and were unable to come out of the treatment for the same type of unwanted side-effects. They also found thousands of fellow sufferers online from all over the world and the stories of their desperate attempts in discontinuation efforts. What surprised them most was the deafening silence from both the medical professionals as well as the industry. That’s when they took up the matter in their own hands. They collectively poured through thousands of scientific papers and online discussions. Then they devised individual slow withdrawal plan (remembering how the individual medicine took time for dispersing initial benefit), notified their intentions to their doctors, and embarked on the journey. Now, after several months, they successfully reached the shore. Dr. Smith read the article several times and collected the researchers’ scientific report from online. Being a scientist himself, he became convinced in their scientific protocol and decided to apply to himself, after notifying his doctor.

It has now been six months since Dr. Smith took his last dose of antidepressant with no residual withdrawal-effect. But, he also lost his skill of writing a flash fiction.

How to Slow Boil Your Twin’s Heart for a Hearty Munch, by Hiya Mukherjee

2/6/2019

 
On a particularly sunny Wednesday afternoon, the Twin rushes home like a wretched shadow of his former self and hands his heart to you. ‘Here, take it. I don’t want it anymore.’
You receive the heart smeared with blood and grime on the palm of your hand, the way one might receive a delicate chicken. The organ was still beating.
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Just take it.’ The twin retires on the sofa like a war-torn general.
‘But it makes no sense. Your heart should belong to you only. In any case, what I am supposed to do with it?’
‘Burn it. Throw it away. Slow-boil it, for all I care. I’m done with it.’
He falters towards the bookshelf and picks up a copy of ‘The Outsider’ by Camus. You just stand there dumbstruck, having no clue what to do with a beating heart.
You almost throw it away, but then decide against it. Maybe it’s better to slow boil it after all. ‘A peppery broth of the Twin’s heart’-there’s a certain flavor in the phrase.
You’ve always been an innovative cook and a voracious reader for that matter. The Twin had his mind over football and motorcycle repair.
You wash the heart of the grime and blood. You put the heart inside a pot with some water and light up the stove.
‘Camus was a filthy bastard!’ the Twin proclaims and throws away the copy. He was never much of a reader.
From inside the pot, you could still hear the faint lub-dub under the hissing sound of the boiling water.
‘Gosh, that’s a strong heart. Wonder why he wants to get rid of it’-you think.
The Twin has picked up a copy of ‘A Moveable Feast’ by Hemingway.
You start chopping onions and garlic.
The Twin rushes through the pages.
‘Hemingway is just a drunk guy who is profoundly over-hyped’. He throws away the book.
You sigh. You’ve seen the pattern enough times to recognize. It’s a downward spiral. He’ll end up settling for Dostoyevsky and feel miserable for no particular reason.
Inside the pot, the vegetables flow in a serene manner centering the heart, quite like ballet dancers. The Twin is rummaging through the bookshelf.
‘Isn’t there a single decent book in your collection??’
You toss fish sauce and pepper into the pot. The broth is almost done. Sure enough, the Twin has picked up a torn copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’. You gracefully scoop up the heart along with some broth and put it in a soup bowl.
‘Do you wanna taste of it?’
The Twin doesn’t reply. He just sits there with his hands over his temple. The book lies open on his lap.
You put a spoonful of heart inside your mouth. The visions rush in like a torrent. Ah, now you remember. It was raining. You were inside a cafe. She was wearing a red dress. You start to feel miserable for no particular reason.
​

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

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