Blog Archives

Perspective, by Doug Bartlett

28/7/2019

John was a very successful businessman. Some would say at the expense of spending time with his only son.
One day John decided to forego going to the office in order to take his son fishing. They spent the entire day together but did not catch a single fish.
When they arrived home, John wrote in his diary – “Today was a totally wasted day. I went fishing with my son and we did not catch any fish. The worst day of my life.”
Several years later, John’s son was killed in a car accident. John was going through his son’s possessions when he stumbled upon his son’s diary. Skimming through it he came upon the entry of that uneventful day John had considered totally wasted.
It read – “I went fishing with my dad today. I got to spend the entire day with him. It was the best day of my life.

God Be With You, by Steven Holding

24/7/2019

Is this what it is to be an angel? To be this free, to be unshackled, to be this pure. To know the now so intimately. Who would have ever thought that it could be this simple; to find such bliss and finally embrace it with arms open wide. You can hold your breath if you want to. I promise you. This won’t take long.
Strange, really, the elasticity of time. A cliché, of course. One we are all acutely aware of and yet, right here and right now, a concept that still seems to resonate. We share this linear experience of life. Our only choice; to constantly push forward. Blindly navigate onward into the unknown as we maintain the illusion that this movement is a form of progression. But the speed of each individual journey is never constant. One man’s second is another man’s year. The drag of the watched clock can quickly become the deathbed prayer for one more tiny breath.
But not for me. Not now. Not anymore.
We used to mock those who frittered away such a precious commodity. How about a haiku?
“All we do is sit.
Look at pictures of ourselves.
We miss the moment.”
Peculiar, the avenues a mind can wander down when rushing headlong towards the abyss.
You said goodbye.
Such a common phrase, shared so freely, used so often and still we never really know which one is to be our last. Not until you seize control, shaping your own destiny with confidence and courage. Time enough for just one more platitude; what’s so ‘good’ about them anyway? There’s no answer to that, so, instead, let us consider then comprehend its origins. Recognise the word for what it is; the sneaky, bastard offspring of ‘God Be With You’. Is that truly what you meant? To make that final collection of consonants and vowels a blessing? So many questions, but here’s at least one truth for you.
Your last farewell was like a lance of ice that pierced my beating heart.
Still, despite all of this, despite everything, it’s what I want for you. It’s what I wish for you. I feel I owe an apology to all of those who ever knew me. I was never myself. Not until now. True moments of clarity really are so few and far between.
Goodbye.
It is that which has given me the strength to step out into the heavens, to feel the subtle caress of the wind upon my skin, to do that which we have all at one time dreamed of, to dive towards the end, to finally fly!
To be the something in the sky that turns the whole, damn world into statues.
You used to laugh and say that I was born to make an impact upon this crazy planet, and if the last kiss is to be the cold, hard kiss of concrete, then I welcome it.
Wait. Hang on.
Stop.
No.
Oh no.
I think I’ve changed my………

Pockets, by Jake Zawlacki

24/7/2019

I heard the world from pockets. Minted in 1964. I was at JFKs inauguration. I heard the ‘dudes’ and ‘mans’ and ‘heads’ in Frisco. Ginsberg dropped me one day but Kesey picked me up, flipped me, and put me in his tattered denim. I bought beer and smokes and ice cream mainly. I made it to a piggy bank in some brat named Bezos. He wouldn’t let me go. Cheap bastard.
I finally made it in a roll. Inequality meant fifty of my kind were traded for two of theirs. I stayed in solitary confinement for thirty years. If Sartre thinks hell is a room with two others, what would he think of fifty in a cylinder?
A young man traded me and the others to look for geriatrics. I guess hearing JFK wasn’t rare enough. He forgot about me, but the keys on the desk helped me into his pocket. We went to Finland. I didn’t know until I got there.
My copper chilled. The cold froze the oxidation of Abe’s face, his beard green. Transformed me from the zinc out. He climbed somewhere to some name of some mountain with runic letters and dropped me there, for good luck. He dropped me there to freeze in the Finnish snow for eternity, a long way from 64.

The Diagnosis, by Jim Bartlett

21/7/2019

With a deep sigh, Dr. David leans a weary shoulder against the exam room wall and lets his gaze slowly meet his patient’s. Frank Swanson stands in the corner next to his wife, her arm wrapped in his.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Swanson, I only have bad news. At this point, all we can do is treat your symptoms. There simply is no cure.”
The man’s mouth falls open, his red-streaked eyes pop wide. “But Doc, how can that be? All these foundations and scientists. The universities. I mean, you folks have all been working on this for years and years and years...right?” With shaky legs he makes a short pace back and forth along the exam table. “Symptoms?” His head drops. “Okay...I guess that’ll have to do...for now. I really can’t take this any longer. I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. My chest feels like it wants to explode.” He starts to say more, but is forced to turn away as he breaks into a deep, raspy cough. It takes a moment to recover and when he does his fists are clinched tight, his face red. “You have to do something Dr. David, I...I—“
He stops, his look one of defeat, and drops like a heap into the corner chair. “I’m so sorry. This is just all so unfair,” he says, tears now creeping down his cheeks. His wife looks over to the doctor, then nestles up next to her husband.
“Come on, dear. You’ll get through this. Remember my sister had the same thing, and she’s just fine.”
Swanson meets her gaze. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
Taking another deep sigh, Dr. David straightens and moves over to comfort the man. But just as he sets his hand on his shoulder, Swanson erupts into another coughing fit. It goes on for some time, his wife and the doctor finally helping him over to the sink, where he hacks up a thick wad of phlegm.
“My, for not being a smoker, this is really tearing into your lungs,” says Dr. David. He turns and quickly writes something on a nearby pad of paper, pulls loose the sheet, and then sets it on the corner of the sink. ”This prescription will help with the immense buildup down there, and more so will help you get some sleep. By the looks of things here today, what you really need is some rest.”
It’s now Mrs. Swanson turn to sigh, and as she does she tugs on the doctor’s jacket, pulling him to the side, “He’s had this cold for three whole days now; you’d think it was going to be the end of the world...”

Friday Morning, by Bruce Levine

19/7/2019

Friday morning. Counting up. Another week of submissions. Another week of acceptances. Another week of rejections. The sum total calculated with a formula known only to the muses.

And yet a hint of glory in the ratio. Or was it simple the self-glorification created by false hopes and daydreams?

Phillip Larsen took stock each Friday morning. He was a writer. He knew that was his calling, his destiny. This week, as he looked at the balance sheet – three columns: new writings, new acceptances, new rejections – he smiled. Columns A and B were the longest and included a new publisher.

Not bad, he thought as he picked up a pencil to write.

The question was what to write? A poem? A short story? A 100-word sketch?

The problem was that he had no idea. Not only no idea of what kind of piece to write, but no idea for anything.

Not good, he now thought. He knew that when he had no idea he should simply not bother because, if he tried to force it, he either failed or wrote garbage. He knew it was better to wait until he had an opening sentence or a title. Then the writing itself would take over.

But it had been two days since he’d written anything and panic was already beginning to set in. Phillip always worried when he hadn’t written anything for a couple of days that he wouldn’t be able to write.

He looked at the list again.

He’d written before and he’d write again, he thought. Maybe today simply was one of those days…

On the other hand, maybe he should simply write about his weekly taking stock.

He picked up the pencil and started to write.

Quest, by Ellie Rose McKee

17/7/2019

The most skilled warrior in her homeland, Lea was called in to deal with the threat. It was a big threat, she was told. Perhaps the biggest she’d ever faced, the Leader had said.
At first, she was dubious. She’d dealt with a lot of monsters in her time, most of which were easily twice her height and six times above her weight class. But the Leader was insistent that Lea take great caution, and not be overconfident. The threat – a group of trolls – was not physically big, or strong, he explained, but they were cunning and cruel.
Previous warriors had all failed to defeat them, and it was becoming increasingly vital that the trolls were vanquished, as they had formed their lair underneath the main trading route and had majorly disrupted the exchange of food and supplies.
The people were suffering and Lea was their only hope.
She headed out to the water’s edge and across to where the trading route bridged the gap between land and sea. There, underneath the structure that all people entering and exiting the land had to pass, was the lair entrance.
Rallying her bravery and stilling her mind, Lea strode forth and tore down the barrier, ignoring the door completely.
The trolls jumped up in fright, hissing at the sunlight hitting the pale skin of their arms and legs. As they backed further into the shadows, she followed the retreat until she saw it: the glowing beacon from which they had been drawing their strength.
So she turned off the Wi-Fi router and tore their precious fibre optic cable in shreds.

Wimbledon 2019, by Sankar Chatterjee

6/7/2019

(Image: davidkenny91/Pixabay)

Jim Taggart was exploring Manila, Philippines, the country where his now-deceased dad was a POW in last World War. Jim was advised to stay away from certain troubled neighborhoods. One day, he missed a turn and ended up in a desolate area; streets littered with broken glasses, discarded needles, and burned tires. Soon he discovered a fenced-in decrepit cemetery. The place was teeming with little children playing various sports amidst the tombstones, while adults carrying out daily life. Jim noticed a young girl, all alone, hitting tennis balls against a wall with a broken racket. He approached the girl and introduced himself. He asked whether he could show her a few gripping techniques. The girl smiled, nodded her head and agreed. Her name was Jenny. She informed Jim that an entire neighborhood living in various still-standing above-the-ground memorial chambers. After the practice, she took him to her family’s living quarter. Electricity was brought in by hijacking the local municipality’s power-line. Jenny’s younger brother was watching a soccer-game on live TV, while her mother was busy in cooking on an electric-stove at the corner of the chamber. This event took place almost a decade ago.

This summer, Jim was visiting London. While there, he caught the fever of the Wimbledon Tennis. At his request, his travel consultant was able to procure a ticket for an early round match for him. On a sunny day, he joined the long queue, entered the main court, and was led to his assigned seat by an usher. As he was taking his place, the players started to arrive to the court. One of the female players was a famous one dominating the sport for past twenty years. The other, just qualified to compete, was a short lanky one appeared to be of half the age of her opponent. From distance, Jim couldn’t recognize her. That’s when he looked into the day’s schedule. To his astonishment, Jim learned that one of the players was this year’s wild-card sensation Ms. Jenny Lin from Philippines. His heart began pounding, while he focused his sight at the younger player at the far side of the court. No doubt, it was that little girl from ten years ago, now all grown-up to be a confident teenager taking on a mighty opponent. It was a match made in heaven. Ms. Lin had no fear and didn’t care who her opponent was. She fought gallantly, saved several match-points in the final set before breaking down her opponent, and won the match. Later Jenny embraced her elder opponent at the net. Addressing the crowd, she broke down in tears telling them how growing up in the slums of Manila, she used to worship her idol, now the defeated opponent.

Jim stood silently for a few extra moments in the stands, now emptied. He understood why our humanity survives amidst all the mayhems going around the world.

Ghost, by Mary Wallace

4/7/2019

It’s ridiculous to think ghosts could be about in sunlight, but there she was. I had seen her before and I watched her out of the corner of my eye, while I sipped my coffee. She was openly studying me, so I turned to give her my full attention. Perhaps she was twelve or thirteen years of age, she was dressed in jeans and t-shirt, with a steady gaze and soft brown eyes. Daylight, no sheet, I could just see my husband's eyebrows rise in that supercilious way if I told him that there was a ghost wearing jeans, in our kitchen. The kitchen clock said 10.20am, I could read it through her shirt. I wondered if I reached out, would my hand go through that shirt? The ghost smiled, as if she could read my mind. That wasn't in any movies I thought and 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 hear her voice in my heart.

“How did you die?” My words came more easily. “Do you have unfinished business?” Surely all those ghost movies couldn’t be wrong.

"Well no, I haven't died," she said, "but I haven't been born either', her spirit sounded small and lost. "I need your help because I want to live".

“I don’t understand, who are you?” I asked.

"I'm your daughter, or I could be if you will help me."

I gasped at her reply.

“How could you be mine?" If she could read minds, she would know I take contraceptives.

I studied my bruised cheek in the window reflection, how could I possibly bring any child into this marriage?

“I’m not your mother and you wouldn’t want him as your father.” My voice sounded harsh, “I couldn't protect a child from him. I’m sorry," I continued more gently, "I wish you were mine.”

"You could be my mother, but only if you leave before he comes home.” Her eyes were warm and pleading. "Leave and I can 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 won't be my father, my father will be in your future. A safe future, if you leave now."

This beautiful girl could be my child , I stepped closer and saw her image waver.

"Hurry, leave now," her voice insisted.

“How will I know your father?” I asked, grabbing the case I had hidden in the broom cupboard after yesterday's beating.

I turned, the child had vanished, but her reply came with laughter.

"I have his eyes."

Every Picture Tells a Story, by Linda Cornelissen

3/7/2019

‘But why!' The child pleads for the fifth time. You can see that some of the people in the place are willing it to stop. The woman can finally take no more, and sniffing back tears, she shouts rather harshly at the child.

Stopping to regroup for a while, the child sits back down in front of the dryer, watching the clothes tumble gaily. The dryer isn’t full, so the clothes are able to frolic like colourful, happy children with no cares. She marvels at their ability to skip and roll. She can imagine them giggling and squealing as they play.

As Emily sits at her laptop, this memory is so vivid that she smiles. The shiny metal and chip free, cream paint on the dryers was such a contrast to the faded pink fabric on the seat near the door. Equally faded had been the parquetry patterned vinyl flooring, for several metres in from the entrance. She remembered a coolish day, yet she had felt wrapped in the warmth of the sun streaming in through the huge windows.

She swaps the fresh ultrasound for an older one, now far less pliable, and the image far less distinct. She can’t remember why she’d decided to keep it all those years ago. She felt her pain all over again.

The images take her back again to that day in the laundromat. Her pleading had been quite purposeful, she recalled – not those of a petulant child begging for lollies or toys. Her pleas were a search for meaning and understanding. At the time, her mother had been totally unable to give her an answer - her own pain much too raw. Her mother’s letters, found with the rest of her things, had finally explained it to Emily. She’d written that when you were suffering the deepest hurt in your entire life, you still had to somehow manage the mundane, day in, day out. For her that day, the laundromat had been torture.

Holding the older image up to the light, Emily has no trouble locating the sinister dark patch that had signalled a shortening of her mother’s young life. Reading the letters left by her mother, she realised how difficult it must have been, to tell your only child that you were leaving them for good. Her mother had struggled for the words, and a kind nurse had explained to Emily what was going to happen.

She puts down the older image and picks up the latest one. After looking at it for what seems like an age, she slowly places it back on the table and begins to type.

'My dearest (insert name). I’d like to tell you a little about your beautiful grandmother. She would have loved to be here with you now, sharing your growing up.' She ended the letter with: 'Be sure to savour every precious moment.'

Emily suddenly feels the sensation of a hand on her shoulder.

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.

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.

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

Longer
Stories