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Knickerbocker Glory, by Tessa Edgecombe

25/8/2019

 
On a really warm English Bank Holiday Weekend, this seems the perfect accompaniment.
Picture
Uncle Jack was a brash but twinkly-eyed Geordie with a loud voice and massive joie-de-vivre. He had the same name as my father, who had always seemed larger than life to me. But my uncle easily eclipsed him. When he and my mother’s elder sister visited, our home lit up like the end of the pier. They brought with them stories and chat that tumbled around our house. Laughter, so wild and abandoned, that the adults were often verging on tears.

On one of their visits we went to the coast, I can’t remember where now. Maybe Polperro or Looe - it was so long ago – more than half a century. I remember the whole family sitting in one of the beachside cafes, all bright melamine tables and orange lustre ware. Uncle Jack’s largesse was renowned, and he decided that he was treating his family and ours – all ten of us - to a knickerbocker glory.

Knickerbocker glory. A name resonant of extravagant lusciousness. And a hint of naughtiness.

Mum had to find a cushion for me to sit on so that I could reach the top of the tall glass with my long elegant spoon. Gradually I worked my way down through the traffic light layers of neon-hued jelly, custard, ice cream and perfectly cubed fruit. At the side of the saucer sat a jewel-like glace cherry, an unfeasible shade of red, my most favourite part of the whole concoction being saved until last. I still remember the price of that delectable dessert. Half a crown. Five weeks’ worth of pocket money, now just twelve and a half pence. That glorious tower of deliciousness summed up my Aunt and Uncle and their visits.

Later, ironically thirteen years later, there was a more sombre visit. Unknown to me, Aunty Irene was dying of lung cancer, her job and the free cigarettes at the Benson and Hedges’ factory reaping its hideous revenge. I can see her now, sitting on our sofa, slowly eating a bowl of my mother’s home-made soup, my mum next to her in her District Nurse uniform, heads bowed, talking in dulcet tones. Cancer wasn’t discussed openly back then in the seventies. Maybe it was too painful for my mum to explain to me. I had no idea. My aunt rocking in pain was lost on me, reduced as I was to an all-encompassing misery by an erstwhile boyfriend. I had no thought, no space for anyone else. I rowed constantly with my parents throughout that summer, oblivious to my aunt’s illness, my mother’s sadness.
​
Later that autumn, back at college, my mother called to tell me her sister had died. Suddenly I understood what had been washing around me all summer. Only then did I realise how selfish I had been. How unfeeling. But those knickerbocker glories stand like beacons to my vibrant aunt, to happier days, and what appeared to be simpler times when the sun shone forever.

Look Both Ways, by Doug Bartlett

23/8/2019

 
The young cowboy exited the Wells Fargo bank with guns ablazing. He tossed his saddlebag full of cash on his horse, jumped on and galloped away as fast as he could. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a wall of posse immediately behind him. He kicked his horse harder to get away from them but to no avail. It was an exercise in futility. It was like he was going in circles.
He then realized he needed to get back to the bank quickly or he would be in big trouble.
He slipped out of his stirrups and quickly dismounted. He hit the ground running. His equilibrium seemed to be off as he felt the terrain beneath his feet was moving at the same speed as his horse.
He ran like the wind toward the bank. He had to get inside before his mother finished her transaction with the teller and discovered he had crossed the busy street to play on the carousel

The Fishing Trip, by David Croll

23/8/2019

 
Jimmy could not know this would be the last time he would ever go fishing.
Since his parents’ divorce, the 10-year old went fishing with his father every other weekend that summer. He loved it. And he loved their rituals. The car ride as they sang, off-key, whatever pop song came on the AM radio station; the quiet of the lake; and the root beer floats and French fries they shared afterwards.

They were at their usual spot, downstream from the bridge. Jimmy was enjoying the calmness when he felt something big pull on his pole. His father offered encouragement.
“You got him, Jimmy boy, you can do it.”
It was big, bigger than anything he ever caught before.
“Whoa, son, it’s a big bass.”
“Or a turtle,” offered Jimmy.
His father helped him reel in the prize. Jimmy was the first to see it wasn’t a bass as he dropped the pole.

Later, the police would tell them the man went missing two days ago, and that he must have fallen off the bridge.
The car ride home was quiet. They did not stop for the customary root beer float and French fries.
For years, Jimmy thought about that man. He imagined that the man had a son his age. He wondered how that son felt about losing his dad.
He would never know that the son wondered how Jimmy felt finding his dad.

Another Cup of Tea, by Bruce Levine

23/8/2019

 
“I’m in a fowl mood,” Bryan said as he returned to the table in the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet with his plate filled with an assortment of chicken prepared in a variety of ways ranging from fried wings to Chinese chicken and broccoli.

Linda laughed as she counted the variety. “I didn’t know you were so hungry,” she quipped.

“Round one. I’ve already plotted my next tour.”

“Are you trying to get your money’s worth or simply planning on not eating for the next month?”

Bryan gave her a look and continued eating without comment, but he watched as Linda finished her first plate and retrieved a second, piled high with an assortment of Chinese delicacies.

Bryan had gotten his second plate as he’d said, finished eating and continued to watch Linda as she got a third plate-full.

“That’s enough for me,” Bryan stated and poured a cup of tea for each of them.

“Not me,” Linda announced. “Aren’t you having dessert?”

“Are you trying to get your money’s worth or simply planning on not eating for the next month?”

“There’s always room for dessert.” Linda laughed as she headed for the dessert table.

Bryan laughed and poured himself another cup of tea.
​

The Other Side, by Doug Bartlett

16/8/2019

 
The first time I noticed Joyce was in fourth grade. My class was playing her class in kickball. Before the game, I walked across the field and told her I would like to walk her home after the game.
I said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
In high school she enjoyed going to dances. Me, not so much. One evening I walked over to her side of the gym floor where she was sitting with a herd of girls, and I told her I don’t dance but would really like to drive her home afterwards.
I said, “ I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
After we got married she liked to shop. Me, not so much. I would let her off on one side of the shopping mall.
I then said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
Now, after a great life, I find myself in a hospital bed with all kinds of tubes attached to me. It will turn out to be the last day of my life.
I gently place her hand in mine. I inhale my last breath. I begin to exhale when I say my last words, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
​

Casting Runes, by NT Franklin

16/8/2019

 
The old woman cast the runes and frowned. “She mustn’t go on the voyage.”

My grandfather nodded and helped her up from the floor. “Thank you for the advice, Sigrid. We will heed it.”

Grandfather saw her to the door. Sigrid paused and looked Grandfather in the eyes. “Don’t let that child go on that voyage.”

He nodded and handed her money.

Grandfather was the patriarch of our family and I never knew him not to be in charge. My father always stood down. It was the way of the old country.

“Dad, we’re in England. I was born here. I’m not a child. I’m 23 years old. And do we really have to use ancient Norse magic?”

Grandfather sat at the table and looked at me. “Hush, child. Runes are very powerful. Sigrid is the most widely respected rune caster in all of England. We are fortunate to have her live close.”

“But the ship sails in under one month,” I pleaded.

Father stood up. “The answer is no, Ingrid. You will not be on that ship. There will be no more discussion on the matter.”

I stared in disbelief. This was the first time father weighed in on a matter where Grandfather had made a decision. The case was closed.

On April 10th, 1912, the Titanic set sail from Southampton, England, without Ingrid on board.
​

Dear John, by Paula Nicolson

16/8/2019

 
You said to meet under the clock at 12; just like in the Hollywood films.

I can see you, but you can’t see me; gripping a large box of cheap chocolates you’ve bought last minute from the petrol station.

I wonder if you’ll sneak a bite from its large selection while you wait? Perhaps the coconut ones will remind you of me as a fairground shy? Or will the hard fudge get your juices flowing, just like the many times you shoved my face against a wall?

Those photos I saw of you and her; the ones you accidentally streamed to the TV while you were working upstairs. You were undressed, together, and in our bed.

You think I’m going to forgive you, again. Say that it was my fault that I made you angry. That you couldn’t help getting drunk with all the trouble I put you through; especially with me falling down the stairs and losing our baby.

But I won’t, not this time. So instead, it’s time for me to leave, split, flit, whatever you want to call it, and for good.

I know you’ll always be looking for me.

And I’ll be looking for you; over my shoulder, making sure I miss every single pavement crack.

A Good Day, by Bruce Levine

16/8/2019

 
The rain had finally stopped. At seven a.m. the sun was already shining and trying to eradicate the water left by the night’s storm.

It had been extraordinary. They didn’t remember cracks of thunder like that in a very long time; it shook their apartment. Even their dog, normally oblivious to thunder and the like, jumped at each bang. At one point it seemed as if the lightening had actually hit their apartment building – unlikely even under the circumstances, but it felt like it.

They laughed as she told their dog not to worry about the thunder – it’s just God moving around some furniture, she’d said. He’d never heard that one before, but it seemed so appropriate at the time.

But today the sun was shining; the temperature pleasant and their dog was stretched out, basking in the sun. It already felt like it was going to be a good day.

Same Evilness: Different Times, Different Places, by Sankar Chatterjee

12/8/2019

 
Picture[Photo courtesy: National Park Service].
Ms. Valentina Moscova, a Russian citizen was exploring the history of the Civil Rights Movements in Southern US. Her quest would bring her to Birmingham (Alabama), a notorious city of practicing ruthless segregation in the Jim Crow era. After visiting several museums on the subject, she arrived at the Kelly Ingram Park, centered in the middle of the city. Here, in early May of 1963, an organized nonviolent protest-march by young African-American students was violently crushed by local law-enforcement authority. Ms. Moscova was walking past various open-air sculptures depicting scenes from that fateful day. Soon she came face to face with a metal sculpture depicting a police officer, about to unleash a barking German shepherd on a protesting student. The sculpted dog’s mouth was wide open and the sharpened teeth were all visible. She felt an urge to touch the tip of a metal tooth. Immediately a long lost memory appeared inside her brain and she froze with a shiver.

Ms. Moscova, now an octogenarian, was only a seven years old child when invading German troop had arrived in her village during the mayhem of the Great Patriotic War (the Russian term for World War II). Now, she began reliving those early childhood days. On arrival, the German soldiers began looting houses, subsequently setting them on fire. They began to arrest able-bodied men, line them up on the periphery of a mass-grave newly dug by soon-to-be victims themselves, and then shoot them. Afterwards, the surviving women would gather all their children and flee into the dark forest on the edge of the village. Ms. Moscova had two younger siblings. After two days in the forest with no food or drinks, her mother instructed her to look for some wild berries grown in the region. As darkness was falling, she found a berry-field and began collecting the fruits in quiet. Suddenly she sensed the presence of an animal behind her. She turned around. That’s when her right index finger barely touched a gnawing tooth of a vicious German shepherd held on a leash by a German soldier looking for escaped activists. He ordered her to keep quiet allowing her to collect the fruits, and led the dog deeper inside the forest. This memory now opened a floodgate of subsequent wartime memories.

She sat on a nearby bench and took another look at the same sculpture. A thought ran through her mind “Indeed, the universal evilness remained unchanged throughout human history, whether it was practiced in the context of mass-killing in a brutal war or in dehumanizing segregation based on skin-color.”

Alarming, by Doug Bartlett

9/8/2019

 
My next target would be the Crown Jewel of Dubai. It was on exhibit and valued at 3.7 million dollars.
The challenge of obtaining it was just as important to me as the money itself. I had intensely studied the layout for several weeks.
I decided to strike at one o’clock tomorrow morning. I adroitly scaled the outside of the building. I would have twenty-six minutes to accomplish my task. Once upon the roof, I entered the building through a roof maintenance vent. I scurried down to the seventh floor where the vault was located. I carefully circumvented the special security systems by methods I cannot disclose here.
There were a few close calls of being discovered, but that just made for a greater thrill.
I disarmed the final alarm system and swung the vault door wide open. I momentarily gazed at this amazing treasure. I then stepped inside the vault to grasp my amazing prize. Immediately an alarm went off.
How could that be? I had studied every square inch of this building. It’s not possible. What should I do?
I decided there was only one thing I could do. I slowly and carefully rolled over, fully extending my right arm and… hit the snooze button.

Number 7, by Rod Drake

4/8/2019

 
Mickey Mantle hid his limp as he walked from the on-deck circle to home plate. Richardson and Berra were on first and third. Two outs; time for a hero.

Yankee Stadium roared its approval as Mantle stepped into the batter’s box, flexing his bat. It was low and just barely caught the corner—strike one.

The wind was light, coming in from right field. The sun was bright, the day warm, buoyant. Mantle adjusted his stance, favoring his left leg which still hurt badly, even after the surgery.

He squinted at the pitcher, sixty feet away. Mantle hoped, prayed, for a decent pitch that he could hit over the right field wall since he knew he couldn’t run bases with any speed today.

Then another strike, high and inside. On the third pitch, Mantle grimaced in sharp pain as he swung mightily, slamming the baseball high and deep, deep, and finally over the wall, into the upper bleachers.

Mantle caught his breath from the pain, then jogged awkwardly around the bases amid thunderous applause, smiling at the crowd despite the throbbing agony in his leg and the slowly reddening stain on his uniform.

Out of the Mouths of Babes, by Jim Bartlett

3/8/2019

 
Running Wolf raises his head over the top of the rock, peering down into the ravine, where two men are setting up camp along the Creek of the Bluebird. One, the tallest, is trying to start a fire, while the other cleans their kill, and most likely their supper, a small deer.

Little Owl edges up next to his father. “Grandfather says the white men are cunning, and will use their rifles to take our valley. Their kind will soon fill the land all the way to where the sun sets.”

Running Wolf smiles and tussles his son’s hair. “Though he is my father, and I would not say such before him, I fear Gray Hawk may have stayed in the smoke a moon too many. His mind and eyes have become like the morning fog that lays silent across our great valley.” He juts his chin down toward the men. “Just look at them. They show no respect to the deer’s spirit, throwing aside the bones and hide. They make no thanks to the spirit for providing their meal, keeping them alive for another rise of the sun. They use their rifles rather than fashion the deer’s string for bows.” He shakes his head. “When they come in tribes, rather than teepees made from the hide, they cut down the very trees that hold back the wind and provide for their prey, to build their shelters, leaving the hills barren. A dark ghost of a forest that once was.” He points to a spot just behind the men at the edge of the trees. “See there? They make trails everywhere they go, making it easy for the hungry bears or wolves to find them.”

“But Father, when Grandfather took me for the sweating, he said the Souls of the Spirits warned him of yellow-haired men with iron sticks of fire. And what of the village by the River Tatanka? They—“

Running Wolf puts a finger to Little Owl’s mouth, stopping him from saying any more. He had gone with the Elders to the village, and his son’s words send both a cold chill...and the sharp edge of doubt into his gut. “Grandfather must have been listening to the trickster spirit, Iktomi. There’s no need to fear these men, Little Owl. They will be gone with the first snow. And like my father, his father before him, and his father before him, we will have this land to ourselves once again. The Spirits will prevail. Let not Gray Hawk put needless worry into that head of yours.” He taps Little Owl on the nose and they crawl back from the rock, moving away from the ledge. “Let’s find our supper,” he says, as they head into the thicket.

Though Running Wolf’s eyes are down, searching for the trail of the rabbit that led them here, his son’s words continue to torment, and a single thought fills his head.

While we still can, Little Owl. While we still can.

The Paint Box, by Bruce Levine

2/8/2019

 
A paint-box full of colors and yet she couldn’t decide which one to choose. Andi was exasperated both with herself and with the picture in front of her. She’d chosen such a simple subject and yet it consistently eluded her; would she ever get it right? This was the third time she’d set out to try and it would probably be the third time she’d tear up the paper.

When she’d begun painting she thought that water-colors would suit her best rather than oil or acrylics, but now she truly wondered.

Her goal was to achieve the variables of color in nature, a lofty goal in and of itself, she knew that before she began, but she was determined to face the challenge.

Today it was the trees behind her apartment; a small forest which, she hoped, she’d capture, but the more she worked the more frustrated she became. There were so many variants: silver-green, blue-green, gray-green; on and on it went. And the more she mixed the colors on her palette the further away she seemed to be from what she saw.

Maybe tomorrow, she thought, as she swished her brushes in the water, turning it into a perfect blending which she wished would, magically, appear on the paper.

“Okay, Barnaby,” she said to the basset hound who had suddenly awakened and decided that he wanted to go out. “Just a minute.”

As she turned to take him out she accidentally knocked over the water glass, spilling it on what should have been her painting, flooding the page with colored water.

Andi mopped up as quickly as possible with paper towels before turning to Barnaby and heading toward the door.

When they got back from Barnaby’s walk she got a phone call and then got further side-tracked so, eventually, the soaking wet paper remained on her painting desk, forgotten, as she went to bed.

That night Andi dreamt that she had finally achieved conquering Mother Nature’s palette and put it on paper.

At exactly seven-fifty a.m. Barnaby howled his daily alarm clock wake-up call. How he managed to be precise to the minute Andi never figured out, but he managed it daily and Andi got up, threw on some clothes and raced to take Barnaby out for his morning walk.

Twenty minutes later, having given Barnaby his breakfast, Andi returned to her painting table, expecting to clean up the mess she’d left the night before.
​
She’d hoped for magic and dreamt a magical transformation, but never expected to actually see a Jackson Pollock version of her forest, perfect in every manifestation of color. She’d worked so hard and never achieved her goal. Now all she had to do was to frame her "masterpiece", smile, and take all the credit.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, by Doug Bartlett

2/8/2019

 
It was a wonderful time at the beach, but it always is.
Unfortunately, it was time to head back to the July heat of home. We were halfway there when the water pump on our car went out. We rode the rest of the way in a tow truck.
Upon arriving at our home we discovered the air conditioning was not working. The repairman told us it couldn’t be fixed and it would have to be replaced. If that sounds expensive, it is!
The next day our double oven goes out. We call the appliance repairman. He checks it out and tells us we need an electrician. The electrician says we need the appliance guys (again). This is getting frustrating!
The say things happen in three’s. We should be done, but apparently we are on our second set of three’s. Before I could finish writing this story, my wife now tells me we have no hot water in the house.
Later that day, I am reminded that this is all just small stuff as I walk through the doorway of Room #339 of the intensive care unit of our local hospital to visit my dear friend who recently experienced a massive stroke.

    Longer
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    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.

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    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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