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Afternoon at the Pool, by John M. Carlson

26/8/2022

I usually stayed far, far away from our town’s swimming pool. I had a near drowning incident when I was five, which left me afraid of water. My parents insisted I take swim lessons when I was seven. Thanks to a terrible swim instructor, I didn’t learn to swim, and my fear of water turned into an absolute terror of water.

But I was stuck sitting by the pool that day, while Cody, my twelve year old son, went swimming. Originally, my wife was supposed to give him a ride to the pool, but a crisis came up at her office. So I got stuck driving him. I couldn’t say no to Cody, who wanted to swim one last time before the pool closed for the summer.

As I sat by the pool, though, a part of me wished I’d said no. Just the sight of the pool fifteen feet away from me made me feel a bit queasy.

Last time this summer, I thought. Last time. And maybe Cody wouldn’t be interested in swimming next summer. Not likely—he’d gone swimming almost every day this summer. His swimsuit was brand new in June, and now it was faded and worn. But I could dream this would be the last time I ever had to come near this pool.

This would be a good chance to read a book I’d wanted to read all summer. But it was hard focusing on it. I was too conscious that I was near the pool. I was too conscious that my son was in that pool.

I kept looking up. Checking on Cody. Making sure he was OK. Even though there was no rational reason to believe he wouldn’t be OK. Even though there was nothing I could do if something went wrong, except scream for a lifeguard to do something. And wouldn’t the lifeguards do the job automatically?

Finally, I gave up even trying to read.

Cody had a few races with other boys. He dunked friends, and they dunked him. Then, the boys gravitated over to the diving boards, where they had a cannonball contest. Cody told me once they hoped to get a big splash one day that would soak the lifeguard who stood by the diving tank.

I suddenly thought of my best friend when I was a kid. We were always doing stuff together—except going to the pool in summer. I sadly wondered what memories might I have now if I had been able to go swimming? Would I now remember the day I beat my friend in a race? The day he did a cannonball that soaked the lifeguard?

I would never know. We can only guess what might have been.

At least, I’d brought my son here today. Maybe in thirty years, he’d remember something that happened today. And he’d smile at the memory.

Everything Changes With Time, by J. Iner Souster

26/8/2022

Tiny micro explosions, one after another, lit up the night sky in a cascading array of magentas, periwinkles and mulberry, accented by warm yellows and golds, a momentary distraction utilizing everything that is beautiful living inside the fire. Even the soulless ones, with clouded empty eyes, were taken aback as their heads tilted towards the heavens unblinkingly.

The degradation of pathways in their once human brains would soon enjoy their form of pyro techniques as neurons started firing once more. Reminding them that we were now their food source while simultaneously forgetting that once we would call each other family.

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I tried to take a deep breath but found I couldn't. I felt a pain in my stomach like I had swallowed a shard of hot iron that wouldn't stay down and suddenly started coughing up blood. My mouth tasted dry. A bit of saliva dribbled out from the corner of my lips, mixing with the sweat on my face. I felt slightly better when the familiar taste of blood hit the back of my throat.

Something was working again inside my body: my heart was beating slowly, pumping blood around my organs and helping them heal.
I opened my eyes and looked around the room as best I could through a veil of pain-induced fatigue and nausea. I tried not to focus on the corpse next to me, a sacrifice, but I couldn't take my eyes off it anymore; the thought of what happened made me feel horrendous.

I'd felt struck by a strange sensation that I wasn't really in my own body but somewhere else entirely. I couldn't remember anything from the past two weeks except for flashes of memories here and there. It felt bizarre, like a half-forgotten dream or a nightmare coming back to me in bits and pieces. It was like a thread pulled from my brain, one of those strands that run through our rememberings in different directions, some leading here, others there. Eventually, the whole thing came together in one continuous narrative. By then, it was too late to stop it.

I tried to tell myself this wasn't true, and I felt this weird sense of dread; there must be some other explanation for my strange behaviour. The smell of the food still filled my nostrils but didn't make me hungry. There was something about it that made me feel unhealthy. The scent of something, the way my nose told me it was wrong.

I remembered a moment, a flash from before. I had walked into a room full of people and smelled them. In an instant, they all went quiet as if they could sense something was in the air. As if someone had turned on a light, and every one of their eyes could see what secrets lay hidden for years. Now all was revealed in those darkened corners of the room. I also remember being in that moment; I no longer felt sick. I only felt the hunger.

The Dog Jury, by Nicole Kim

26/8/2022

Lily sat in her chair, glancing around the room at the four other Annual Dog Competition judges. They were deciding which dog should be crowned Best Dog.
Jolie held two photos in her hands. One of Gary and one of Peppi.
“It’s obvious which dog is better.” Jolie laughed. “Peppi has such shiny fur.”

Ashley scrunched up her nose when she glanced at the photo of Gary. “And Gary looks scrawny. That fur needs some work, too.”

Lily twiddled her thumbs as the others, Eric and Duncan, agreed. The others didn’t seem to notice Lily’s silence.

Jolie smiled victoriously. “This is almost too easy. Still, let’s take a vote.” She passed everyone a small sheet of paper. “Write down the name of the winning dog.”
When they were done, Jolie collected the paper back. She grinned as she announced the names. “Peppi. Peppi. Peppi. Peppi. Pepp—Gary?” Her grin dropped to the floor.
Fuming, she made eye contact with all of the judges. Her eyes settled on Lily’s.
“Don’t make this difficult, Lily. You know Peppi is the better dog. We want to declare a unanimous jury decision for Peppi!” Jolie grabbed the photo of Peppi and threw it at Lily’s face. “She wins even by looks!”

Lily chewed her lip. “Is nobody going to consider Peppi’s performance in the competition?” She pulled out her phone, and showed everybody a video of Peppi. “Did you forget? She performed amateur tricks, and she was stubborn towards her owner. In previous contests, we deducted points away for behavioral problems.”

Jolie gasped when Ashley reluctantly nodded. Ashley rolled her eyes. “Jolie, just look at the video. Peppi missed several obstacles.”

Lily smiled as she played another video. This time it was of Gary.

Eric looked down at his hands when he saw that Gary flawlessly passed every test. He easily flew through the obstacle course, and he obediently performed impressive tricks with his owner. Gary effortlessly won more points than Peppi.

Lily took the video away. “Don’t you see? Peppi only wins by looks. But that only makes up for 1 point. Gary won, fair and square.”

Duncan sighed. “We’re judges, Jolie. We should be fair, despite the looks.”

Jolie rolled her eyes. “Gary looks like a shelter dog. So whatever if Peppi can’t do tricks like Gary? She looks more impressive, and she’ll make us look good.”

Silence.

“Really?” Jolie threw up her hands. “Really?!”
Lily stood up. “Let’s do another vote.”
The room was filled with the sounds of scribbling.
Jolie scoffed as she read the names. “Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary.”
Ashley glared. “You know Gary won more points. He won fairly. Let’s be the fair judges we’re supposed to be.”

“So old fashioned.” Jolie muttered as she snatched a piece of paper and hastily scribbled “Gary” on it. With a huff, she tossed her hair and stormed out of the judge’s table.

Lily clapped her hands. “Let’s go and announce the winner.”

Fountain of Blessing, by Doug Bartlett

26/8/2022

I pulled up outside my apartment complex and retrieved my bank deposit bag from my car. I was there to collect quarters from the laundry room that was located on the premises. This bag was perfect for collecting the quarters from the coin operated machines.
On my way to the laundry room I noticed a disheveled man going through the trash cans. I asked him what he was doing. In broken English he responded his name was Juan and he was a neighbor who lived in some apartments down the street and he was collecting aluminum cans for income.

Well, I went on my way and as I was emptying the machines into my bag that was about to overflow I got an idea. I shot up a quick prayer to God asking Him that Juan would still be there when I returned to my car.

He was there and in broken Spanish I asked him to give me his hands. When he held them out to me he apologized. I don’t know if it was because they were filthy and grimy or if he thought he was in trouble for what he was doing.

I began pouring out all the quarters into Juan’s hands. It looked like a silver fountain flowing from my hands into his hands. His look of concern turned into a quiet smile and he expressed his genuine, sincere gratitude.

Oh, the title of the story? The quarters flowing into Juan’s possession may have looked like a silver fountain bubbling over but it was not the real fountain of blessing. No, the real fountain of blessing was welling up inside of me as I realized I had done the right thing.

User Name: Black Widow, by Alex Blaine

26/8/2022

I don't understand why I'm not getting any interest from all the dating apps. I can't see it's anything I've said in my bio. I'm 28, 5 feet 3, athletic build, strawberry-blonde female, no children as of yet. I have been competing in MMA since age 6. I have a rottweiler called Mr Cuddles, or Baby for short. Love long walks on the beach and by the lakes. Love to travel and to eat healthily. I'm looking for a gentleman, between 30 and 40 who hasn't already got children. Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic with a vision of a fairy-tale wedding. I don't want anybody who is the serial-killer type. I'm very much happy being alive, so no I won't be meeting you or adding you on social media. I've seen horror movies and documentaries on Discovery Channel and Netflix. I don't wish to be someone next victim. I don't wish to end up like that, thank you. x

Remembering Irene, by Phyllis Souza

26/8/2022

Angie lived across the street from Lillian, a widow, and Irene, her unmarried daughter.

Lillian spoke with a strong German accent. Irene spoke perfect English.

Through the rustling of trees, the sound of the mother and daughter arguing, floated through the air, drifted over the road, and grabbed Angie's attention.

Day and after day, Angie watched Irene get out of her Honda Civic.

Sometimes Angie waved, sometimes she looked the other way.

Then one day, Angie received a phone call.

"I have two more weeks to live," Irene gulped.

Angie's heart dropped.

"My liver is destroyed. Cancer has spread."

"Isn't there something they can do?" Angie asked.

"Nothing more. I've called my lawyer and the funeral home. Hospice will be here today."

Two weeks later, like she said, Irene was dead. She was only forty-seven years old.

Four months after Irene died, Lillian had a garage sale.

Cars stopped.

Angie watched as people rummaged through a rack filled with
Irene's clothing: A shimmering gold dress, a white linen frock, and a maroon leather jacket.

Angie's blood pressure rose as ladies slid their feet into Irene's shoes: Heels, flats, and athletics.

When one woman opened and closed a handbag, Angie's stomach knotted. She wanted to yell, "leave it." Then, when the lady examined the leather's quality, slung it over her shoulder and smiled. Angie wanted to cry.

Gold chains that once graced Irene's slender neck hung on a black velvet stand. Combs and clamps that dazzled her long hair lay on a plastic tray.

Her hand-crafted holiday decorations clumped together, no longer needed, sold cheaply to anyone who wanted them.

Why didn't I take the time to know my neighbors? Angie asked herself.

Dear Alice, by Angela Carlton

26/8/2022

Dear Alice,

I met your mother by the creek. A lovely, childlike woman with wispy hair like an angel so I invited her in for tea. You should be glad you have a mother. I lost mine years ago. One day she was here and the next, G-O-N-E. Her car hydroplaned and ran smack into a concrete wall and that was it, nothing else mattered anymore.

I have learned that some people get everything in life and others cling to what's left. We cling to anything that resembles one ounce of joy. You have no idea all that's been bestowed upon you but I do. Your mother has taken to me during our visits. I braided her hair yesterday and made her muffins, blueberry to be exact, my own mother’s favorite.

Tomorrow, she is coming for tea again and I will tell her about my own mother, how I miss her. I will cry-cry-cry. I will lean on her shoulder and let her know that I am empty. I know she will listen and she will come back the next day and the one after that. You see, my dear, your unstable mother roams the streets, because she needs you, but she won’t need you much longer.

Signed,

Anonymous

Run, by Angela Carlton

19/8/2022

“There-there, you don’t have to get up. What do you need Jacob? I’ve made the coffee and already called into work. I have the ability to sound like your wife so I told them you're sick, very sick, and will be out for days, seven to be exact. You just need time to adjust and settle. Then everything will blend and make sense. I hope you like gravy and biscuits. I hear that’s a big winner in the South. Eventually, your voice will come back Jake when the potion wears off but I am blending another elixir as we speak.”

Everything’s perfect now, isn’t it? It’s just as it should be and your wife, well, she’ll manage and always has with that crazy mother of hers! There’s word that her old boyfriend, Max is coming back home again, like I said your wife will be fine.

You pretend to sleep while this evil woman continues to talk to you like a child. Don’t you dare eat one bite or drink a drop just sleep on until she tucks herself away at night and then you must run? You must run like hell.

Club Meeting Day, by Rod Drake

19/8/2022

Zeus always hated it when he had to host the quarterly Mighty Gods of Old Meeting.

First of all, Jupiter was nothing more that Zeus with a better outfit, more believers and that Roman arrogance, yet he contributed nothing new to either the heavenly or earthly realm. Then there was that creepy Egyptian god, Ra, with the freaky bird head that was always shedding and, of course, he could only eat birdseed, so it was extra work to find something regal enough for him to consume. Odin, the big, fully armored,
clumsy, one-eyed giant, was constantly knocking things over when his massive frame bumping into everything and those two ravens sitting on his shoulders crapped

everywhere. And Brahma, who as a trinity of gods, had to bring Vishnu and Shiva with him, both of whom were insulting and constantly destroying, then restoring things as overdone parlor tricks. Plus, Yahweh, also known as Jehovah and a dozen other
Latin, Greek and Hebrew names (and now simply God with a capital G), bugged Zeus because He was so smug and self-righteous, believing He was the only real, true God, rudely refusing all the invites to these “pretenders” gatherings of imaginary gods.

Once, Yahweh’s Son and Buddha came together, bringing flowers and honey, which was nice and respectful, but they couldn’t stay because they had a lot of prayers to answer.

There’s the door, the first guests have arrived; Hermes, let the immortal pests in; I shall endeavor to be polite and gracious, some deity help me!

Heartache Tonight, by Doug Bartlett

19/8/2022

The following story has song titles by the Eagles embedded in it. If you'd like to play, see how many you can find. I'll put in answer in the comment section in a few days – Doug Bartlett

I was the new kid in town and I can't tell you why, but I did not have a peaceful, easy feeling when I enrolled at my new high School. Perhaps, part of it was I overheard kids referring to my creative writing teacher, Mrs. Radigan, as a witchy woman.

I considered all my past English classes as wasted time, but her class was different. She brought out the best in me and the best of my love for expressing myself in written form. Thanks to her I was developing a talent I never realized I had.

You see, I could not take it easy in this class. It was the last resort. I would take it to the limit and give it everything I had. In a way I had nothing to lose, yet in a way I had everything to lose. I went out for sports but failed miserably. I then tried out for the band and choir which resulted in an even worse experience.

I doubt if Mrs. Radigan had the same feelings for me as I had for her. Was this just a sophomoric crush? If so, what would life be like after the thrill is gone?

Since I‘ve met Mrs. Radigan, life’s been good. I then realized this was not a crush, but I had become a victim of love, not some kind of superficial or tawdry love, but an unadulterated, respectful kind of love. She meant more to me than anything. My parents had created me but she had recreated me into an individual that now found purpose in this life.

Summer vacation was fast approaching and it became the longest summer break as I was so anxious to return to her class and pick up where we left off.

I was surprised when I went into her classroom so excited, only to see a substitute teacher standing at the front of the class.

“I am sorry to have to tell you this, but your teacher, Mrs. Radigan, was in an automobile accident three days ago and, unfortunately, did not survive.”

I thought she would be around forever, but now she’s already gone.

Will I ever try and love again?

I just don’t know.

And, from the editor, to get you started...

Jim Bartlett said that there are problems with The Eagles & YouTube in the US, so he kindly provided something else. Enjoy!

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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.

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