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The Last, Best Act, by Bobby Warner

29/9/2015

 
Legrand slowed the powerful auto as he saw the roadblock up ahead. The authorities pursuing them were also now in sight. Their every exit of escape was closed, their capture inevitable.

"We had a good run for it, for all of that," said Ferrer from the passenger seat. "Dozens of banks successfully robbed; raped a score of women; killed two dozen men and women and children; swindled seniors out of several vast fortunes before the fools finally caught up with us. We've done it all, man. Can you imagine?"

"No," said Legrand. "There is one last, incredibly daring and outrageous thing we can do." He tromped down on the accelerator and the auto jumped forward, gaining speed. Ferrer grinned from ear to ear as he intuited what Legrand had in mind.

The car swung suddenly left, crashed through the guard rail and flew out into open space for a moment before falling down the cliff face and exploding when it hit the rocks below.

The two had pulled it off. Their last and final act was to go out in a blaze of glory!

The Rider or the Horse? by Bobby Warner

29/9/2015

 
Old Madge Journey finally took to walking the streets of Miltville, muttering to herself. It seemed she was trying to decide something, but no one could really tell. Folks tolerated her, for she had lived there all her life and was harmless despite her weird-acting ways. Some thought her tipsy, but she'd been a teetotaler for as long as anyone could recall.

Finally, on her deathbed, surrounded by her tiny circle of family and friends, Madge told her tale.

"You know I was married 50 years to Frankie Journey, a fine, loving man. We raised horses and had a good life. Then came to day when he took my favorite stallion out for a ride. They tried to jump a rail fence but didn't make it. Both died that day of broken necks. I went into mourning and have been stuck there ever since. The dreadful and the shameful thing is this: All this time I haven't been able to decide who meant the most to me--Pretty Boy my favorite horse, or the pretty boy who was my dear husband."

Madge Journey closed her eyes in final rest, and the Baptist Minister was called in to say a prayer for the three departed souls.

Uncle Sween's Eyes, by Bobby Warner

27/9/2015

 
​Uncle Sween usually comes for dinner with us on Tuesdays, unless he gets a call from Tom Grandy down at the stockyards. Then he'll call dad and say, "I gotta go down to the beef pens and check out some really primo stuff. I'll come over tomorrow evening."

Uncle Sween is a butcher; he's had his own corner store at 5th and Main for 30 years. It's a family tradition for him to have dinner with us once a week. He comes in, takes off his jacket, puts out his cigar, pulls out his chair at the dining table like as if he's in his own house not ours, and says, "Hey, come on, everybody. Let's eat!"

And he sits there, solid and smiling, holding a knife in his right hand and a fork in his left while Mom puts the platter of meat, bowls of vegetables and basket of bread on the table. Dad says a hasty prayer (we're nominal Baptists), then there's a long moment while Uncle Sween looks from one to another of us with his glinty little eyes. A gob of spittle oozes from the corner of his mouth and he begins carving his meat, all the while looking from one to another of us like he's maybe thinking it one of us he's cutting up instead of a piece of Mom's pot roast.

The Stranger, by Eric Smith

26/9/2015

 
​June felt down, way down. Ever since the cursed monthly first arrived five years ago, it had visited like clockwork—now it was a week late. She wasn’t ready to panic yet, but it made her worry, her mind snaking where she didn’t want it to go, through thought mazes, always lost, but ending up at the same place.

She didn’t know whose it was. She heard Scott’s car stop outside, engine running, waiting to drive her to school. She knew it wasn’t his.

Her mother yelled from the next room. “June, that boy’s outside. Tell him to get a new muffler.”

Things were increasingly difficult around the house since the doctor had diagnosed her mom bipolar. June figured she had her reasons for refusing to take the medication. She complained the meds made tired and sleepy, dead inside, like someone else had taken hold of her mind. She told June she could handle the disorder without meds. Her last two bosses didn’t agree. She’d been fired.

June fussed with her hair; she put it up in a French twist bun every morning. Her sister, gone and living on her own 100 miles north, had taught her how to do it. Now it was just the two of them and June felt like she was the mother.

June thought about the time she spent on the braid—fifteen minutes even when her hair was wet—maybe it wasn't worth it. She’d soon have a lot more to take care of.

The Lark, by Soma Bose

26/9/2015

 
As the Lark swung open its wings amidst the hilly area, a blast of icy air hit its wings. It sensed the silence from the smoky mist, only cold air hissed into the vacuum.It was flying across the breeze of air twisting its wings upward and backward.Frustrated with the silence, it started to whistle and sing,

"I broke the silence-
which has no sense,
Silence makes the hill obsolete-
but my song makes it alive,
Its rhythm conquers over silence-
which has no sense-
as sounds always thrive."

But the voice of wind crackled as it echoed,

"I can see-
Without the pin drop silence-
Sound makes no way of sense,
Silence allows the sound to occupy-
Its volume of free-
And that is why-
Sound makes its way without any try."

Sighing, the lark redirected its way to the bank of a river.

Momentarily impressed by the depth of the river's watery flow, the lark enjoyed long hours beside it. It started to sing with its smooth voice,

"Anybody knows yet?
The river turns the barren land's fate-
Into a field of complete greenery,
without its flow, the land remains dull without any prosperity."

The streams heard the lark's song, they jumped on the bank to bounce
with a rhythm of reply,

"Perhaps, you forget,
Without land's patience and respect,
I can not have a smooth flow,
Cutting its deep edge, I make my glow."

The lark flew downward through a grassy slope where the plain is bordered with some trees.It was carrying some seeds with its beak and wondering with some free fall of seeds upon the branches of a tree, the leaves wavered. Cutting the air, their hollow voice sounded,

"It spoils our grandeur,
Flourishing up above is our nature,
Seed remains within muddy soil,
We are heaven and they are hell."

The lark gasped, looking down at the leaves, it started to think and refused to accept whatever these referred.It whistled which quipped some worthy words,

"Silence paves the way of echo,
Land spaces the river to flow,
Seed is the mother and soil is the womb of tree,
They behold the branches and leaves to let them flourish free."

Welcome To Our Swamp, by Bobby Warner

26/9/2015

 
​We're swamp people and we like it here. It's dark and dank and some call it smelly. We just sop it all up. Yes, sir. We got folks coming to visit from all over--Texas, Mississippi, Florida, Arkansas. We even had a couple from New York City come for a stay. Their folks still call, asking about them. We just say, "No, ma'am (or sir, as the case may be), we ain't seen 'em lately," and let it go at that. No use stirring up a hornet's nest with strangers.

Mornings are purely heaven. You wake up to high humidity and the smell of old mud and all manner of rotting things . . . you adjust, and after a while it gets to be like having your own expensive perfume that you don't have to pay a red cent for. The only thing: You've really got to be careful walking along the trails hereabouts. Take more than an couple of steps off the built-up area and you're liable to be neck bone deep in good old sucking sand--and no one's gonna be fool enough to try and get out there and help you. I expect we got about as many unfortunates buried out here in the swamp as resides in the biggest cemetery you could imagine. Of course, there are no headstones in the swamp, so how are you really gonna tell how many folks are resting out here?

And those Texans. Always bragging about how big everything is in their state. Pshaw! We got mosquitoes so big that two of them can carry off a Jersey cow with no problem. And our gnats. Man alive, they fly so thick at sunset that one little old bunch of them can blind a person in ten seconds or less if that poor soul isn't careful. But the two worse things out there are the cotton mouth water moccasin and the old horny-skinned alligator. Our moccasins grow to be twenty or thirty feet from head to tip of tail, and one bite will send you right on into Eternity in the blink of an eye. And I don't even want to talk about the 'gators. They've been mistaken for battleships on several occasions--and they just love to lie in wait in the deeper pools, where they can snap you up and put you under water for a few weeks till you're all tender and succulent. Some folks like alligator shoes; but let me tell you: Our alligators like human feet (with the rest of the body attached) a lot better.

Anyway, we hope all you folks will think about coming on down for a visit. We'll show you around, give you a feast of homemade 200-proof moonshine and all the possum stew and hog brains and salty tripe that you can handle. Can't ever tell: Pay us a visit, and you just might decide to stay around these parts permanently.

Like that young couple from New York City.

The Purple Pill, by Bobby Warner

26/9/2015

 
Darby McGrill woke in the middle of the night and shambled off to the bathroom, mumbling about his "Damn old prostate problem." That wasn't his only concern, though. On his last office visit, young Doctor Johnny Frankenmine studied Darby's record and told him in so many words that he was all but in the grave because of an incurable growth in his belly. Afterwards, Darby had half-heartedly (the way he did most things) prayed for Divine Help.

As Darby stood before his "potty fixture," as he deemed it, letting Ma Nature take her own sweet time acting, he became aware of a wee, thin voice a-calling out to him: "Hey, Darby McGrill, don't just stand there peein'. Get me outta this daaark place!"

Startled, McGrill opened the medicine cabinet and peered inside. Over to one side on the second shelf, behind a gob of dusty cotton and an empty bottle of aspirin, there lay a large, purple pill--the likes of which he'd never seen--that immediately began rolling around agitatedly as though under its own power. "Get me the hell outta here, Darby McGrill--and I'll cure what ails you!" said the purple pill.

Wondering if he had gone completely daft, Darby picked up the pill and popped it into his mouth. 'Twas a powerfully painful task getting it down, for sure. He hiccoughed once, and the tiny voice issued from his mouth: "Now get ye to bed, Darby McGrill--and tomorrow ye'll be foine and live another thirty years or more!"

And his and everyone else's astonishment, Darby McGrill did just that.

Passengers, by Soma Bose

16/9/2015

 
It was a solitary night as two strangers appeared beneath the lamp post of the platform. It was a small station and very few passengers were waiting for the late night train.

The two strangers eyed one another curiously, and soon the first one yearned for companionship and friendly conversation. "I think I need a chat."

The second stranger breathed deeply. "No chance of the train's early arrival!"

Soon, they became friends. The first stranger asked, "Can I ask you a strange question? Do you believe in ghosts?"

"No."

The first one huffed in frustration, vanishing into the murky darkness. Only shadows remained.

Dogfight, by Bobby Warner

16/9/2015

 
OK, it's over 600 words, but then it's Bobby so we'll let him off...



Bridges and Hardtack ran the fight down in Lower Valley on Tuesday nights. There was risk, but the take usually outweighed it. They were beginning to think they could run this racket long enough to make their fortunes.


Then came the night of the raid. Two pit bulls were slaughtering one another, and the crowd was making a holy racket when the whistles started blowing and someone said on a blaring bullhorn:

"Fight's over boys. Time to go to town and get bedded down in the county jail--your new home away from home!"

Bridges and Hardtack had this worked out in advance, just in case. They ducked into a tunnel they'd dug in the side of a hill and made a quick getaway.

They came out the far tunnel opening, laughing and whooping it up because they had gotten away without being seen. They'd get the hell out of there, go someplace else far, far away and set up operations all over again. Everything was gonna be just hunky-dory for them.

The tunnel entrance was only a few yards from where they kept the old pickup parked. Every now and then the came out, pushed away the brush hiding the vehicle, and started it up and drove it around a bit to make sure the battery stayed fresh. Now they started toward the truck.

Half a dozen shadowy shapes slunk out of the brush covering the pickup and crouched in the weeds.

"What the hell is that?" said Bridges.

"Looks like dogs. But I ain't never seen no dogs exactly like that. They got snake like bodies and alligator snouts--full of teeth."

"I heard something a while back," Bridges said. "The Government's been breeding animals that can attack like soldiers, or something like that. Wonder could some of 'em have escaped and made it out here?"

"What're we gonna do?" Hardtack said.

"I'm pretty good with dogs. You know that. Ain't seen one yet I couldn't make friends with--or turn into a rabid killer. Let me see what I can do with these fellows. If we can somehow slip past 'em and get to the truck, we oughta be all right."

"Go ahead. Better you than me."

Bridges started forward, legs bent at the knees. He made soothing clucking sounds with his tongue and softly patted the sides of his thighs. "Good dogs, friendly dogs, steady, steady, now boys. It's gonna be all right. You don't want to give us no trouble, you hear? Just let us past and we'll be all right."

"I think you got 'em on your side, man," Hardtack said, letting his frown turn to a half-smile.

"Yeah, I think we'll be just fine. You just follow me slow and easy, and I'll keep on talking to them."

They were almost to the truck. Bridges reached out and gingerly removed brush from the vehicle's front and side; enough for them to climb into the cab and move forward. He said a few more soothing words to the strange dogs, then climbed up into the pickup.

"Okay, Hardtack. Come on in, and let's get out of here!"

Hardtack took a step forward, his foot snagging on a fallen tree branch. He stumbled into the side of the truck and let out a howl of pain as his forehead struck the door frame.

The sudden, harsh sound seemed to awaken the dogs, and they immediately sprang into action. Bridges pulled Hardtack into the cab, but couldn't get the door closed. The dogs leapt forward, snapping at the two men with several dozen razor-sharp teeth. Bridges and Hardtack were quickly torn to shreds, then the real dog fight began as the strange beasts fought each other over the remains of the kill.

The Headless Man, by Bobby Warner

15/9/2015

 
As they passed Mr. Yugie's office Franz glanced inside. Yugie sat behind his desk, dressed ultra conservatively, for he was a V. P. of the bank.

"He looks different today," Franz said.

"Yes. One does look different when you see their apparently headless body sitting behind a desk, and their head perched upon the desk."

"Is it for real?"

"No. Gillsby told me the V. P. purchased it in a novelty store, along with the special coat and extra high collar. Mr. Yugie, as you know, is a shy and bashful man, and the false head helps him talk more freely with important customers."

"He is a very wise and resourceful man," said Franz. "I think we should bring him a cup of coffee and express our admiration. We might even get a raise."

The two clerks hurried on their way to the employees' lounge to brew a fresh pot of coffee for the "headless" man.

A Robin's Tear, by Bobby Warner

13/9/2015

 
Old Spivy woke at the crack of a grey late winter's dawn and peered from the window. Thin wisps of fog lay on the ground. Time to milk the cows! He checked Sarah, who lay breathing shallowly beside him, and decided not to wake her. She had a weighty cough of late and needed her rest.

He shuffled into the kitchen, built a fire in the wood stove, warmed up day-old biscuits and boiled his coffee, good and strong. He was ready for the chores, then he would come back and check Sarah again.

As he paused on the porch steps old Spivy spied a solitary Robin, come down to herald the end of winter and the coming of spring. When the old farmer stepped down onto the path that led out to the barn, the Robin began hopping straight toward him. Curious, he stopped, but the bird did not. It hopped right up to him, unafraid, and perched on the toe of his scuffed right shoe. "Queer, queer thing!" said Spivy under his breath. He had never seen the likes of this.

The Robin pecked impatiently on Spivy's shoe as though anxious to further gain his attention, and the old farmer bent down, hands on knees, to better see. The Robin raised and turned its head sideways so that it was peering straight up from its dull eye into his. It blinked a time or two, and, totally dumbfounded at such a thing, Spivy could only gawk as a large tear emerged from the Robin's eye and fell upon his shoe. Then the bird seemed to sadly shake its head and immediately took flight.

"Trying to tell me something, I ken," Spivy muttered, continuing on toward the barn and the cows waiting to be milked. "I do wonder what . . . "

He was soon to learn. Before the first warm flush of summer Sarah took to her bed day and night so weak and coughing so hurtingly that she soon fell under the spell of a raging fever which burned Spivy's hand when he touched her forehead. None of their home remedies did ought to alleviate her desperate state. A few days later Sarah passed during the night with he dozing beside her as he held her cold hand.

"Oh my sweet Sarah," he said in a tone of profound grief. He reached to close her sightless eyes, then drew back in blackest sorrow as a large tear rolled down her lifeless cheek and moistened the tips of his fingers.

"Jay!!!" by Megan Lee

11/9/2015

 
"Oh shitaki." The teen in question stood up and hid behind his beansprout of a little brother, Mike. Who at the moment looked down at him with a knowing look. He glared up at him, but traded that with a look of fear as his sister stomped forward like a bull preping to charge. She was clutching her sketchbook to herself, glaring daggers at him.

Gulping, Jay sent a small wave towards the girl. "H-Hi, MJ. A beautiful morning ain't i-" She pinched his earlobe painfully, dragging him out from behind their sibling.

" Oh, yes," she spoke with dripping sarcasm. "A perfect morning. Except for one thing...WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET A TATTOO?!" She screamed. Having enough of this mother hen, he pushed her away. He looked to his arm.

Up from his shoulder to his forearm, A well designed jade dragon wrapped around it, the mythical beast's eyes looking so life-like.

He reminded himself to thank his dad for letting him, but he guessed he should of told MJ as well, thinking she would think tattoos were "vile" or " weird".

James sighed, deciding to step in for his silent brother. " Look, MJ-"

" I mean seriously! At least tell me ya were going to let me sketch it!"

The others couldn't help but stare dumbly at her. " Huh?"

Raising an eyebrow, she shrugged. " What? I like tattoos, can ya blame me?"

"We thought ya hated em"

" Why would I have one if i hate em?"

" YOU WHAT?!"

The Cough, by Bobby Warner

11/9/2015

 
I developed a rather persistent cough, so my manservant Weemley came to me and said, "Sir, if you'll permit, I can alleviate your distress quite simply."

Weemley bade me sit in a chair, body bent slightly forward. He put one cupped palm beneath my chin and mouth, then struck me rather sharply between the shoulder blades. I felt something scratch my throat as it was ejected from my mouth into Weemley's palm. He clutched whatever it might have been tightly and nodded sagely.

"Yes, sir. That should do it right enough," he said, then turned on his heel and left the room. A moment later I heard the garbage disposal unit humming briefly. Weemley came back, looked at me with the semblance of a smile, and said, "You'll not be bothered with that again, Sir."

Nor have I ever been.

Clone, by Bobby Warner

3/9/2015

 
Carlson and Whittiker cautiously opened the lab door. Everything seemed still and silent inside. Carlson stepped into the room, turned to the other: "It looks okay. Come on in."

"Sure it's okay," Whittiker said, his face pale. "Why wouldn't it be? It wasn't any sort of superhuman creature, you know. Anymore than you--or I."

They walked side by side across the lab floor to the door on the far wall.

"I don't understand," Whittiker said. "What went wrong? I thought we had everything down pat. But when he--it woke up. God that wild, frightened, totally enraged look on its face."

Carlson recalled only too well. The clone had leapt up from the table, yanking out the tubes and monitoring wires, and proceeded to trash the lab. They somehow manhandled the creature into the freezer unit and got the door closed and locked. Then they cleaned up the lab as best they could and decided to let the freezer take care of the clone.

That had been five hours ago. They had waited impatiently in the lounge, and now it was time to make sure the creature was no longer alive.

"Let me do it," Carlson said, reaching for the freezer handle.

"No," Whittiker said. "As much as I dislike doing so, it has to be me who takes the first look." The first clone of a human being had been a dismal failure. Whittiker pulled the handle and the door wheezed open, letting out the cold air. He stuck his head in and felt the frigid air freeze his face.

Carlson placed his hand lightly on Whittiker's shoulder. "Is it dead?"

"Yes," Whittiker replied in a tremulous whisper. The clone crouched, frozen solid, on the floor of the freezer, not five feet from Whittiker. He stared for a long moment into his own upturned cloned face, then turned to Carlson.

"Do you think you can manage to handle the cremation alone?"

After The Party, by Bobby Warner

3/9/2015

 
The party was a nice enough affair, though the music was too loud for Kathy's taste. Josh and Thomas were there, of course, vying for her attention. They were both madly in love with her; a nuisance since at that time in her young life she was in love with no one. Accept maybe for herself.

Her father sent the town car around to pick her up; and of course Josh and Thomas followed closely in their own powerful new automobiles--right up to her front doorstep! There her father waited, and sent the young men away with a brutish scowl and impatient wave of his had, which plainly said, "Be GONE!"

She reluctantly gave them a wave and a fleeting, insincere smile.

The two young men left; but down the road a mile or so they stopped their cars and decided to have it out. Josh lashed out and struck the first blow, and the fight was on.

Several hours later the news was out. The two young men were dead--found beside their expensive new automobiles with their hands locked about one another's throats. Each had managed somehow to choke the other to death.

When Kathy heard this, she was at first aghast. How could such a thing happen? But she did not let this upset her for long. After all, there were plenty more young men who would be willing to vow their undying love for her, when she felt the time was right to have a love affair.

The Journey, by Lekhika Sarkar

3/9/2015

 
Aladdin and his princess wife travelled to this world in a flash of light, through the Milky Way Entrance – a wormhole created by the highly powerful electromagnetism of launching spacecraft from Earth. They stood bewildered until an Earth scientist stepped forward to help them.

"Is there any hope of getting back to our world?" they asked him.

The scientist arranged a special airship. It went up and up, took them beyond this world's gravity, but it lost its way and came down again. They found themselves back on Earth.

They could not relate to the modern world as they came from the ancient Arabian era. Modern people tried to make fun of them, tried to get rid of them. They looked for the scientist but he was nowhere to be found.

Then a little girl discovered them.

"Amazing! You are the Aladdin and the Princess of the story of Arabian Nights which I read on my fairy tales! Come with me to my home, I will help you get home.”

They went with the girl as she was their only hope, and discovered that the girl was the ward of the scientist who helped them earlier to get back to their world. The scientist tried again and sent them off once more inside a modified Zeppelin in great hope.

Story edited by Gordon Lawrie.

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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.

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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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