Blog Archives

After the Storm, by Angela Carlton

30/9/2022

After the rain storm, my husband appeared in the backyard drugged up and dazed. I didn’t recognize him one bit. He was a shell of himself. My cousin came over to check on things and he slept.

We sat on the porch and counted stars to take our minds off the chaos.1-2-3-4-5, we counted five stars and listened to music. It was another escape. We drank wine and ate finger foods. I didn’t have an appetite really. I was just going through the motions, hanging on, and waiting for my husband to reappear physically and emotionally for this is what happens when you hang with a wicked crowd.

My cousin loaded the dishwasher, emptied the garbage, and collected the mail as I curled up in a lounge chair listening to the rhythm of the katydids under a throw blanket with tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I’ve gathered the mail,” my cousin whispered. “I put it on the counter. I’ll come to visit again tomorrow after you’ve slept. Please get some sleep.”

As she stepped out into the night, the cousin noticed the air was very cold. When she looked for those five stars they had found plastered in the sky, she could not find a single one.

Retired, by John M. Carlson

30/9/2022

“I’m relieved that I retired,” David said, as he sat looking at the lake by Celia’s house.

“Relieved?” Celia stared at David. “I always thought you liked teaching. It seemed like a calling, not a job.”

“It was. It really was. Part of me really misses teaching. At the same time, though, I just frankly burned out. There were too many students who didn’t care, and many of them made life miserable for me and their classmates. I had too many battles with the administration. I got so tired of new trends that sounded good but did nothing to actually make education better. And now my old school is having to deal with the fact that our pandemic remote learning was virtually worthless, and so students lost nearly two years of learning. I think that, alone, was what finally made me decide it was time to retire. I just don’t have the energy left.”

Celia went into her house to get them coffee.

David’s phone rang. The caller ID indicated it was Marsha, the principal of the school where David had worked. David sighed. He was tempted to let it go to voice mail. She was the most annoying principal he’d ever worked for. She was, in fact, a major reason he decided to retire.

Instead, he answered it.

“I’m glad I caught you!” she said. “We need you! Long term sub job!”

David gritted his teeth. Was she ordering him? Her tone of voice sure sounded like it!

“I want you in my office at 8 tomorrow!” she said.

“Hell, no! I’m retired. Remember?” Then, he ended the call. He wished he had a landline still—this would be one time that it would be nice to hang up with a bang.

He leaned back in his chair and happily went back to looking at the peaceful lake.

Summer's Last Hurrah, by Jim Bartlett

30/9/2022

Mikey had looked about everywhere before he found Grandpa. He’d checked the barn, the chicken coop, even his big ol’ workshop with all those tools and that funny smell. Yet, it wasn’t until he took the windy dirt trail through the cattails that he finally saw him sitting at the end of the dock. He was staring out across the duck pond with his bare feet dangling over the edge, his Cubs’ cap tipped back, and his trusty Igloo ice chest right beside him.

“Grandpa, Grandpa!” Mikey raced down the weathered wooden planks, his little tennis-shoed feet coming to a slap of a stop just as the old man turned to greet him. “The big maple...” he cried, nearly out of breath. “I saw some yellow leaves on it.” He gave a huff and his head drooped down as if his neck had melted in the midday heat. “That means summer’s gonna be OVER, Grandpa. What am I gonna do? I can’t let summer end without doing somethin’ super!”

That big smile Grandpa always wore when all was right with the world broke across his face, and he put a hand on Mikey’s shoulder. “You know, Mikey, when I stepped out to feed the chickens this morning, there was a bit of nip in the air. And the sun, well, he must be getting tired of doing summer, because he wasn’t even up yet. That surely means that in the next week or two those trees will be a collage of reds and oranges and yellows, and all the shadows will start their autumn stretch. The next thing you know...” he winks, “...you’ll be carvin’ up a Halloween Jack-O-Lantern.”

He gave his head a shake and turned back for a long gaze across the pond. There wasn’t a stitch of wind, and the sun seemed to have a twin sitting right out in the middle.

“So, I thought I’d better do something real special.”

Mikey’s eyes popped wide. “You did? What’cha doin’?”

Grandpa tapped his little cooler. “Well, Grandma made a couple of egg salad sandwiches—“

“I LOVE egg salad sandwiches!”

“—and filled a couple of Mason jars with lemonade.”

“Mmmmmmm.”

“But, best of all, she baked some chocolate chip cookies.”

“Oh, WOW...” He sniffed the air, as if the oven was right there on the dock. “So, what ARE you doing, Grandpa?”

Grandpa’s smile seemed to grow, and he took another quick gander across the still water.

“Nothin’.”

“Nothin’? What?” Mikey’s shoulders dropped, yet he just couldn’t keep his eyes off the Igloo. And maaan, he could almost taste that egg salad sandwich.

Grandpa, catching Mikey’s gaze, gave his chin a rub as if off in deep thought. “You know, there’s an awful lot of nothin’ to be done today. I sure could use some help.”

Mikey felt his face light up. “I bet I could help. I’m REAL good at doing nothin’.”

Grandpa patted the dock. “That’s my boy. Have a seat. Let’s get busy.”

The Wheel of Fortune, by Fliss Zakaszewska

23/9/2022

The vicar was all of a two-and-four-pence. He'd advertised a fortune-teller, ‘Madame Zah-zah’ for the church fete, but she’d cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances.

It was Amanda’s Dad who’d dobbed in his wife, Judy, and told the vicar she was a 'reluctant palm-reader'. The vicar had to throw a dramatic sob story before she succumbed.

The hall was festooned with Christmas paraphernalia and a small red tent in the middle of the hall. Judy tapped her foot. “No turban.” However much the vicar begged, she stuck to her guns, but got her to agree to sit in the tent if she could have a footstool. The church warden was despatched to the vicarage.

Eight-year-old Amanda was mortified, her head bent over the book stall, spending her ten shillings ‘bribe money’ on books before wandering over to the cake stall.

“S’that your Mum in the tent?” asked Tim. Shame-faced, Amanda nodded. “My Ma said she’s brill. Auntie Gladys came out and said she knew about… that thing with Bill Harris, whatever that was.”

The schoolfriends turned. The queue for Madame Zah-zah, which had been ten-long, now wound around the tent and towards the door.

“Want a cake?” asked Amanda. Tim nodded.

Munching their brownies, they drew towards the queue which had now reached the door.

“Thought it was claptrap, but she knew about Jenny’s trouble at university….”

“She told me about the operation I’ve got to have. I only knew about it yesterday and she said it’d be alright…”

Fascinated, the kids listened to snatches of conversation as Madam Zah-zah was pronounced to be ‘spooky’, ‘amazing’, ‘incredible’ and a whole lot of other superlatives, as the queue extended out into the damp, Devon evening air. Stalls were closing, and church wardens were trying to persuade the queue to go home. To a man and woman, they refused, as people from the village crept up and latched themselves on the end, such was Madam Zah-zah’s fame.

In the end, a couple of wardens were stationed at the end of the straggling line to stop ‘late joiners’…

“Do you remember that day, Mum?” asked Amanda, bringing Judy a cup of tea.

“I was mortified,” admitted Judy.

“So was I, but I got ten bob out of it. What did you get?”

“A splitting headache and Reverend Thomas’ undying gratitude.”

Amanda laughed. “But why do you hate doing it?

Judy’s face clouded over. “I saw something in a reading and… I didn’t want to do it again.”

“What?”

“Do you remember my friend, Becky?”

Amanda nodded. “Didn’t she die in an accident?”

“I saw Becky in a red car, then the car flew in the air and… and I couldn't see Becky in any picture anymore. It frightened me that I ‘saw’ it so clearly.”

“Mum, you’ve got a real gift. I’d think it was bunkum if I hadn’t heard how amazing you are.”

“It’s not a gift, love, it’s a burden, her mother replied.

Beware the Vampires, by Doug Bartlett

23/9/2022

What story shall I write for Halloween? I am thinking of writing about a witches’ coven , but nothing seems to come to mind and time is evaporating as the foreboding deadline quickly approaches.

I retire to bed and am awakened at 3 a.m. from a deep slumber with a great thirst. As I travel from my bedroom to the kitchen I get a sense of being surrounded by vampires, it’s as if I’m being watched. Everything at this time should be dark, but there are mysterious glows of light throughout the entire house. They seem to be leading me straight to the refrigerator.

There was a slight glow from the alarm clock which gave me just enough light to allow me to reach the bedroom doorway.Then there was a glow of light which was emanating from the thermostat in the hallway. It was almost acting as a nightlight for me. I went by my office and glanced inside to see a glow coming from my computer screen. As I walked through the living room the television had a small light on at the bottom of the screen emitting just enough light to get me to the kitchen. Once there, several glows appeared, the clock light on the oven, the clock light on the microwave and the refrigerator door which could dispense water and ice, which was my goal. This journey I had just completed did not require me to flip any light switches on.

Yes, thanks to all these vampires…..all these electrical devices that suck electricity from the power company 24 hours a day, 7 days a week I did not have to turn on any lights. Look at all the energy I saved myself and the world.

Perhaps from now on I’ll keep a bottle of water on my nightstand….. but then I wouldn’t have gotten my Halloween story.

A Bit of Magic, by Angela Carlton

23/9/2022

You must have known I would come back home, Jacob? I know, I don’t look the same but so much has happened to me since I left and moved away. I found a group of people that showed me how to spin tricks, a bit of magic. They called me Blair not Shelly. It has a ring to it! Don’t you think? There now, you don’t need to say a word just stay there in the chair, the potion I gave you was strong. Do you like all of these photos of us? Do you remember when we took them? That was before I dyed my hair when I wore less makeup.

We were so young Jacob, school kids really. My mother always liked you. We must get back to those days. I came back for you. Why didn’t you wait for me? Who is this new woman in your life? You and I both know she won’t do. I suppose you were restless but you won’t be restless anymore

Look at you, already asleep and probably haven’t heard one word that I said. There-there, let me tuck you in with this blanket.

You are safe now.

Rain, Rain by Angela Carlton

16/9/2022

I had to find you.

My cousin and I wandered through the woods calling your name until we reached the grey shack, the one without the picket fence. I stood in the minute yard glaring at the red door wondering if you were trapped behind those walls, under her spell once again. We banged on the door and called out for you. Still, it was eerily silent. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I picked up a few rocks and hurled them at the hag's house. I didn’t give a damn if I broke a window. I didn’t give a damn about anything at that moment.

At once, a streak of lightning appeared followed by a smack of thunder and it began to pour. The rain came down in sheets, the wind picked up and both of us were drenched. We hid under a flimsy willow tree and waited for the storm to subside but it kept raining, the sky seemed furious like me.

“Rain, rain go away,” we began to whisper like desperate, tired children. As we watched the lightning continue to strike the sky, I screamed, “I have to find you,” in a hoarse voice, and it was then my cousin pointed off in the distance toward the sky. One house away, the sun was illuminating the bushes, shining over the entire yard. The vicious storm was only hovering over the ugly, grey shack.

A Place of Security and Stability, by John M. Carlson

9/9/2022

“...got Mom to buy me these Nikes,” a thirteen-year-old boy said to a friend. “Told her I needed them for gym class!”

“I wish I coulda gotten those!” the other boy said. “But my mom says they’re too expensive.”

“At least, your mom let you have a smartphone. Mom and Dad say I have to wait until I’m 14 in October. I’ll be the last guy in school with a flip phone.”

Todd sat at his desk nearby and listened to the two boys talk about their back-to-school shopping haul. He felt envious. They went to the mall. His shopping took place in the clearance section of a thrift store. His shirt today was his nicest shirt—in the right light, it looked like it could be almost new—but it had a stain. “The stain is probably why such a nice shirt got donated to Goodwill!” his mom said, trying to sound cheerful.

Todd wondered if he was the only boy in the entire middle school who wasn’t wearing new clothes today, the first day of school. He also wondered if he was the only one happy that the school year was starting. He didn’t like homework any more than anyone else. But school got him away from his awful apartment in a terrible neighborhood for a few hours a day. It also gave him time away from his mom’s often drunk, often violent boyfriend. And the school’s breakfast and lunch programs guaranteed he’d have at least two meals a day, unlike home.

The bell rang. The school year was now officially starting. The boy on the other side of Todd moaned unhappily. Meanwhile, Todd felt a sense of relief. For the first time since June, Todd had one place of security and stability in his life.

An Exemplary Samaritan, by Sankar Chatterjee

9/9/2022

On a summer vacation, American Debbie, Dean, and their young daughter checked into the Hotel Oberoi in Lakshadweep, a majestic archipelago of several atolls and coral reefs in the Arabian Sea. Later Debbie, an avid scuba-diver, approached the hotel manager inquiring about the possibility of a deep sea scuba-diving. The manager mentioned that she could rent the equipments, but no guide-master was available. Soon Debbie met vacationing British couple Paula and Bret and their twin young daughters. Bret, a certified dive-master, informed Debbie that the couple was planning for a diving expedition very next day and Debbie could join them.

Next morning, both families sailed to a distant uninhibited island. Dean stayed on the island with the children. Three divers equipped with scuba-gears and wearing weighty iron-belts, jumped into the ocean, soon disappearing. Beforehand, they agreed to communicate via hand-signals while underwater.

After an hour, Paula and Bret swam back without Debbie. Apologetic, they mentioned that due to miscommunication they lost Debbie underwater, without tracing her again. They instructed Dean to go around that island, in case Debbie, after separation, came up at a different location. They themselves went back to water for additional search. Well-behaved children played with their toys at a designated spot.

Underwater, Debbie realizing she got separated would decide to float up. However, she found her oxygen-tank malfunctioning, causing breathing troubles. Remembering her trainings, she unbuckled and dropped her iron-belt, making her light enough to refloat. Walking along the coast, Bret noticed a blue object getting slammed on a jagged rocky cliff by punishing waves. He signaled floating Paula and Bret to that direction. The couple navigated carefully and pulled Debbie out. Bret inspected Debbie’s oxygen-tank and found the operating valve jammed. Exhausted, the families sailed back to the main island. At the hotel, Debbie returned the equipments, notifying the manager what happened and the loss of the belt. Unfortunately, the manager refused taking any responsibility for the faulty tank, but demanded a huge sum for the belt’s replacement cost. Debbie was stunned.

Heading to their room, Debbie noticed a junior employee was waving for her attention from the back of a column in the lobby. Debbie approached him. He led her to a nearby empty room, and informed that the rogue manager had preyed similarly on many other former tourists. This time the employee had decided to stand up and help Debbie. He promised a replacement belt to Debbie later in the day. That evening, with no more instruction from the gentleman, Debbie was standing on her third-floor balcony. Suddenly, she observed three flashing lights emanating from a distant bush. Coming down, she walked toward the bush and met the same gentleman who handed over a similar iron-belt (probably, taken out of hotel’s inventory). Thankful Debbie offered him some monetary gratuity that he refused to accept.

Next day, Debbie walked into the manager’s office, put the belt on his table, and paid the hotel bill crossing the extra charge, before heading toward the airport.

Pieces of Me, by Angela Carlton

9/9/2022

When my mother left this world, you were here. You were here, the boy a few doors down, the one I used to chase in the yard, and play hopscotch with. As a preteen, I still chased you, my heart would stop when you entered a room. Later, you bought me chocolates and took me to sexy movies. We would ride on the dirtbike down dusty roads and watch the fat, puffy clouds roll by.
Sometimes we would dance in my basement to the stereo even though you didn’t have a lick of rhythm but I didn’t care. You made me giggle as no one could. My mother was usually in “serious mode” fretting over some loser guy. She was still bitter that my father had walked out on us when I was little. When she passed away, there was word that she had been drinking the night her car smashed into a wall.
Now I must go. I must leave all the heavy, sticky memories of my mother behind, and live with a distant aunt in New York, a place where the heartbeat of the city is loud-loud. It makes me want to cover my ears. People take cabs and won’t drive so I will remember you and me, on those curvy roads with the roar of the motorbike that usually matched our laughter. This is what I will cling to. I will write you every week, keep my thoughts about you in a diary until I can return.

Yes, one day I shall return, and pick up any pieces of me that are left. I will search, search-search until I find you.

Fishy Business, by Mimi Grouse

9/9/2022

Fog hung over the water as Ed rowed out into the middle of the lake. He shipped his oars, reached down into his tackle box and attached bait to his fish-hook then he stood up and made to cast the line out into the stillness.
The trout plopped into the boat seemingly from nowhere, landing in the prow, writhing until she was sitting on her tail, looking at him with a beady eye.
'You've got to stop this, you know. We're fed up with being decimated and hurt. Sometimes you throw us back, injured. Other times you take us away. Heaven knows what you do with those you steal.'
Surprised, Ed fell onto his seat. 'We eat you,' he said. 'You taste nice on a grill. It's as simple as that.'
'Aha! And you think that's okay? To destroy communities? To deceive honest fish who have done nothing wrong?' She twitched a fin and he glanced at the baited hook in his hand. 'How would you feel if someone did that to one of your loved ones? You don't think fish have got feelings, do you?' She flopped onto her side and thrummed the deck with her tail.
He stared at her, not quite knowing what to do. In all his years of fishing on this lake, he had never experienced anything so bizarre. He reached for his hip flask, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. The trout stared at him accusingly.
Something bumped against the hull. The boat rocked so brandy spilled onto his chin.
'Dad? Are you okay?'
Ed blinked and looked around him. Jinny's ruddy face was leaning over the gunwale, smiling and concerned at the same time.
'You've been out here for ages. Mum and I were worried.' She threw him a rope. 'Tie this to the bathtub. I'll tow you home.'
He fumbled with the line and dropped it. Jinny had to help him.
'It's okay, Dad. I'll look after you.'
'The trout. Chuck that trout back into the water.'
'What trout, Dad? There isn't one.'
'Forward. It's huge. You can't miss it.' He spread his arms. 'It's this big.'
'Hardly likely. You left your tackle behind. Anyway, you can tell me all about it when we're at home.' Chuckling, she turned away.
Ed stared at the prow, at the trout who was blowing him kisses, then Jinny started her outboard motor and the fish disappeared beneath a cloud of pale smoke.
By the time they reached shore, he had forgotten about her. Jinny looked everywhere, but the only thing she could find was an abandoned fish-hook which caught the side of her hand and cost her a trip to the hospital to have it removed.

Carlos' Little Corner Store, by Jim Bartlett

2/9/2022

Jolene sifts through the sorry lot of organic avocados in the “freshly picked” bin of Carlos’ Little Corner Store, hoping to there’ll be one, just one, mind you, that resembles something close to being ripe. But as she squeezes the last of the group – too hard, like the others, it’ll probably be good next week – she smiles, yet lets her shoulders drop in disappointment.

Looks like there’ll be no guacamole tonight.

“Carlos’ Little Corner Store” is indeed small, and more often than not, the selection equally so. Not to mention, though it does slip through her mind now and again, the prices are a little higher – after all, they don’t get the volume discounts like the big boys. But it’s one of the last neighborhood stores left in the city, they do carry some organic fruits and veggies, and, best of all, it’s run by a nice little family.

As she turns, lost in thought as to what to do about tonight's dinner, that man – she’s seen him here before – steps through the store’s front entrance. Today he wears a sleeveless t-shirt, a faded image on the front that’s impossible to make out from where she stands, and a cap with what she believes is the NRA logo. But with her vision not quite what it used to be, she can’t be sure.

Getting old sucks.

As he passes Carlos, who stands smiling behind the register, he scrunches up his face and gives his head a long, hard shake – a well-practiced routine she’s witnessed with each of his visits.

Today, however, he adds a new twist. Slowing, he pretends to mumble – though Jolene can easily hear him from the produce section – as he says, “Go back to where you came from, Beaner.”

Her breath catches as a cold shiver creeps down her back. She’s shaking, but manages to turn and move across to the tomatoes. There’s are some better choices here, yet, even as she picks though them, she keeps a watchful eye on the man. When she sees he’s coming her way, she reaches into her backpack and pulls out her mask, quickly slipping it on.

The man clearly notices, doing a little stutter step before continuing on, obviously heading for the beer section. He walks by Jolene just one aisle over, which is close enough she’s able to see the Confederate flag tattooed on his upper arm.

And the slithering shiver returns.

With his beer in hand, he starts back toward the register, but stops, giving Jolene a narrow-eyed stare.

“Lady, every time I come here, you put on that mask. Covid’s gone now – as if it was ever a thing – so you don’t have to wear those anymore.”

She nods and says, “Yes, I know.”

“So, what’s up?”

“Young man, I have no idea what awful disease you have, and I haven’t a clue if it’s contagious...but just in case, I wear this in the hope I’ll never catch it.”

Precious, by Malvina Perova

2/9/2022

We’d only sold a few handmade bracelets and an oil painting before the charity fair called it a day. I counted how many med supplies we could buy for the front when an elderly couple approached our stand.

“We don’t have money,” the woman with elegantly combed hair said and handed me a silver brooch, “sell this and send money to the army.”

The dancing silver flower with rubies and a tiny malachite looked antique and costly. “It’s beautiful,” I couldn’t help gasping.

The woman smiled and nodded. “My husband gave it to me on our silver wedding anniversary.” They exchanged proud gazes, and the man stroke her white, fragile fingers in the corner of his elbow.

“Wow. It must be so precious to you…” I felt its sudden weight on my palm.

“So is our daughter at the front line,” said the old man. Still smiling, they turned to walk away.

Dear Alice, by Angela Carlton

2/9/2022

Dear Alice,

I met your mother in the woods. 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 has 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

Satay, by Kathy Whipple

2/9/2022

In the food stall by my house, a butchered hind half of goat dangles from a hook above a blood-stained table. Each morning, the carcass is fresh and full, plump and pink. Flies gather around the meat and an old woman fans it with a woven palm frond.
“Selamat pagi, good morning,” I say.
She flashes a toothless smile and bright eyes.
A barefoot man carves the goat flesh as customers place orders. He skewers three pieces on a bamboo stick, grills them over a charcoal fire, and calls it Satay Kambing. Five bamboo sticks of roasted goat tucked in a brown paper cone and drenched in warm, spicy peanut sauce makes an order. A line forms early.
By evening, the hanging goat is nothing but scraped bones with hoofs and tail.
On my way home, I say “Selamat malam, good evening,” to the woman still fanning the goat. She stares into space and hardly notices me.

The Session, by Phyllis Souza

2/9/2022

I've got a 2:00 appointment with the psychologist, Doctor Hill.

The receptionist is chewing gum. She tells me to take a seat.

The waiting room is small and stuffy: A mumbling man with a calloused hand is fumbling through loose change. A lady wearing a red beanie sits next to him, counting stitches while knitting an orange scarf.

I plop next to an older woman wearing thick-lensed glasses. My purse bumps her arm.

She says, "Watch it."

"I'm sorry." I tap my fingertips on the armrest of my chair.

It doesn't take long before Doctor Hill steps out and calls my name. Her hair is pulled back into a bun. She has on a white blouse and a brown skirt.

I get up; I feel a tug on the hem of my sweater. I turn. The old lady whispers, "She's nuts."

Doctor Hill leads me into a consulting room. I sit on a straight-back chair. She picks up a notepad. Her eye twitches. This is annoying to me. I pull on my ear lobe.

The doctor crosses one leg over the other. "Shall we start?" She looks up and gives me a half-smile.

I crack a half-smile back. "I guess so."

"Tell me what's bothering you."

"Can't stand my mother. If it's not my hair she doesn't like, it's my clothes. When I give her a gift, she gives it back. But not before she's had a good laugh."

Doctor Hill jots a note.

After twenty minutes of talking, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.

"Is that the reason you're here?"

"Worse, I want to kill her--- of course, I wouldn't. Or would I?" I scratch my head.

"Close your eyes and imagine you're near the ocean. Picture yourself walking along a beach. Tell me what you see."

"Miles of black sand. Giant waves breaking on craggy rocks. Seagulls flying through fog."

"What else do you notice?"

"My mother. She has on my new sunglasses. She's laughing."

"If she were an animal, what would she be?"

"A skunk spraying a warning."

Doctor glances at the clock. "The session is over."

I squirrel back into the waiting room.

The old woman is still there, "I told you."

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