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The Grim Reaper, by Doug Bartlett

29/9/2023

Tom, a wealthy businessman, living in San Francisco, sent his servant to the local grocery store to pick up some much needed supplies for the kitchen.

As his servant walked into the store he saw the Grim Reaper. He was so startled he immediately left the store empty handed with an urgency never seen before. He returned to his master and told him what had happened. He asked to borrow a car in order to put as much distance between the Grim Reaper and himself.

“Of course you can borrow my car, but where would you go?”

“To Los Angeles where I have family.”

The servant left and the Master went to the same store to get his groceries. He discovered the Grim Reaper was still there and explained to him what had just happened and how startled his servant had become.

“He wasn’t as startled as I was,” he responded, “ I have an appointment with him tomorrow in Los Angeles.”

The First Toilet of the Year, by John M. Carlson

22/9/2023

“I wish summer vacation could go on forever!” Carl mumbled to himself, as he walked through the school.

But, of course, vacation had to end. That day was the first day of school. And it wasn’t like he’d gotten away from the school for the summer. As a custodian, he didn’t get a two month vacation. But he liked summer vacation when the school was empty. It was peaceful. The school stayed clean and orderly. There wasn’t the routine of mopping the main hall, only to have it muddied up in minutes when kids came in from recess! He was able to have everything fixed and working right. He could get caught up on small jobs that needed to be done, but he often didn’t have the time to do during the school year.

Oh, well...if the school wasn’t used, he wouldn’t have a job. And he liked the kids—well, he liked most of the kids most of the time.

A boy came up to Carl. “A toilet just stopped working!”

There was already a maintenance problem—and the school year wouldn’t officially start for five minutes!

“I wish summer vacation go on forever,” Carl mumbled to himself, as he headed to fix the first toilet of the year.

I Told Him Not to Do It, by Doug Bartlett

22/9/2023

Six months ago my friend, who is impatient and quick-tempered, told me he was going to teach his wife how to shoot a pistol. He said he wanted her to be able to defend herself if the need were to arise.

I told him not to do it.

Three months ago he told me he was going to show his wife how to use a chainsaw. He said this was so she could help him prune their many trees on their property and would reduce the burden on him.

I told him not to do it.

Last month he told me he was going to show his wife how to operate a backhoe. That was so she could dig the trenches they needed to install new water lines on their ranch while he would do the manual work of using a shovel.

I told him not to do it.

What’s that you say?

You want to know how my friend is doing?

Now that you mention it, I haven’t talked to him since his wife put in that beautiful, new flower bed.

The Registrar of Ideas, by David Lowis

15/9/2023

The official sat behind an oak desk. "Take a seat," he said, motioning to a chair.

I accepted the offer and read his name plate. 'Clive Tweedy'. His appearance made me think of a 1970's TV newsreader.

"Go ahead," Tweedy said, without looking up from an enormous, leather-bound book that was lying open on the desk. The writing on the yellowed pages was too small for me to read, especially from the wrong way round.

I cleared my throat. "Well, my idea is that a man finds a pair of crutches that have been dumped at a recycling centre. Something compels him to try and trace the previous owner. As the story progresses, the crutches become a metaphor for the protagonist's life. The book will be called Dependency."

"Tell me more."

I expanded on my idea as Tweedy scoured the pages of the book, tracing his progress with his index finger. Wafts of air brushed my face as he turned the pages, bringing with them a faint musty smell. Whenever I paused he said, "Uh hmm", to prompt me to continue.

When Tweedy had finished scanning the last page he said, "No, can't see that idea registered. You're free to proceed."

***

A couple of years later, having reached the final editing stage of my novel, I took an afternoon off to look round a book store. I was browsing the new release shelves when I froze. There, staring back at me, was a brand new hardcover: Dependency by Clive Tweedy.

Stocked Up, by John M. Carlson

15/9/2023

“We’re stocked up for the year!” Stephanie said to herself, as she happily stared into the kitchen cabinet.

It was the afternoon of the first day of school. She’d just finished filling this cabinet with school supplies for her twins. It was stuffed—stuffed!—with paper, pencils, glue, and more. It was so full she couldn’t fit in even one more pencil if she tried. And why would she try? There were hundreds of pencils in the cabinet!

It had been expensive stocking up like this. She cringed at the thought of the extra money on the Visa bill! Back-to-school shopping for just the minimum was bad enough. But, in the long run, she’d save money. Back-to-school sales were so good, like notebooks for twenty-five cents each, instead of $1.50!

And this stockpile of supplies would be convenient. When one of the twins ran out of pencils, she could just pull some pencils out and hand them over. There would be no more late night fast trips to Walmart to get something needed for school the next day.

Unless they needed some special supply, she wouldn’t have to think about shopping for school supplies until next August. Nearly a year of peace!

The back door opened, and the twins came in.

“Hi, Mom!” they said.

“We got a letter—” Amy said.

“—from our teacher!” Brian said.

A letter from the teacher? On the first day of school? Stephanie took it, feeling nervous.

She began reading. “Great news! Our school was approved for a special program that will provide your student with ALL needed school supplies this year!!!!”

Stephanie stared at the letter, feeling numb disbelief. Then, she turned and glared at the cabinet stuffed with unneeded school supplies.

Perfect Communion, by Don Tassone

15/9/2023

Crouched over, leaning heavily on his cane, Jack Lohman shuffled behind the last row of pews until he reached the center aisle of the church. These days he sat at the end of the last pew in case he needed to go to the bathroom during Mass. He wanted to be the last in line for Communion anyway so he wouldn’t hold anyone up.

Today he was there for the funeral of his old friend, Al. Eight decades earlier, they’d gone to grade school together right next door. Now as Jack got in line for Communion, he eyed Al’s casket up ahead.

He’d been in this church for the funerals of many friends in recent years. This morning, it was packed. Al was beloved.

As he shambled forward, Jack also thought of the funerals there for his wife and, years earlier, their son. Their presence had filled him with joy. Their absence still filled him with sorrow.

Looking up at the sanctuary, he remembered his daughter standing there, looking radiant in her wedding gown.

And there was the marble baptismal font, where his children had been baptized and he himself had been baptized so long ago.

Jack spotted a teenager in line ahead of him and thought of the special evening when he, as a teen, knelt at this very Communion rail. He could still feel the Archbishop make the sign of the cross on his forehead and hear him say, “Francis, be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit.” Jack had always been inspired by the saint from Assisi, and he was proud to take Francis as his Confirmation name.

Then he saw a young boy and remembered the excitement of making his very first Communion.

Now all those who had been in line ahead of Jack had received Communion and returned to their seats. Jack stood alone in the aisle, beside the casket. He rested his palm on the linen pall draped over it and said a silent, final farewell.

Looking at the priest, patiently awaiting his last communicant, Jack felt a strange sensation, as if he were rising. Suddenly, he was hovering above the entire congregation.

Jack looked down at the casket. The lid was now gone, and inside lay not his friend, but Jack himself. And yet Jack was not afraid. On the contrary, he felt safe and warm, like a newborn in his mother’s arms. As he looked around, he realized everyone in the church was there for him. He could feel their affection.

Then Jack was gathered in by all his loved ones, everyone he had ever known and a benevolent presence he had felt all his life. He was one with all of them and all things. He was, at last, in perfect Communion.

Halfway Home, by Jenna Hanan Moore

8/9/2023

Columbus, Ohio, was halfway home. Halfway, that is, between the house Ariana shared with her husband, Jesse, and the home where she grew up, where her aging parents still lived. Twice a year, Ariana and Jesse drove home. When they stopped for the night in Columbus, Ariana called her parents to say they were halfway home.

As her parents grew old and frail, Ariana made the trip more often, sometimes alone. On every trip, she called from Columbus to tell her parents she was halfway home.

On a clear autumn morning, Ariana began her final trip home. This time, only her sister, Lisa, would be there to greet her. When she stopped for the night in Columbus, she texted Lisa to say she was halfway home.

Ariana arrived home to a bittersweet reunion with Lisa. They began the dreaded task of going through their parents’ possessions so they could sell the house. Lisa, who had a big house and children of her own, was eager to finish. After all, they couldn’t very well afford to continue to maintain a house where no one lived. For Ariana, things were different. Once they sold the house, there would be no home to visit.

The sisters went through their parents’ belongings, handling each item with love. These weren’t mere objects, after all; they were links in the chain that formed their parents’ lifetime. Ariana and Lisa reminisced about events they remembered featuring many of the items. When they looked at objects that brought back no memories, they tried to imagine the moments their parents shared in the house before they were born.

Once everything in the home had been donated, recycled, shipped to a relative, or set aside for one of the sisters, they closed the door to their childhood home forever. Ariana drove Lisa to the airport, and hugged her tightly at the curbside check-in. Then she began the two-day drive back to the house she shared with Jesse.

“You’re halfway home,” Jesse said when Ariana called him from Columbus later that night. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow!”

It was then that Ariana realized she still had a home to return to after all. And she was halfway there.

See for Yourself, by Don Tassone

8/9/2023

“Cars,” said five-year-old Lochan as his father kissed him goodbye.

“Cars?” his father said, watching as the boy, blind since birth, struggled to find his mouth with his cereal spoon.

“Cars,” Lochan said again.

“What do you mean?”

“Cars,” Lochan mumbled with a mouthful of Apple Jacks.

“Okay, cars,” his father said with a smile. “I’ll see you all tonight.”

As his father closed the door to the garage behind him, his mother said, “Lochan, honey, finish your breakfast. You’ll be late for school.”

About an hour later, Lochan’s father returned home. Saying nothing, he walked into the family room, sat down on the sofa and stared blankly at the fireplace.

“Bob?” his wife said. “Are you okay?”

“There was a nine-car pileup on 70,” he said. “It happened right in front of me. I was almost in it. I hit my brakes just in time.”

“Oh, Bob,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “How awful. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Cars,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ve been worried about the way people drive lately. Remember? I even mentioned it at dinner last night. After Lochan said that this morning, I had cars on my mind. I stayed in the right lane and drove slow. Thank God I did.”

He turned to her and said, “That boy has a gift.”

Word got around about Lochan’s gift. People came to him as if he were an oracle. He would listen to their questions and problems, then say something simple. People left in awe, as if some great, hidden truth had been revealed to them.

Maybe it was his disability, which was off-putting for children, especially in those days, or his mysterious reputation as a fortune teller. But sadly Lochan had no close friends growing up.

After high school, he got a job as a customer service representative. It was a job he could do from home.

When his sister moved out, Lochan was often alone. He cooked for himself. He listened to music, audiobooks and news. He walked on a treadmill.

Years later, when his father died, his mother sold their house and moved to a retirement center. Lochan went with her. When she died, he stayed.

A kind aide named Maddie befriended Lochan. She’d seen him sitting alone and made an effort to talk with him. So many people had come to Lochan for advice over the years, but few had ever really talked with him.

One day, Maddie asked Lochan about his “gift.”

“That’s what my parents called it,” he said.

“Well, isn’t it?”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was a kid, sometimes I would hear a word and say it for no particular reason. People thought I knew something they didn’t, maybe because I’m blind. Anyway, they started coming to me with questions. In their questions, I could always hear their answers. I don’t have a gift, Maddie. All I’ve done is help people see for themselves what they already know.”

Whispers, by Jim Bartlett

8/9/2023

"Tell me you love me," she says.

A rush of warmth flows through my body; I'm almost too choked for words.

"Of course I love you. And always will."

Her eyes aglow, she smiles that smile that takes my breath away, causes the old ticker to skip a beat.

"No, no. You know what I want. Whisper it. Whisper it in my ear. Like you always used to."

Tears stream down my cheek. Good lord, where did those come from? I pull her close. The scent of strawberry shampoo overwhelms, taking me back to picnics in Stow Canyon, walks along the boardwalk, lying in bed on Sunday mornings.

"I love you," I say in my softest whisper.

"55 years, Henry. Can you believe it? 55 years."

I shake my head, but now it's my turn to smile. "Never thought in a million years you'd put up with me for that long."

"Well, here we are."

She's quiet for a bit – it’s what she does when something's on her mind.

"Henry. You need to watch the time. You're going to be late."

I glance over at the clock. 12:30. Mark, our grandson, is graduating from the university today. I haven't been out much lately, but I promised I'd be there.

"You'll be okay while I'm gone?"

"Silly boy. I'm never far away."

I set her picture back down on our nightstand and give my eyes a quick wipe with my hanky. It takes me a minute to find my legs – always does when I sit down for a visit – and, straightening my tie, I head for the door.

The Dragon, by Malvina Perova

1/9/2023

In my favourite story, dragons are real. They are monsters that take any shape and do evil things to people without anyone suspecting anything. I’ve read it so many times that Mommy started to get worried. Once, she brought “Harry Potter” for my bedtime story, but I wanted to hear about dragons just one last time. With a sigh, she opened my battered book and said, “Okay, one last time.”

I dreamt about being a dragon slayer that night, a true hero, a brave Cossack, hunting evil where nobody dares to go. When I told my pals about it, they said dragons weren’t real. How should they know? Dragons are shapeshifters. They can be Makar-the-bully from our class or even their dads when drunk and angry.

This winter, nobody is drunk or angry, because they’ve all joined the army. There are no more school or bedtime stories, only air-defence sirens and distant booms around the village. We sleep in the corridor and never stop watching the news. It’s only bad news that makes everyone cry. Everyone but me, that is. Cossacks don’t cry. Instead, I do something totally “unhealthy” – play Candy Crush on Mommy’s smartphone. And she doesn’t even mind it.

Nobody expected the windows to get blown inside and the shelves to fall down. Something massive drones past our house. Everyone screams and runs. I grab Grandad’s rifle, scramble outside and follow the trace of the black smoke in the grey skies.

It smells of burnt rubber and metal. I peek through the shrubs at the flames licking at the plane wreck with an enemy red star on the tail and notice a move in the distance. A man lands behind it with a loud thud and a f* word. His parachute falls on top of him, and he fumbles under it like a bug tangled in a cobweb.

My knees tremble when I walk towards the pilot. The soil is hard and frosty and the gun weighs a complete ton. But my hands are steady when I point it at him.

The pilot turns his helmeted head at me and freezes. “Hey, kid, hey, hey…” he stutters. “I’m a friend. I came to save you.”

He looks around and reaches his arm to a pistol some metre away from him. I pant heavily. Grunting, he crawls closer to the pistol and raises his voice. “I said, put that down! I’m your friend.”

“You’re lying!” I yell back, “I know who you are, I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!”

R8 Your Life, by Anthony Ward

1/9/2023

“Why are you so upset?” Susie’s mother asked her, sitting herself down on the side of her bed.
Susie continued to sob until she found the strength to release her response.
“I was on a website called Rate Your Life,” she spluttered, “and I only got a 2.”
“What,” her mother exclaimed. “You were on what website?”
“I just told you what website,” Susie replied curtly.
“What kind of website?” she asked gravely.
“I told you; it’s called Rate Your Life.”
“Rate Your Life?”
Susie removed her hands and looked at her mother. “It’s a site where you answer a whole bunch of questions about your life, and at the end it gives you a score out of ten.”
“And you only got a 2.”
“Yes!” she choked, throwing her face back into her hands.
Her mother placed her hands on her hips and sighed, “Well, what score would you have given your life?” she asked hesitantly.
“At least a six or a seven,” she sobbed.
“Six or seven. Is that how you would rate your life?”
“Yes,” sniffed Susie hysterically.
“Well then, that’s what it is,” replied her mother placing her hand on her shoulder. “It’s just a load of old nonsense. How can anyone rate your life but you?”

“Rate my bloody life,” said Susie’s mother shaking her head as she unfolded the laptop. “What has it come to.”
Feeling a motherly duty towards her daughter, she decided to check out the heinous site for herself. She typed Rate Your Life into the search engine and rolled her eyes when she saw it come up as R8 Your Life. She scrolled down all the questions answering as faithfully as she could. Questioning where she lived, had lived, how she lived with, who she used to live with, where had she been, where would she like to go, all fifty-seven of them.
When she had finished, she hovered the cursor over the See Your Score prompt, then pressed cautiously.
“What a load of nonsense,” she told herself after seeing her score, and smiled as she slowly closed the laptop down.

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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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