Blog Archives

And It Shall Be Called Paradise, by David Croll

30/10/2018

The image makers decided only they can build a town reminiscent of the idyllic settings of wholesome movies of long ago. Only they can build paradise.

“And we have the people who can build this grand illusion,” they bellowed.

They tasked the location scout to find a suitable location. “Do not bother scouting the East or West coasts,” the image makers informed him. “You will not find paradise in the fridges. Search the middle.”

After several months, the location scout found paradise in North Caroline. “It’s neither too hot nor too cold. It’s perfect,” he told the image makers who readily agreed.

Thousands of artisans, from set designers, prop masters, carpenters, to painters, worked to make paradise a reality. In short order the houses, complete with white picket fences, were erected along with a town square with businesses for a thriving community. There was a pharmacy, a local bank, and a soda fountain with vanilla milkshakes and wholesome comic books. Even milkmen eager to deliver bottles of milk.

The image makers were pleased with their handy work. “And we shall call it Paradise,” they exclaimed.

They approached the first house for the ribbon cutting. The builders of fantasies and illusions were all there. This was their first attempt at building reality.

The door to the first house was opened to reveal the emptiness inside.

The Meaning of Life, by Don Tassone

28/10/2018

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Professor Dumont intoned. “Welcome to transcendental metaphysics.”

His 25 new students, most of them sophomores, were barely awake. All of them were there to fulfill their philosophy requirement. None was excited to be there.

“You might be wondering what this class is about,” the old man continued in a cadence that said he done this many times before.

“In this class, you will discover the meaning of life.”

Snickers.

“What is so funny?” he asked.

No one said a word.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that was not a rhetorical question. Who can tell me what is so funny about what I said?”

He waited for an answer. A few seconds later, a student raised her hand. Dumont looked at her and nodded.

“It sounds absurd,” she said, prompting more snickers.

“Exactly,” the old man said, clasping his hands together. “And why does the absurd sometimes make us laugh?”

These were the first of many questions Professor Dumont would pose to his students that semester. By the end of that first class, following his lead, his students would begin posing their own questions.

Soon, they began questioning everything. Their questions were thoughtful and incisive and didn’t always lend themselves to easy answers. One question often led to another, and they pursued the answers together, as if they were on a scavenger hunt. In the process, they went deeper and deeper, searching for one truth after another.

Finally, in the last class of the semester, one student reminded Dumont that he had said at the outset they would discover the meaning of life.

“But you already have,” he said with a smile. “It is to question.”

Rock Wood, by Morgan Brennan

26/10/2018

Joe stumbled through the wood, tripping over dead branches and swiping back the leafy tentacles that flicked at his red face. How long had he been looking? An hour, maybe more? He paused and lent against a twisted black oak to suck in some air. There was a smell of damp and of rotting vegetation and the distant call of rooks. He had to find her, before it was too late. Before the darkness closed in. Where are you Cathy? Where the hell are you?

His long white night shirt had a dark triangle of sweat moving down his back. Joe’s feet were bare and bloody, leaving a red trail for the slugs and the bugs to feast upon. He felt no pain only tiredness and emptiness. He moved on and reached a clearing. He screamed out her name.

‘CATHY, CATHY, where are you?’

But only the rooks and the crows replied. "She’s not here you old fool". Their hard beaks snapping at him from their high wooden thrones, laughing, cajoling, and cawing.

He spun around and around, but there was nothing else, only that avian sound. Confused, he moved deeper into the trees now, growing ever more desperate to hear her voice once more. He stopped again and sank to his knees.

In the long sterile nights back there, he’d often hear his wife speak to him.

“Joe love, now what would you like for yer’s tea? – got a lovely steak from Kelly’s.”

He sighed and pushed himself up again. Must go on, she can’t be far, just a few more yards and … but there was nothing, just more trees and leaves and grass and stinging things grabbing at his arse.

It was getting darker now so he turned around and shambled back somehow. Through the tentacled nettles and the wet grass and clinging leaves but they didn’t hurt him. They couldn’t hurt him. And now he was back there, facing the great white thing with its lights on and the people with their white coats on.

‘Thank God you’re back Joe, you naughty man, look at your feet,’ they said, ‘let’s be getting you back to your room. You’ve missed your medication you know. Come with us and we’ll make yer’s a nice cup of tea.’

A Blaze of Glory, by Marjan Sierhuis

26/10/2018

It is Friday morning and Mary’s son and daughter sit solemnly by her bedside. Weeks earlier the doctors tell Rose and Carl their mother’s condition is terminal and she is dying. And since that time they have barely left her side.

Although Mary hates the word dying, since it makes everything sound so final, she has resigned herself to the fact.

Her family bring her a cassette player. Maybe they feel music will relax her. But she doesn’t feel anxious. At least not until they insert a classical tape. Mary swears under her breath. She dislikes classical music.

Carl asks the nurse, “how much longer?”

“Predicting death is difficult.” “It might be today or in a few days,” she replies quietly.

“It has now been two weeks,” he says with a hint of impatience or perhaps disappointment in his voice.

Mary keeps her eyes closed, and pretends she is asleep. But she no longer has anything left to say.

“Mother has prearranged her funeral,” says Rose. “She’s left instructions and wants an open casket.”

“What for?” asks Carl. “How depressing.” His mother’s impending death makes him angry. He wonders who will listen to his problems.

Mary wants to shout. “I’m still alive children. "There is nothing wrong with my hearing.”

Days later Mary goes out in a blaze of glory. A live band, red dress, red shoes and bright red lipstick. And covering her head is a blonde wig she has saved for an occasion such as this.

The Bucket, by Jim Bartlett

19/10/2018

The young boy dips the ladle into the bucket, taking a deep draw. He stares into the liquid for a moment, watching it glisten in the sun, then pours it along the garden’s edge, letting his laugh flow into the soft breeze.

“You need to be more careful with that,” his father warns. “What will you do when the bucket is empty?”

“But it’s such a big bucket. There’ll always be plenty. Besides, can’t we just get more?”

He scoops again, but this time his father wraps a hand around his wrist. His grip is soft but firm, and he gently looks into his son’s eyes, letting his smile light them with the glow of knowledge and love.

“The bucket can never be refilled, my son. We need every drop to nourish our souls, to build our lives, to grow our love. Use it wisely, use it slowly. During the course of our lives, especially when we are young, we all toss some to the wind in folly. As long as there are hearts filled with laughter and smiles and memories to long cherish, it’s never a waste. But always remember, once it is gone, it is gone.”

His father turns the boy’s hand, guiding him to empty the ladle back into the bucket. He then lets his hand go and kneels down, carefully rubbing the mud off the outside of the bucket, exposing a small placard, its tattered edges folding over.

It reads:
TIME

Future Calling, by A. K. Hata

15/10/2018

Anna’s eyebrows frowned as her fingers whizzed over the keyboard. Two colleagues gossiped in the back of the office, their chuckles a constant distraction. Reaching for another data sheet, she recognized the Japanese dictionary still sitting on her desk. She sighed and let the book disappear in her handbag. Fridays were awesome - usually, because she video-chatted with her boyfriend Yuki at lunch, but not today.

‘Anna, are you done with those calculations yet?’

Her boss’s gray hair wobbled back and forth behind the desk divider, urgency in his voice.

‘Working on it.’

The watch-pointers crawled towards twelve, while dark clouds buried the sky. The lights went on, pushing back the twilight in the room. Anna wished the neon could brighten her mood as well. Yesterday’s fight with her boyfriend still kept her soul in turmoil. Yuki loved joking about how he was seven hours ahead of her, but the time difference also caused difficulties, as did the language barrier. He had said he wouldn’t call, and she was determined not to give in either. She focused on the screen again, and the calculations were almost finished, when Susan showed up.

‘Joinin’ the gang in the cafeteria?’

‘Sorry, I’ll pass. Gotta finish up those tables,’ she replied with an excusing smile. Today she wouldn’t make a good companion, anyway.

‘Kay, See you later then.’

Susan left, and the office slowly emptied, until Anna was alone. Unfortunately, the calculations were soon done, and answering the mail didn’t keep her mind as busy. Her thoughts circled around the fight again, and she started to doubt herself. Her grandmother’s words echoed in her head.

‘You’re as stubborn as a goat. Now while that’s not ultimately bad, it certainly isn’t good.’

Anna tried to shake off her uncertainty and opened the AustrianNews for distraction. The headlines read Wildfire, Terror, Chain-reaction Collision - nothing to put her heart at ease. She rested her forehead on the desk, her mind spinning.

‘What if something happened to her sweetheart? What if she‘d never be able to talk to him again?’

Those worries made her a heart ache, pulling her body down like a lead plumb. When she couldn’t bear the silence anymore, she stormed outside. Anna filled her lungs with fresh air as a sudden breeze tousled her hair. In the distance, thunder was rolling down the mountains. She pulled out her smartphone. Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird as her finger hovered above the call button. She hesitated, an eternity passing, when a call from Yuki came in. Anna gasped, accepted the conversation and pressed the phone to her ear.

‘Future Calling. We’ve entered the planetary shadow. Sorry about yesterday, Honey. How’s the weather on your side?’

The sky opened its gates and rain streamed down her cheeks, soaking her. Butterflies danced in her stomach and her eyes beamed with happiness. Hearing her beloved boyfriend’s voice, she forgot all about the fight, her worries and even the storm raging above her head.

‘Wonderful,’ she answered.

Khashoggi Lullaby, by Daniel Watkins

15/10/2018

The men are sitting in the bushes. Men from Nepal, India, Pakistan, Philippines, Yemen and Sudan. And Egypt too, I’m sure. Just here and there you can sense them murmuring, muttering now and again into their mobile phones. They squat in the sand or else on bits of broken chair obscured like dusty birds. Some will rise in their dirty white cotton vests and wander off to the dirty white marble mosque at the end of Al Johari Street. Just occasionally they do that as if to stretch their legs. But others don't. They just like to hide even from God. But Baba told me you can’t ever hide from Allah. Not even your deepest secret can he not see; however hard you shut your eyes or however dark the room, Allah knows everything. I think the men are naughty but I’d be sad if Baba made them go away.

Anyway, so there are the men and I don’t ever remember where they came from. There are also green parrots in the compound just passing and sometimes I see a swallow or two and I don’t know where they come from or where they go and that’s really why the men are birds. Birds, maybe, that fell down here and decided to stay. Well, Miss Margaret says the swallows come from Africa and are just visiting for a short rest. They will return in the autumn. I am sad they are so restless and that they won’t stay here, here with me, I mean. I don’t believe what Miss Margaret says. I just nod and smile at her when she tells me things and tells me off.

The Course of History, by Don Tassone

10/10/2018

Anatoly Popov stood back from the machine, which was humming and blinking and shaking ever so slightly. It was running at full tilt now. All he needed to do was step inside, set the date and push a button. Then, at last, if all his calculations were correct and all his work was precise, he would be transported in time.

He was well aware of the enormity of his challenge and the length of his odds. But he was steadfast in his belief that he could do it and, even more fundamentally, that he should do it. He had devoted his life to science. He had mastered quantum mechanics and applied everything he knew in designing and building this machine. That is what made him confident it would work.

But what made him confident he should use it had nothing to do with science. He had a deep belief that the Revolution many years earlier had been ill-conceived and misguided and that, in it, lay the seeds of misery and destruction for untold millions in the years to come.

He had therefore dedicated his life to creating a machine that could transport him back to the eve of the Revolution, when he could help derail it and so change the course of history.

Now his machine hummed at a fevered pitch. Anatoly set his jaw and stepped inside. He pressed a series of numbers on the keypad in the wall: 1-7-1916. Then he pushed a green button. Everything around him began spinning, and he became light-headed and passed out.

When he awoke, Anatoly was lying in a field. He sat up and looked around. In the distance, he saw a horse pulling a plow, which was being guided by a farmer. He stood up and walked over to the man, who told him where he was and confirmed it was July 1916.

It had worked! Anatoly was thrilled. He went into the city, found a place to stay and got to work lining up opposition to the idea of overthrowing the imperial government.

In March of 1917, in the early hours of the first of two revolutions, Anatoly was arrested. That November, after the second revolution, Anatoly was sent to a labor camp in Siberia.

He died there 10 years later, dreaming about escaping, building a time machine and traveling back to change the course of history.

The Precedence, by Sankar Chatterjee

10/10/2018

Prof. John Levy, a young theoretical physicist from MIT was attending an international conference in Berlin. Growing up, Prof. Levy had no interest in visiting Berlin. He was born to Jewish parents whose own sets of parents were executed by the Nazis during Holocaust. And Berlin was the epicenter from where Hitler had orchestrated that “worst crime against humanity”. Now that he had already been there, Prof. Levy would decide to explore the city, especially visiting the historic locations that had witnessed the initial acts of anti-Semitism. He located the neighborhoods where the acts of Kristallnacht (”Night of Broken Glasses”) destroyed Jewish properties and lives in November, 1938, as a precursor to systematic ‘total annihilation’. Suddenly, his brilliant scientific mind began to wonder “If human progress always depended on previous accomplishments, was there a contemporary event of human evilness for Holocaust to happen?”

At the end of the conference, Prof. Levy still had a couple more days to explore other parts of Germany. Instead, he would travel to Poland to visit the death camps in Auschwitz where his grandparents were incarcerated. After visiting a first generation gas chamber in Auschwitz I, he would proceed to visit Auschwitz II where the annihilation program was perfected to accommodate daily arrival of thousands of new victims at the peak of atrocities. He was walking along the old train track leading to the disembark platform for the victims. The sky was overcast with dark clouds though no rain was in forecast. It was as if even the nature remained shameful after witnessing the horror taken place here! Prof. Levy was still searching for an answer to the inquiry circulating inside his brain, when he accidentally bumped into an elderly gentleman walking in front him along the same track. He apologized profusely. The gentleman accepted his apology, while introducing himself as Nikolai Yvchenko from Ukraine.

Both of them would join walking together. Prof. Levy would inquire whether any of Mr. Yvchenko’s relatives was murdered there! He responded “I’m here to show respect to the victims of this genocide from a descendant of victims from a different genocide.” Mr. Yvchenko then inquired whether Prof. Levy ever heard the word “Holodomor”. He went on to explain that in Ukraine it meant “to kill by starvation”. It was a man-made famine by the order of Soviet-dictator Stalin. Several millions died when their food was confiscated by force to export. Later, documents would show that there was a comprehensive and systematic plan to annihilate a segment of Soviet-Ukrainians thought to be obstacle to Stalin’s totalitarian rule. His own parents would perish leaving him behind. And all these happened in a short period of 1932-33.

Prof. Levy looked at overcast sky. Finally, he found a probable answer to his curiosity. Suddenly, the events of Charlottesville in US from past year juxtaposed with images of current right-wing extremism in Europe began to flash inside his brain. A chill flew down his spine.

The Closet, by Jim Bartlett

10/10/2018

Staked in the corner of the front yard, the sun-bleached “FOR SALE” sign, now mostly covered in weeds, serves as much an invitation as warning. A good number of the windows are broken or boarded, and the front door more opened than closed. The paint has become dandruff, flaking into the dried planters that once lit up with mums and daisies and marigolds.

Upstairs, down the hall and in the far back bedroom, the closet door sits ajar, allowing the musty smell of clothes long since worn, of ratty cardboard boxes filled with pictures of lives long forgotten, to fill the room. The pull-down blinds, yellowed and cracked with age, block any hope of sun or moonlight, leaving the room sentenced to a life of dark.

Mice wander the dusty floor, their pitter-patter in harmony with a lone cricket that sings from under one of the baseboards. Then, somewhere just outside, footsteps creak first on the stairs, then in the hall. As they near the door, the mice scatter to their hiding places, the cricket stops his tune.

The bedroom door scrapes open and the footsteps stop just inside. The light comes to life, its glow cutting an amber swath into the closet.

“As you can see, this is one of the larger bedrooms, and has a lot of potential.”

The footsteps resume, slowly crossing the room.

Deep in the closet, the monster ducks into the shadows.

Lunch has arrived.

Spontaneous Revolution, by Mark Joseph Kevlock

5/10/2018

"Outlaw romance? They can't do that! If romance is outlawed, only outlaws will have romance!"

"I think that's sort of the point," Hennessey said. She obviously had to be the rational one in this relationship.

"Maybe Worldwide Incorporated has done everything else, but they can't get away with this!"

Kevlockian circled the room four times. Then he reversed himself and did it again.

"The article says the concept is outdated --"

"Outdated?!"

"Will you let me finish? Thank you. 'The concept is outdated and unnecessary, due to the fact that the Predeterminates calculate for each member all possible roads to fulfillment, then choose the most likely avenue'."

"Nobody is calculating my anything on any path or road or boulevard or side street, even! The Predeterminates are just pushy know-it-alls! And as for being a member, I quit!"

Kevlockian stormed out of the room. Of course, since the curfew locks wouldn't let him leave the Population Tower, he stormed right back in. Hennessey did her best to suppress a giggle. And failed.

"W.W. Inc. has control, Kev. You might as well face that. A corporation has control of our lives because we gave it to them. Slowly but surely. Subtly. Sneakily, even. They've taken over. They make the rules. And, in a lot of ways, it's for the better."

"Traitor!"

"Kev, take a pill," Hennessey said. "Would you prefer it to go back to the way it was before? Do you want wars and crime and hatred and lust to rule our days and nights? Dominate our existence?"

"I need extra oxygen," Kevlockian said.

"Well, you'd better calm down," Hennessey said, "because there is none. You used up your surplus allotment during last night's tirade."

Kevlockian wished he could look out of the apartment window. But all it would show him was one of the six billion preprogrammed images available upon request.

"They've got us walled up, penned in, pampered and preprogrammed! I can't even go to the bathroom outside of the scheduled periods!"

"Consistency is what's best for your system," Hennessey said.

"I'm going to grab you and kiss you now," Kevlockian said.

"Worldwide will see," Hennessey said.

"I don't care. Maybe I want the whole world to see! I'm tired of hiding my feelings. I'm bursting with passion, woman! Let's do something about it."

Hennessey thought it over. They were neighbors in the Pop Tower. Neighbors were allowed to fraternize. And romance hadn't been outlawed, yet.

Hennessey took off her clothes. Kevlockian approved. It was hard to believe that Worldwide Incorporated was run by women, all of whom, beneath their business attire, looked like this.

Va-va-va-voom.

Afterward, when the smoke cleared, Hennessey grew a feeling inside of her.

"Kev, I... I think I love you."

"Bingo, woman! I love you, too, Henny."

"It's a nice feeling."

"It's the best!"

"I guess maybe we should stand up to W.W. Inc."

"I'm standing," Kevlockian said. "All you have to do is stand at my side."

"I will," Hennessey said. "I promise."

And so, yet another revolution began.

Making America Great Again, by Sankar Chatterjee

5/10/2018

Past year, Mark found this Lebanese restaurant in his multiethnic neighborhood by happenstance. It was the evening of Christmas Eve. Most of the stores in neighborhood shuttered early. Mark, a young investment banker in Wall Street worked late to finish a few projects. He planned to take the entire Christmas week off for a planned vacation in warm South-East Asia. Still a bachelor, he never bothered to learn how to cook, instead picking up takeout dinners from various local restaurants. But this evening his luck was running out until he saw a dim light emanating from a small ethnic restaurant. The owner, a bald-headed rotund gentleman was getting ready to close the place.

Mark knocked on the door, entered the place, exchanged pleasantries, and inquired the owner about the possibility of getting some takeout dinner. The gentleman introduced himself as Habib Hassan, a first generation Lebanese immigrant of Islamic faith. He assured Mark some food for the night, entered inside his kitchen, spoke in Arabic with his wife who was cleaning all the dishes for the night. Soon, the aroma of Middle-Eastern cooking began to flow inside the dining area. While Mark awaiting food, Mr. Hassan brought out his two teenager children: daughter Meherbani and son Khalif, both of whom would help the parents in evening hours. Soon, Mark received a packet containing pita-bread, salad, chicken-shwarma, and grilled lamb-kebab. Mr. Hassan also refused to accept any payment, instead mentioned “It’s our Christmas gift to you.”

This evening, Mark, promising authentic Middle-Eastern cuisine, brought his college roommate Keith (who was visiting New York) to the same Lebanese restaurant. He found Mr. Hassan greeting the guests, while both Meherbani and Khalif tending the tables. Meherbani recognized Mark, remembering from past Christmas Eve. She then helped both friends to select a few different dishes to get a full Middle-Eastern dining experience, while apologizing for no alcohol being served due to their Islamic faith. Instead she served them a delicious ethnic drink made out of aging curd. As both friends finished their main courses, Meherbani mentioned that lately they were also serving excellent Syrian cakes, pastries and other desserts. Mark inquired how that began.

Meherbani went inside the kitchen and brought back a few samples of various desserts. Along came twin old sisters who hardly spoke any English. She then explained that Christian families of both sisters got annihilated in ongoing civil wars and religious massacres in Syria. Somehow both sisters survived, escaped and found their way to US, now waiting for asylum. Her parents gave them temporary shelter. However, the sisters didn’t want free shelter and meal. Instead, they offered their skill of making various desserts from their country. In the process, the restaurant also became a popular late-night hang-out place for young New Yorkers, adding to the economy of the local region.

Keith sampled a piece. He then asked Mark “Who are our fellow countrymen making our country great again?”

Keeping it Real, by Don Tassone

5/10/2018

Mickey Stanley belted out the last line of his band’s most famous song, “Portland Forever.” The crowd screamed it out with him, holding up lighters, their fists in the air.

He might be as old as the older ones in the crowd and old enough to be the father of the younger ones, but Mickey still had it.

“Good night!” he shouted as the crowd roared for an encore.

Mickey had been the lead singer for Oregon for more than 30 years. The band had toured extensively in the 80s and 90s, and Mickey had made a fortune.

In his 40s, he started producing music for others. In his early 50s, he was surprised when Oregon’s songs began to enjoy a resurgence.

Now the band was back together and on the road again, promoting a new album. They’d just finished a series of West Coast concerts and landed in Portland. A driver was waiting at the airport to pick Mickey up.

On the way home, he looked out the window and smiled as he thought about the size of the crowd at the concert at Stanford the night before, how much he enjoyed partying with college students afterwards and how positive the media reviews were that morning.

The limo pulled into his driveway, and the driver got out and pulled Mickey’s suitcase out of the trunk.

“I can take it from here,” he said, handing him a fifty.

Mickey’s wife, Patti, appeared at the front door.

“Welcome home,” she said, smiling.

He wheeled his bag up the front walk and gave her a kiss.

“I missed you,” he said, embracing her.

“I missed you too,” she said.

It was dinnertime, and Patti had made them hot dogs and french fries. As they sat down at the kitchen table, she filled their glasses with water from a plastic pitcher.

“So tell me about the tour,” she said.

He had just begun to tell her about the size of the crowds when the phone rang.

“Do you mind if I get that?” she asked.

“No, go ahead.”

Mickey squirted ketchup on his plate, picked up a french fry and dipped it in.

“Sorry,” said Patti a few minutes later. “That was Jane. She just got home from the hospital.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Pretty good,” she said. “I baked some cookies for her today. I’ll bring them over after dinner.”

“That’s nice,” he said.

“By the way,” she said, “it’s garbage night.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And it’s supposed to rain tomorrow afternoon, and the grass is about a foot high. Do you think you could cut it in the morning?”

“Sure.”

“Now, what were you saying about the tour?”

The Parting, by Jim Bartlett

5/10/2018

A gray shadow begins to fill the room, slowly working its way into her heart, as she watches him stuff the last of his shorts into his pack. She struggles with her breathing, mostly in trying to hold back the tears.

“Do you really have to go?” Though her voice is not much more than a whisper, it still cracks on the word, “go.”

“I’ll be back,” he replies. “And, anyway, Autumn is coming to stay.”

“Right. For three whole months. Then what? I’ll be left in the cold.”

He turns to face her and she notices that the daisy hanging from his pocket has wilted, the few petals remaining faded from white to yellow.

“Look, I’ll be back in May. June at the latest. You know we go through this every year.”

She lets her head drop, giving it a slight shake. “I know, I know. But it’s so hard to let go. And May seems to take forever. I just wish it could be different.”

He smiles, gives her a hug, then tosses the pack over his shoulder. “May. I promise.”

“May.” A single tear finds its way down her cheek. “But I’m going to miss you, Summer...”

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.

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