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A Secret Chocolate Factory, by Sankar Chatterjee

29/11/2017

 
Prof. Peter Mark from Harvard, an expert on human behavior, morality, and ethics was attending an international conference on the subject in Tel Aviv, Israel. At the end of the conference, he would make the decision of staying back a few extra days in the country to explore the country’s ancient history, culture and cuisine. Accordingly, a local travel agent arranged a week-long trip for him. Next day, Mr. Shlomo Rosen, the chauffer cum tour-guide picked Prof. Mark from the hotel lobby to head towards Jerusalem, a holy city to world’s three prominent religions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Mr. Rosen, a well-built ex-army soldier had fought in various past wars to defend his country against its neighbors. At the same time, he appeared to be of mild-mannered with a sense of sarcasm. The duo spent next couple of days exploring Jerusalem, both old and modern sections. Then, they started heading towards Eilat, a popular tourist spot next to the water of the Gulf of Eilat, at the extreme south of the country.

While on the highway, the urban landscape slowly disappeared, instead sand dunes started to appear. Mr. Rosen informed that the highway would now cover a section of the Negev Desert. Suddenly, Prof. Mark noticed that miles of razor-fence cordoned off the sandy side of the desert with security cameras being mounted at regular intervals. He could even see the posted warning signs of no trespassing. His curiosity multiplied when he observed at the horizon several signal towers as well as a white semi-spherical dome, all blurred. He looked inquisitively at Mr. Rosen who with his usual sarcasm mentioned “Oh, that faraway complex! It is the country’s best-kept secret: the factory that produces delicious chocolates. Didn’t you already try some while in the old market in Jerusalem?”

Soon, they passed by a roadside sign announcing the approach of the nearest town of Dimona. Prof. Mark jumped on his seat and he remembered. He was attending Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar in 1986. Throughout its history, this country never acknowledged any existence of its nuclear program. That year, a whistleblower named Mordechai Venunu who had worked in the underground nuclear facility in Dimona, offered photographic evidence to British press, thus removing all veils of secrecy. Like a thrilling spy novel, Mr. Venunu was lured to the international water off the coast of Italy, abducted, and brought back to the country by the secret service agents. After his closed-door trial, he was imprisoned for 18 years, of which 11 being in solitary confinement. While to his countrymen Mr. Venunu still remains a traitor, his world stature as a “peace activist” along with the honor “a prisoner of conscience” made him a prominent figure in current nuclear-era.


Prof. Mark decided not to ask Mr. Rosen his opinion on this matter. Instead, he kept on looking at the distant, until the secret “chocolate factory” became invisible.

When In Dispute, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/11/2017

 
On a summer break, John Wood, a third-year university student from Boston was traveling through Central America to explore various countries on this patch of the continent. During his travel, he flew in to Managua, the capital of Nicaragua. Nicaragua, now under the leadership of leftist Sandinista government, had been involved in an internal civil war with right-wing fellow Contra-s, backed by successive US governments. John would visit a few places of interest in Managua, but the capital would not impress him. The city never recovered from the destruction of a devastating earthquake from a few scores years ago. However, the local citizens were extremely friendly to John. He would not sense any bitterness of them towards him, but they would mention that similar American meddling had happened before. They would advise him to visit country’s two most interesting cities Granada and Leon. Then, while enjoying a pint in a bar listening to local jazz on his last night in town, he learned about a historic lesson.

From the early days of Nicaragua, Granada was inhabited by citizens involved in business and politics, thus giving it a conservative flavor. On the other hand, painters, authors, and musicians made Leon as their home, thus making it a town of the intellectuals. Throughout the country’s history, the citizens of these two towns fought with each other regarding the country’s future political and cultural directions.

At one point, residents of Leon made the mistake of inviting an American mercenary named William Walker to help them in this internal fight. But, he came in like an invader. First, he and his fellow mercenaries conquered Granada. Then, learning about the country’s abundant natural resources along with future business opportunities, he would plan to take over the entire country. Sensing his ulterior motive, the entire country then joined together and stood up against him. They chased him out of the country to neighboring Honduras where he was captured and ultimately killed.

From this experience, the country would learn a valuable lesson: “When in dispute, don’t invite a foreigner to solve your problem.” Subsequently, Nicaragua would decide to have Managua, equal-distant from Granada in south and Leon in north to be its capital.

Sorry I'm Late, by Andrew Newall

23/11/2017

 
Arthur, the world’s most disorganised man, was late again. He sat opposite his manager in her office at 9.05am. Brenda glared, close to the edge.

“Arthur, your timekeeping is atrocious.”

“Yes but what happened was…”

She waved him silent. “I’ve heard every single excuse! Your alarm didn’t go off. Your car wouldn’t start. Your neighbour’s car wouldn’t start. Someone was following you and you had to take a longer route to work. They get more and more ridiculous and I’m fed up with them. We’ve had this discussion several times. You start at nine. Get up earlier and be here for nine.

Arthur melted into his chair until his body could hunch no more.

“This is your last chance. One more episode of lateness and you’re out!”

Brenda was right. The excuses were cover-ups for a lack of discipline. Arthur left work that day, vowing to make immediate improvements. His alarm was set, his clothes and packed lunch all prepared that night.

8.50am the following morning. There was no way Arthur would make it through the standstill of traffic; all drivers gaping in disbelief at the gigantic saucer-shaped craft hovering above them, and the bug-like creature standing in its doorway, preparing to greet the people of Earth.

The Late English Instructor, by Eric Smith

22/11/2017

 
He was incessantly late—late to class, late grading our essays. Sometimes he was more than late—often he’d fail to show up at all. Paradoxically, this teacher, who was habitually late when he did manage to appear, walked incredibly fast. I never came to grips with that inconsistency.

The school’s unwritten policy dictated we wait a minimum of fifteen minutes for a tardy instructor—fortunately he was not a professor, which would have required we wait longer. Many of the students in that class resented his frequent tardiness and absenteeism since the class was scheduled for 8:00 am on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. The Saturdays were worst, since we had to drag ourselves out of bed and dress properly after a typical student’s profligate hours of the previous Friday night for a class this teacher would quite likely fail to attend.

“Mr. Fletcher,” one of the bolder young women once candidly inquired, “have you graded our papers yet?”

“Funny you should ask,” he responded, “I was running late this morning, and as you are aware, we’re experiencing quite a cold snap, so I had to choose between grabbing my heavy coat or your graded papers, which now sit at home on my radiator. I couldn't reach for both and make it to class on time, so of course I picked the coat.”

Much eye-rolling among the students ensued.

That semester he assigned us sonnets by Donne and Shakespeare and long narrative poems by Milton and Blake, as well as Catch 22, a novel by Joseph Heller. One day, when he graced us with presence, he began a class discussion of Heller’s novel.

From the podium he first stared out at the class and then gazed dreamily over our heads. “What does Catch 22 mean?”

After a moment of silence, a young woman raised her hand and when called upon held forth on her interpretation of the rule known as Catch 22. The instructor shook his head.

“Nope, that’s not it. Anyone else?”

An articulate young man, who often dominated discussions in the class, then held forth for several minutes. His analysis differed slightly from the young woman’s, but either of their versions seemed to me to be reasonable jumping off points for further debate.

“Nope, that’s not it either,” said the teacher.

Eventually, almost everyone in the class had taken a crack at it. The class members expressed three basic approaches, in different words of course, to explaining Catch 22, none of which satisfied the teacher. Finally, the students stopped raising their hands and the discussion terminated, collapsing under the teacher’s heavy hand. We never learned what the instructor thought Catch 22 meant, which frustrated us, and after that day we never saw him again. The class included three more scheduled lectures that semester, but the instructor failed to appear at any of them.
​

The Upper Right Window, by Robert Bermudez

20/11/2017

 
He could feel the bite of Autumn as he walked slowly past the house, tiny needles of November wind on his face. His late day shadow imitated him in acid trip-like distortions, while the few leaves that remained on the trees clung desperately to the last vestiges of life.

He passed the old iron gate and continued to the corner of the property, the sun now behind the house, casting it in a near - silhouette surrounded by a burst of orange sunset.

His eyes gazed upward and he smiled. The upper right window. That was the room, it had to be. It had red shutters then, and the paint wasn't faded and crumbling around it, and the gutter wasn't rusty and hanging but that was definitely the room.

He had met her that night and left the next morning and never saw her again. That was enough
.
It was good to be fifteen again.

A Golden Yellow Apple, by Sankar Chatterjee

20/11/2017

 
With recent political and social upheavals taking place inside his own country, John felt a need for a break. He wanted to get away from everyday unsettling developments, while trying to regain his own faith in humanity. He remembered about his friend Amitava from graduate school days. After earning his doctoral degree, Amitava went back to his native land to teach in a university in a small town, nestled inside the western Himalayan range lined with ancient snow-capped mountaintops. John wrote to Amitava, got an invitation to visit, and soon appeared at his doorsteps. On a gorgeous day, two old friends decided to embark on a hike on a steep mountain trail that snaked through pine forests and apple orchards arriving at a Buddhist pagoda. Once in a while, the trail would get shrouded with rolling mountain clouds, while long-tailed Himalayan magpies would fly overhead. Soon, they passed through a small village, populated by the Tibetan refugees, exiled from their occupied homeland. Inside the village, colorful prayer flags crisscrossed above the trail.

From the village, the trail went up another few kilometers. By this time, John already started to feel a sense of serenity he had been craving for past several months. Suddenly, around a corner of the trail, there appeared an old lady carrying a hand-made wicker basket on her back. Looking at the complex lines on her face, she could be anywhere between ninety and hundred years old. Amitava spoke a few words in the local language to her. She stopped, unbuckled her back-basket, took out a couple of golden yellow apples and handed one to each of them to taste the sweetness. Amitava explained to John that the lady would collect all those wild apples to sell in the market of the town at the foot of the mountain. However she refused to take any money, while requesting them to offer a prayer on her behalf in the temple.

While changing his flight in London en route to this country, John had picked up that day’s issue of the newspaper Guardian. One of the headlines blared “A recent analysis of the financial wealth of the world revealed that 1% of the world’s richest now own the 50% of world’s wealth”. For a while now, the major economists from reputed academic institutions have been warning about the future consequences of such a disparity in the global wealth distribution. They could foresee the breakdown of the social order, violence, and war breaking out amongst neighboring nations.

But on this autumn day, surrounded by the nature turned into a rainbow due to colorful fall foliage amidst the tranquility of the Himalayan Mountains, John learned the true meaning of sharing. A poverty-stricken lady from an ancient civilization with her face adorned with lines of wisdom taught him that the lamp of humanity would always flicker at different corners of this world amongst the poorest of us, even though a handful of rich would remain only materialistically wealthy.

Lying Among Liars, by Faseehullah Irshad

20/11/2017

 
As a kid once I was sitting in exams in my school on a sunny day. My friend sitting next to me asked me for a pencil and while giving it to him he softly inquired “What’s the answer of question no 1?” I replied in same manner the answer of it. Standing at the corner the teacher saw us. She inquired in an unkind voice “What were you doing?” At first I thought to lie to her saying I was giving pencil as pencil was in the hands of my friend and she may not have known we talked too. But yesterday’s class of her came into my mind. She taught us yesterday “Never lie to anyone. If you tell the truth all will admire you”. So I told her the truth.

She took my exam and never gave it back.

On that day I learnt that “Lie at will”

A Few Brave Women, by Sankar Chatterjee

19/11/2017

 
Ms. Rimpa Lahiri PhD, a leading female neuroscientist was attending a scientific conference in Montgomery, Alabama. During a break in between two sessions, she would decide to visit city’s landmark Rosa Parks Museum. The museum had been dedicated to Late Rosa Parks, an African American woman as well as a civil rights activist. A few scores years ago, she famously refused to give up her seat, in the “black only” section of a public bus, to a fellow white male rider. The gentleman could not find a seat in the filled “white only” section. This was also the time when Montgomery had been known as one of the most segregated cities in America. Ms. Parks was arrested, taken to a police station and finger-printed by a white police officer, treating her as a criminal. And, it was a black and white photograph of that last event that took a deep root in Dr. Lahiri’s head. It was the calm demeanor of Ms. Parks in the face of a most indignant moment for a woman. It was as if she had no fear, but was confident that she did nothing wrong except exercising her own human right. In fact, when asked later whether she was tired from a day’s hard work to take such a drastic action, she would famously proclaim “The only tired I was, was tired of giving in.”

Recently both sides of the Atlantic have gotten rocked by the allegations from women of all ages about the perpetual male harassment (in both subtle and not-too-subtle forms) during their professional journeys, whether that is in politics, academia, sports, and performing arts. After suffering silently with their mental scar over a long period of time, a few brave ones finally decided to open up and bring charges against their past and present tormentors, how powerful those men might be. That also opened the floodgates for other sufferers.

Dr. Lahiri remembers her own experience very well. As a foreign-born graduate student, she was at the mercy of her doctoral preceptor. She would spend every waking moment doing experiments in the laboratory, being expected to produce breakthrough discoveries bringing fame to her advisor. The mentor knew very well that Ms. Lahiri’s earning of the doctoral degree solely depended on his final approval. The quiet mental suffering during those four years used to tempt her in quitting. But she could not rock the boat, instead persisted.

Now, Dr. Lahiri is thankful to all those brave women who finally came forward to confront their tormentors, as well as starting the social media campaign #metoo. It reminds her Ms. Parks’ wisdom: "I have learned over the years that when one's mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear."

A Noir Love Story, by David Croll

14/11/2017

 
The cigarette dangling from her ruby-red painted lips wasn’t the only thing smoldering. She inhaled deeply bringing the embers to life. I wondered if our flame could be re-ignited so easily. I hoped not. This dame was trouble before, I didn’t want trouble again. But looking at her, I considered risking it. I pressed my cigarette against hers. If I was going to go, it wouldn’t be by second hand smoke.

She sauntered into my office, her skin-tight blue dress hugging her in all the places I hugged a long time ago.

“What brings you here?” I asked.

“Why you did, dear.”

“Couldn’t get enough, huh?” I smirked.

“You owe three months child support.”

My smirk disappeared just like she did months ago.

“Sorry. Business has been kinda slow.”

“Maybe you should try a different line of work. Maybe civil service.

“Sure. I could be a garbage man. I’m good at picking up trash.”

She slapped me. I didn’t stop her. I stared into her eyes, looking for the love we had oh so long ago. I didn’t even see a soul. The coldness sent shivers down my spine.

I reached into my pocket and gave her all I had.

“Give me a couple of weeks, I’ll have the rest for you.”

She stuffed the bills between her cleavage and turned to walk away. At the door, she looked at me.

“I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll mail it to you.”

She stared at me then walked out the door, out my life. Again.

I extinguished the cigarette hard into the ash tray and sat at the desk. I opened the drawer and reached for my savior, a bottle of scotch. I poured it into my coffee cup and sighed in relief

Genesis Of A Myth, by Sankar Chatterjee

9/11/2017

 
Prof. Peter Allen, a distinguished researcher in a renowned university in Virginia had been working for two decades to find a rapid-acting pain medicine to alleviate the suffering of his patients involved in serious injuries. The chemistry section of his research group would create new molecules, while the biology section would evaluate them on the animal models of pain, especially on mice. The experiments always took place during daytime when the mice, being nocturnal in nature, would be quiet and cooperative. Over the years, Prof. Allen’s research group had some success, but not the spectacular one he wished for. Then, one afternoon, one member of his biology team burst into his office. The excited researcher notified Prof. Allen that all the mice (inside a particular cage) that were administered a recent novel molecule, not only remained wide awake, but also were running around in a state of full alertness throughout the biological experiment, even though the intended experiment of pain-relief was not successful.

Prof. Allen was not sure how to interpret this unexpected observation. And that’s when his next-door colleague Prof. Neil Street, a world-famous sleep researcher walked into his office. Prof. Street, for his own field of expertise, used to house a group of cats, renowned for their naps at any time of the day. He immediately thought of evaluating this new molecule on a selected set of cats, thus requesting a sample. Prof. Allen was happy to oblige his colleague’s request. Over next few days, Prof. Street administered the new compound to a handful of extremely nap-sensitive cats at different times of a day, while the rest of the group followed their daily routine. After the experiments were over, the researcher involved in the study reported to Prof. Street that the drug-administered cats remained awake and alert throughout the day during the experiments, while the control cats took their usual naps.

At the end of the academic session, Prof. Street headed to his summer home in Virginia countryside where he used to maintain a farmland for the growing season. One hot summer afternoon, after a day’s labor, he started to feel fatigued and extremely sleepy. Suddenly, he remembered that this time he had brought home a small sample of that miracle molecule. Like many renowned past scientists spanning our entire human civilization, he decided to do an experiment on himself. He took a dose of the compound without worrying anything about its unknown toxicity including fatality in humans. Not only he survived, he remained awake throughout the remaining period of that long summer afternoon in south.

Thus a breakthrough medicine was born. It would find use in a section of population who has a tendency of dozing off without any warning, while riding a bicycle, driving an automobile, flying an airplane, or operating heavy machinery as well as laughing during social engagements. It improved immensely their quality of life. And along came the myth of its accidental discovery defying various well-defined scientific protocols.

Mrs Witch, by Marlene Goldberg

4/11/2017

 
Once upon a time there was a witch. Well, not really a witch. Just this bossy old thing who badgered her castle household with endless demands.

Every day, she would look in her mirror and sigh, “How beautiful am I!”

One day, instead of her usual habit of self-congratulation, she shrieked, “Who is that bloody old crone!”

Consequently, her medical attendants hastily summoned Herr Docteur to diagnose her ailment.

“Look, you scoundrels! What’s causing these wrinkles, bumps on my nose, receding hairline? All those confounded creams are not working!”

Her medical staff and household staff conferred about what is to be done. Until the parlor maid had the idea of foggy glasses.

Next morning Mrs. Witch looked at her image with her foggy glasses and smiled. Finally, thinking, “Gotta give those guys a raise!”

All this time, the wizard was in his lab concocting potions and gassy liquids sizzling and bubbling in his cauldron. His cosmetic line was sold to fine gentry country wide, lining the pockets of his gown with enormous sums.

Word of Mrs. Witch’s skin and hair deformities were not revealed to him by the servants. But his internet prowess and the bugs he had set about the castle allowed him to discover all the details.

“Foggy glasses! This is extra-ordinaire! It can’t be! It’s a tragedy! My purely natural palliative potions are excellente!!”

“So what can be the problem?” chirped his junior assistant, studying wizardry at the Sorbonne, 1st year.

“There is a traitor and I will get to ze bottom of this!” as he hunched over the computer, rapidly clicking codes and other secretive formulas.

Junior Dave gazed out at the night sky which appeared hazy through the fogged up windows.

“Eureka, I found ze bug!”

But then the building shook. The mountain seemed to rock back and forth. A window pane cracked.
Mrs. Witch entered the lab.

“Wizzy, I need to talk to you, NOW!

Wizard at the computer, didn’t hear her.

“Wizzy, now! Turn that thing off!” and she touched his shoulder with her long finger nail, ever so gently, yet nevertheless piercing the folds of his garment causing blood to ooze out from his upper arm.

Now he became aware of her presence. Waving his wand at his shoulder to dress the wound, he answered soothingly, “Ah, my dear, what brings you here this time of night?”

“This” as she pointed at her face.
​

“Ah, my lovely… “as his voice trailed off when he turned around finally, screwing his face in a gesture of wonder and repugnance.

...Blood in the cream, by Ronald Guell

1/11/2017

 
She wasn’t alone, driving too many dark and stormy hours on a desolate stretch through back woods towns too small to be called cities. Neither was she walking down a darkened alleyway between warehouses on an abandoned shipping dock.

What she was, was standing in her little girl’s favorite ice cream parlor ordering her special treat, an old fashion dream-sickle. They were enjoying the day, downtown in their mid-western paradise. Her daughter surprised her one day by calling their quaint little town Goldilocksville. Not too big and not too small she would say, making her mother smile. Her daughter happily tasted her treat. Her mom paid the cashier, took Amanda’s hand and turned towards the door.

The shop’s large front glass, with its quaint lettering spelling out Ice Cream Dreams, had changed. Now the window frame contained some bold metallic lettering shattering the innocent ones from before. These letters read Peterbilt.

A Peterbilt truck, constructed with extreme care, is guaranteed to stand the test of time. They carry the country’s goods from ships that arrive from distant lands, delivering to every giant metropolis' and tiny boroughs across the country. This big truck, however, has lost its way. So powerful was it that it plowed through the little shop like it was made of toothpicks. It plowed through the shoe store directly behind the little ice cream shop, crashing out on to the next street, it’s front end smoking.
​

Amanda and her mom shined as they moved away. Realizing they were floating, she picked up little Amanda and they shone together. Down on the street, one twisted little form transfixed all who looked on in horror. It’s an image none of the onlookers would ever forget. Though they tried to avert their eyes, none could look away from what was on the little girl’s hand.

    Longer
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    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.


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    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
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    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.

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