Blog Archives

The Question, by Ceri Marriott

25/11/2022

The strains of Charles Trenet's music playing in the background, and the sounds and waft of freshly ground coffee, accompanied by the rich buttery taste of the newly baked croissants awaited them in the tiny café on the corner of the Rue Troyon. They had met there every Friday for the past twenty years, laughed and cried together, held one another's hands, and gazed into each other's eyes. Today was no different.

Bernard, the avuncular owner of the café, had seen them meet for the first time, heard their laughter and their tales, watched their growing closeness, and sensed their hidden love.

What he had not heard was the question Albert had asked Janine once each year since they had met: 'Will you marry me?' She had always said no - that it would ruin their relationship.

Today though, when Albert took her hand, looked at her aged but to him still beautiful face, and whispered, 'Will you marry me, my beautiful Janine?', her eyes smiled back, and he heard the words he had longed to hear for so many years. 'Yes, Albert, I will.'

The euphoria each felt was electric, and soon all the café had heard the news, and a party atmosphere filled the little café. Everyone felt the couple's happiness; it was catching - you could feel it, hear it, and most of all, sense it.

It was two months later that Bernard heard the news. Albert had taken Janine's life, and then his own. Some said she had been suffering from a rare cancer, others that she had told Albert she had a son.

Snake in the Grass, by Fliss Zakaszewska

25/11/2022

Mummy hated snakes. This fact must be established. She was, in fact, terrified and tried to make Milly afraid of them too, but the youngster knew that if you left them alone, they wouldn’t harm you. Living in the tropics in a bungalow built high up on stilts (a whole storey), gave you an early education on dangerous beasts.

Mummy was also a ‘clean-freak’ as Milly knew. On the day of her friend, Susan’s birthday, she stood in front of her mother, fists clenched. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s not fair!” she sobbed, “It’s only a little spot.”

Mummy shook her head. “I told you to keep your dress clean. No, you can’t go to Susan’s party now. That’ll teach you to be more careful.”

The five-year-old sobbed in fury, and finally stormed into her bedroom, slamming the door. “Stupid dress!” she raged as she tugged it off, not caring that she tore its underarms. She stamped her foot at the unfairness.

After an hour, eyes red-rimmed, she crept into the kitchen and to the back door, opening the double screen doors, creeping down the outside concrete steps to the garden. From a cupboard, she tugged her garage and cars to the cooler, ‘under the house’ area, several feet away from the back stairs. Vrooming the cars in and out of the garage calmed her until a movement caught her eye. Sunning itself carelessly on the bottom step was the blackest, longest snake she’d ever seen. Daddy had told her, ‘Black snakes are probably poisonous, so you definitely leave them alone’. He always added that if you left them alone, they’d leave you alone too. Unconcerned, the unlikely duo continued their solitary pleasures.

Child and snake looked up as the flapping of screen doors reached them. She saw it was her mother’s shoes, making the slow descent to the laundry room below the house. She continued to watch as her mother made her way down, then glanced at the snake. It hadn’t moved, seemingly watching the spectacle curiously.

Milly let the feet come down, a little more than halfway, before she called out. “Mummy, you do know there’s a big black snake on the bottom step...”

The scream split the air, the basket of clothes sailed upwards, pirouetting gently back to earth, the basket landing on the ground to the left of the stairs. Before the basket had begun its downward motion, Mummy had turned, and Milly swore that she’d leapt up the dozen or so steps, three at a time.

The snake raised half its body and turned its head towards Milly. She looked at the snake and shrugged. It seemed to flex its body; if it had shoulders, it too would’ve shrugged, then it turned and slithered away to a cool, dark hidey-hole.

Milly smiled. It had almost been worth it, not going to Susan’s party and this had fully settled the score.

Frankie, by Phyllis Souza

25/11/2022

I'm Maggie McGuire, and I have a boyfriend. His name is Frankie Moretti. And I'm telling this story.

Frankie sells cars. He makes loads of money. The Godfather is etched into the window of his office.
He's the best salesperson at the dealership. But it wasn't always like that. It began when Frankie was flat-broke and needed to make a quick buck. So, he put sold signs on the windshields of cars except for one.
Yes, siree. He sold his first car within fifteen minutes for twice as much as it was worth. By the end of that week, he had sold every automobile on the lot. He's brilliant.
Frankie wears a diamond ring on his right index finger and likes to show it off. Sometimes, he taps his finger on top of his desk. Other times, he rolls the ring with his thumb. The stone has an inclusion. It doesn't matter-- it's still a three-karat diamond. And it shines.
He drives a Cadillac Seville. Leather seats, a tape deck. He loves Dean Martin songs, especially "That's Amore." His voice blends with Dean's.
They make an unbelievable duo.
When it comes to food, the sky's the limit. No matter the cost. Lobster is wonderful. Steak is choice. Wine? Always the best.
Frankie is a bachelor and promised his mama he'd never get married. She's an old lady, and he's her only son.
Handsome in his pin-striped suit. His wavey black hair grays at the temples. Not only that, but he’s also a fantastic dancer.
One day, he says in a heavy Italian accent, "I'm tired of sellin' da cars. I’m a wanna dance."
What does he do?
He drives his Cadillac Seville to the Italian Club.
He smiles. He laughs. He dances.
Sometimes he dances with his eyes open and sometimes with them closed. He winds down toward the dance floor, then, like a corkscrew in the neck of a bottle, he spirals up.
Frankie gets lost in the music. He dances every night until he doesn't.
One night, there's too much wax on the dance floor and too much wine in his stomach.
So, when the band starts to play the Chicken Dance, he leans back, flaps his elbows, and high steps towards the dance floor.
Frankie slips and falls. His head hits hard on the floor.
His eyes close. His mouth draws down. Frankie doesn't dance anymore.

I'm Maggie McGuire, and that's the end of my story.

In No Rush, by John M. Carlson

18/11/2022

“All we have to do is turn this on.” Jake pointed to his laptop. “And then we take a quick look at the election results.”

“We can learn who won the race for governor,” Beth said. “Was it the clown? Or was it the nutjob?”

“And did that one jackass get elected to Congress?”

“Don’t forget that bozo running for the state legislature!”

They sat, staring at the dark laptop.

“I’m not in a rush to learn what happened,” Jake said. “Just like I’m not in a rush to see a two hundred car pileup on the freeway!”

“I’m not, either.”

Jake shut the laptop. They headed over to the couch to watch a DVD. The cable TV was disconnected until they could face learning what happened with the election of 2022.

“We’ll be sure and check the results tomorrow!” they both said. Like they had said every night since the election more than a week ago.

Thanksgiving Turkey, by Phyllis Souza

18/11/2022

It's an early Thanksgiving morning.
Annie is watching Del, her mother, prepare a twenty-two-pound turnkey.
Del takes a handful of torn day-old bread, mixed with sautéed celery and onions, bits of giblets, and lots of sage. She packs it into the bird.
"Why are you doing that?" Annie rubs her sleepy brown eyes.
Del turns to Annie and smiles. "Because it's delicious." After filling the turkey, she takes the golden heel from a loaf of Wonder bread and seals it.
Through tangles of long curly hair, Annie scratches her scalp. "Why are you doing that?"
"So, the stuffing won't fall out." Del rinses her hands under the faucet and picks up a poultry needle.
Annie frowns. "Why are you doing that?"
"To keep the skin together." Del drives in the sharp point and draws the string.
"You're hurting it!"
"The turkey is dead," Del tells Annie. "It can't feel."
"It's not dead.” Annie, tugs on her mother's arm. “Stop it.”
"Be a good girl and let me finish." Del sews and snips. "There. Done."
Annie gives her mother a glare as only a three-year-old can. She stands there staring at the turkey, shoulders slumped, and tears rolling down her cheek, "Poor turkey," she cries. "Poor. Poor Turkey."

Morning Wishes, by Robert P. Bishop

18/11/2022

Howard sat at a table by the window, eating a breakfast of fried eggs, hash-browns, and toast. Two men, one fat, and the other thin, sat at a table near Howard and carried on a conversation everybody in the small diner could hear.
The fat man, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with Real Men Ride Harleys, leaned back in his chair and said to the thin man, “I have a million dollars.” Howard thought he detected a trace of smug satisfaction in the man’s voice.
“A million dollars,” the thin man exclaimed. “That’s really something. I wish I had a million dollars.” His voice quivered with awe, or, Howard thought, possibly admiration, but more likely envy of the fat man’s riches.
Howard glanced at the two men. The fat man smiled at Howard. He was enjoying crushing the thin man and was pleased to have someone watch him do it.
“I live in a big house on seven acres,” the fat man said, his voice bumping up a few decibels. “All paid for, too.” Again, the self-satisfied tone.
“I wish I had that much land,” the thin man said. He pushed some hash browns over his plate with his fork then put it down. “I’ll never own a house.”
“I’m a veteran, you know. The Marines,” the fat man crowed. He lifted his head and jutted out his chin, remembering the glory days when he was young and wore the uniform.
“I wish I was a veteran,” the thin man said, deflated by the successes of the man sitting opposite him.
Howard laughed out loud. The two men looked at him. “Not to worry, fellas,” Howard said. “It comes out even in the end for all of us when we’re put in that box and dropped in a hole in the ground or our ashes are poured into a cheap urn and tossed in the back of a closet and forgotten.” Howard paused briefly then continued. “Or we could end up naked on a table in the dissection lab and have some smart-ass medical student say, “Who embalmed this guy? Look at the size of that boner.”
Howard laughed out loud again, left a generous tip by his plate, and walked out of the diner.

The Glow, by Angela Carlton

11/11/2022

When she was a child, she sat under the tall trees with storybooks, for her mother was out roaming the streets with a broken mind. The mother moved to the rhythm of the voices in her head, amongst the whispers on the streets. She walked through parks and down by the river trying to clear her brain from the white noise.

Inside the storybooks, the child found comfort, somewhere in a faraway land, this place where the animals usually spoke to you, a place where the wildflowers grew-grew, peppering the fields with vibrant color. Yes, there was color, colors that seemed to cut deep through the blackness. Still, her mother continued to slither down sidewalks, backroads talking to the bushes and the stars.

The town healer had given the mother medications to balance out her brain but nothing seemed to stick anymore so she walked on and on and on until she grew weary, finally stumbling back upon her only child beneath the sycamore trees with a storybook under her nose.

“Mama, you found your way,” the child would usually say, with a bit of hope somewhere in her voice.

“The light. It was light-light, yes, light, stars, I think” she mumbled, “glow, the glow, brought me, here.”

The Lighthouse, by Doug Bartlett

11/11/2022

Here I sit at our local town hall meeting waiting for my turn to voice my opinion on why we should not get rid of our local lighthouse. It seems I’m the only dissenter in this ocean of people who want to tear down a piece of our history and put up a mountain of condominiums on that spot.

I realize the larger ships have changed their routes and no longer sail by here. Yet at the same time I’ll never forget the day that lighthouse saved my life.

I was out sailing that day and had taken what I thought was a short nap. I woke to the sound of thunder. Storm clouds were rolling in and it was quickly getting dark. The sea was churning and began to toss my diminutive boat to and fro. I needed to get to shore quickly but there was only a small window of opportunity to come ashore on a sandy beach as the area was strewn with large,craggy rocks. There was no way I would be able to safely find my way ashore and the darker it got the greater the odds grew that I would not find safe haven. My anxiety level plummeted when that solitary light from the lighthouse pierced the darkness and gave me a perfect path to guide me safely home.

The Glass Cottage, by Deborah Shrimplin

4/11/2022

Once upon a time, there was a grandmother, a mother, and her twelve-year-old daughter, Alys, who lived in a stone cottage in a deep, dark forest. During the daylight, they worked together tending the vegetable garden and minding the cottage. In the evenings, the grandmother often sat by the fire and told true stories of things she had seen in the forest. Alys and her mother didn't believe her stories but never said as much. That wouldn't be kind.

One afternoon, Alys and her mother were in the kitchen preparing food. Grandmother was at her desk drawing the illustrations for her book about the things she had seen in the forest.

"Alys, I need some mushrooms for tonight's dinner. Can you and Grandmother find some in the forest for us?" Alys' mother said.

"Grandmother is working on her pictures for her fairytale book. I can go without her."

"Do not eat any mushrooms until I look at them."

"Yes, I know. Grandmother taught me how to find the edible ones."

After fifteen minutes of searching through the forest, Alys came to a grassy clearing that she knew quite well. She decided to rest for a few minutes.

When she sat on the soft ground, a wind swirled around her. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she found herself inside a glass cottage with one door and two windows.

Alys jumped up and touched the walls. They were translucent but solid. She tried the door and windows. They wouldn't open.

"What is this? What's going on? This can't be real," she thought as she pounded on the glass walls, door and windows.

"Someone help me!" she screamed.

Then, she dug at the ground under the walls. There was hard rock under the thin layer of soil. She yelled again but her voice only echoed. She sat down in defeat.

The sun began its descent behind the tall trees casting long shadows. Alys tried to open the door again. It wouldn't budge. She looked through the door and saw three flickering lights, like stars on a clear night, hovering three inches off the ground.

Alys recognized them.

"I can't believe it. It can't be!" she thought.

At that moment, she heard a clicking sound. The door opened. When she stepped through the doorway, the flickering lights disappeared.

Alys ran home as fast as she could. She rushed past her mom in the kitchen and found her grandmother sitting at her desk.

"Grandmother, where's your picture of the three flickering lights in the forest?"

Grandmother turned the page in her book of fairytales and smiled at her granddaughter.

"Grandmother, I saw them! I saw them!"

"So, now you can believe," Grandmother said and gave Alys a hug.

The Voice of Loss, by Angela Carlton

4/11/2022

Somebody was knocking on the door. Through the window I could see, a stranger standing on my porch. He was tall and well-built. There was something mysterious about him. I stood there in my black hat and glared at him until the yellow leaves began to stir around him, a barn owl looked down with glaring eyes. The owl’s white face always brightens the night sky around my yard like a porch light.

“There’s no trespassing here so move on! I’m warning you, move on!” I shout, before the stranger bangs once again on the door. I can hear the barn owl hooting now as the knocking continues. I stand there in a trance. Something came over me as I began to hear a faint whisper. It was a voice I’d never forgotten, the voice of my childhood, the voice of loss. This voice was the voice of my deceased mother.

“You must stop practicing voodoo! You must let go of the anger and forgive! You must find a way to forgive, Shelly. Do not cast this man into darkness” Tears began to stream down my face as the knocking started to diminish. I stood there frozen. I could not move my feet and the tears flowed. I sunk to my knees from the power of your voice, the voice I had waited to hear since I was a confused teenager.

When I woke up later on the floor, the sky was as black as Georgia asphalt and the beautiful owl was perched perfectly in my tree glaring at me behind the glass as the katydids sang a harrowing tune.

Caspernia the Good Ghost, by Nicole Kim

4/11/2022

Caspernia was a ghost, but not a good one. At Haunted House training, all she could scare was a little baby, and that was because she knocked over a plant.
“Caspernia,” said her instructor, “I recommend getting some practice at the Haunted House. Final exams are next week.”
Caspernia sighed as she looked at her midterm grade. An empty oval drawn in blood red ink. Zero for failure.

Filled with anguish, Caspernia floated into a nearby village.
She noticed a girl who looked oddly familiar.
Curious, Caspernia followed her all the way to a cozy looking home.
Caspernia peered through the window.
Her eyes widened.
The mom was cooking in the kitchen, the dad watching T.V.
The girl hung her jacket on a hook.
It was Caspernia’s family.

“Since when did I have a little sister?” Caspernia thought.
Just then, Hillary and Pattison from Ghost School floated next to Caspernia.
“This looks like an easy family to scare,” Pattison said.
“Let’s practice what we learned on them!” Hillary agreed.
They reached for the door, but a hand stopped them. Caspernia was surprised to realize it was her hand. Confidence rising, Caspernia lifted her voice.
“Go away!”
Hillary and Pattison flashed Caspernia a look of contempt, but floated away.
Caspernia let out a relieved sigh and turned to the window again. She grinned when she noticed a picture of herself on top of the fireplace. They hadn’t forgotten, after all.
Caspernia watched as her mom brought fresh baked Halloween cookies.
“Yay!” Her little sister exclaimed. “You said Caspey liked chocolate chip oatmeal cookies too, right Dad?”
Her dad smiled. “She did, Polly.” He scooped her up. “She passed before you were born, but you two have so much in common. She would’ve loved you so much.”
“Polly,” Caspernia repeated, rolling the word around her tongue. “Polly.”
It felt right.
And so.
Caspernia stayed right by her family’s window, protecting them from unwanted spirits. She celebrated with them, she cried with them. She scared away some robbers, who tried to break in the middle of the night.

Caspernia watched Polly grow older, go to high school, and all of a sudden, graduate.
The night before Polly left for college, she had a nightmare. Caspernia decided to talk with her.

“Hi, Polly.” Caspernia whispered.
Polly jumped. “Who are you?”
“It’s me, Caspernia. I’m a ghost.”
Polly frowned. “Really?”
“Who else would I be?”
“You’re right. I wish you didn’t pass.”
“I’m sorry. I am here for you now…and forevermore.”

Polly no longer suffered nightmares and left for college. Caspernia decided to open a new ghost school that trained ghosts to guard their loved ones. It became the most popular ghost academy in the spirit realm!
This earned Caspernia a new nickname—Caspernia the Friendly Ghost—or as others said, Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Caspernia was a ghost, and it turns out she was a good one after all.

The Question, by Ceri Marriott

Snake in the Grass, by Fliss Zakaszewska

Frankie, by Phyllis Souza

In No Rush, by John M. Carlson

Thanksgiving Turkey, by Phyllis Souza

Morning Wishes, by Robert P. Bishop

The Glow, by Angela Carlton

The Lighthouse, by Doug Bartlett

The Glass Cottage, by Deborah Shrimplin

The Voice of Loss, by Angela Carlton

Caspernia the Good Ghost, by Nicole Kim

Longer
Stories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

Longer
Stories