博客存档 - Friday Flash Fiction

One Box Inside Another, by J. Iner Souster

30/12/2022

I find a letter in a box from an old friend. A few words to say she is fine, but I am not and never will be again. She needs me to be gone, so I respond.

Dear Sarojini,
That day: the last day, we went for a pleasant drive and laughed like maniacs. You were always good at that; it's what made us close, but then life happened, and your laughter turned.
Nothing was funny anymore.
We got lost and waited for the sun to rise, our last sunrise. It was a frigid day, but I'm glad I have that memory.
Now the sky is dark and silent, and I wonder what might have been. But mostly, I wonder how you are. What a life you have created for yourself and who you're with now.
It's like laughing again.
No matter how much I think about you, I cannot live in that moment. It is in there, with the other memories, but it cannot come out. It's stuck in the box, like my memory of you.
On this page, the only thing that remains is the word "I," which holds an unbreakable truth.
To my love, I am sorry.

Milo’s Just Gone Out, by David Dumouriez

30/12/2022

Did the door open as the bell clinged, or vice versa?

‘Is Milo in?’ She was tall and floaty.

‘No, I’m sorry - he’s just gone out.’

‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

For some reason, I felt compelled to say something positive. ‘Oh, he won’t be long.’

‘It’s just that time’s a bit tight. He promised to get it done this afternoon.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes … He said he had some fabulous idea. Didn’t say what it was. Typical him.’

I murmured. Mumbled. Hummed.

She just stood there. ‘Well, I suppose he didn’t tell you anything about it … er …what was your name again?’

I told her. Not again, but for the first time. I never know why people have to play these games with words.

Still she stood there. She was getting twitchy. The feet were stamping. She looked up at the clock. Her breaths became heavy and audible. The classic tropes.

‘Well, look, if he trusts you enough to be his assistant …’

Did she expect an answer?

‘It can’t be that difficult. You’ve got all the equipment you need.’ She seemed to sneer, but maybe I do her a disservice. ‘Of course, it won’t be what Milo would have done, but …’

I felt the need to smile but I sensed at once that my mouth had betrayed me.

‘You know the brief.’

‘Er …’

‘A still life.’

‘A …’

‘I need a still life. For the campaign.’

‘The campaign? Oh! Yes, I see-’

Luckily, she interrupted. ‘Something intriguing. Something Miloesque!’ She laughed extravagantly. It would have been rude not to have joined her.

‘Now I need it by 5. That’s very important.’

‘By 5. I understand.’

‘I’ll be back in three hours …’

*

And she was.

Well, I’d improvised. Nobody could say that I hadn’t improvised. But maybe, in truth, I had allowed myself to get a little carried away. Certainly she seemed to think so.

She made her point well. Forcefully, but well. Fortunately I wasn’t unfamiliar with such language after all those Christmases with Uncle George.

*

I never did see Milo again after that. Perhaps it was for the best.

The White Deer, by Deborah Shrimplin

30/12/2022

As she lays in the snow covered field in the dense forest near her home, Stacy feels the numbing cold seep into her very being. Numb is a welcome relief from her feelings of despair and despondency.

Stacy looks up at the glittering night sky and imagines meeting him in Heaven. She had reached out to friends, family and doctors expressing her despair. No one had said the right words or replaced his affection. She would go to him tonight.

When Stacy's body begins to crave sleep, escape and release, she hears a soft sound coming from the forest edge. A white deer is walking toward her. It is the most beautiful animal she has ever seen. The deer approaches her and nudges her arm. Stacy raises her hand and touches the deer's face. At that moment, Stacy feels the beauty of the world invade her very being.

Stacy sits up, watches the deer walk back among the trees, and says a prayer of gratitude. She knows the message is for her. She is to seek beauty.

Stacy stands up and walks out of the forest.

The Christmas Letter, by Jim Bartlett

23/12/2022

Pop...

The noise sends a chill down Allison’s back, stopping her mid-stride. She puts a finger to her lips, then pulls Molly, her Raggedy Ann doll, up close.

“Shhhhh... ‘member, we have to be extra quiet.”

With the doll seeming to understand, giving that one gray button-eyed look that only Molly knows how to give, Allison continues to tip-toe down the stairs. When she reaches the bottom, she leans against the wall and carefully peers around the corner into the parlor.

Gasp...

The last of the crackling embers in the fireplace have cast their spell upon the room, and everything, including the Christmas tree with its ancient lights and reused tinsel, seems to dance in the red/orange glow.

She takes in a deep breath, then wearily makes her way to the sofa, sliding in under Mrs. Quigley’s thick quilt. With Molly to her side, she pulls the crumpled letter from her pocket and reads the crayon-written words one more time.

“I’ve tried real hard to be good this year, Santa. Could I please have a mommy and daddy? Please!”

Setting the letter aside, she leans back, tucking her head against Molly’s.

Yawn...

This year she’s going to see him. For sure. Give him the letter herself. Then, maybe like Kaylee, who just got her forever mommy and daddy yesterday, right here in this very room, she can have a family, too.

Mrs. Quigley has been real nice. And it’s been real swell living here at the orphans’ house the last two years since Grammy passed away. But...

The embers begin to dim, the magic in their glow slowly slipping away. She fights and fights to keep her eyelids from closing – gotta watch for Santa – but – YAWN – it’s so very hard...

Soooo very hard...

Allison...

All-i-son...

The voice sounds a thousand miles away, but when Allison opens her eyes, Mrs. Quigley, wearing her biggest smile, is sitting right next to her.

“Is it morning?”

“Yes, Dear.”

“Oh, no... I missed him.” Panic swells within Allison and she begins digging into the quilt.

“Missed who?”

But Mrs. Quigley’s words are lost.

Because the letter is gone.

With her hopes, much like the fireplace’s embers, now dark and cold, little tears begin to roll down her cheek. They must call out to Mrs. Quigley, because she slides closer, wrapping Allison’s face in her soft warm hands.

“It’s gonna be okay, Sweetie. You see, I just got off the phone with the county. And guess what? Mr. and Mrs. Larson are coming. Today. Christmas! You remember them, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, they want YOU to be part of their family.”

With her heart feeling as though it might burst at any moment, Allison jumps up and gives Mrs. Quigley the biggest hug ever. “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

Mrs. Quigley taps Allison’s nose, but then a surprised look crosses her face. “When did you fix little Molly?”

Not quite understanding, Allison turns to Molly, who’s lovingly gazing back with her two green button eyes.

The Actor, by Gerald Kamens

23/12/2022

When they were through that night, Curtis gave his notes. He seemed to be generally pleased with their performances. Before going to the dressing rooms, George was surprised to see Curtis climbing the stairs to the stage, and striding over to him. Not another reprimand! “I brought a friend of mine tonight,” said Curtis. “An actor. Roger was quite impressed with your work. Said you really inhabited the role. I just wanted you to know that,” Curtis concluded, and quickly turned away to go out front again.

Astounded, George repeated the words in his head as, a few minutes later, he changed and removed his makeup. Looking at himself in the mirror, wild white hair and a three-inch beard, he felt that maybe he really, after a shave and a haircut, two bits, wouldn’t look all that old. He’d always thought that a kind word to someone else, even to a complete stranger, might change that person’s life forever. Maybe, it was love, after all, not sex, that filled the grand canyon, and helped put off for a time our fears of death.

His step was lighter as he walked to his car. They’d rehearsed later than usual that night. It was past 11. Maybe he’d stop at the drive-through window, get a hamburger with fries, something he rarely ate that late at night, because it’d give him indigestion. But then he’d be even later getting home to walk Kaiser. Maybe Carole could do it. By rights, she should do it. After all, they’d gotten a dog to keep his wife company because she’d complained about George being out late so many evenings during the week preparing for a play – even more evenings and weekends as it came closer to showtime, going, she liked to say, to his own secret space. Yes. She could certainly walk Kaiser. He raced, in an unusually good frame of mind for him, he thought, to the drive through. Maybe he’d get a frozen vanilla yogurt too.

Her Fifteenth Birthday, by Malvina Perova

2/12/2022

Instead of a present, Masha got a shot in her back and fell flat on the damp asphalt at her house gates. She thought she’d faint from pain, but shock kept her awake and still as someone bent over her rag-doll body, searched her pockets, yanked at her clothes, then kicked her in the hip before going.

She bided her time, listening to his subsiding steps, and slowly crawled across the road. Every move gave her a jolt of pain, and she stopped to pant into the dust. "There are only a few meters left," Masha told herself, "You scored ten out of twelve in PE last term, ten out of twelve." Her Granddad’s car shimmered in the distance. She could see him crouching beside it and waving at her desperately.

She pushed once more and wormed her way along. Leaving a scarlet trace behind her, gasping for air, Masha couldn’t help feeling a little bit sorry for the Russian soldier. Because all he fought for was her smartphone and silver cross. All she fought for was life.

One Box Inside Another, by J. Iner Souster

Milo’s Just Gone Out, by David Dumouriez

The White Deer, by Deborah Shrimplin

The Christmas Letter, by Jim Bartlett

The Actor, by Gerald Kamens

Her Fifteenth Birthday, by Malvina Perova

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One Box Inside Another, by J. Iner Souster

Milo’s Just Gone Out, by David Dumouriez

The White Deer, by Deborah Shrimplin

The Christmas Letter, by Jim Bartlett

The Actor, by Gerald Kamens

Her Fifteenth Birthday, by Malvina Perova

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

Longer
Stories