Weekly Flash Fiction

A Modern Marriage

15/1/2021

Their marriage was based on mutual understanding. Like many millennials, they never spoke, whether in the street, sitting side-by-side on the sofa, or even in bed. Their sole medium was the mobile phone.

At first, they communicated in textspeak: "Fancy something 2eat? A little 4play leading to 6?" Eventually, they moved on to homespun emoticons – :( or :) or even :x, but these offered even less scope for literary discourse. Then of course, emojis followed.

One day, disaster struck – she dropped her iPhone down the toilet. Unable to speak, he assumed she was being unfaithful and the inevitable happened: D4s.

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Strange Girl

8/1/2021

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It began with a strange occurrence: a pool of vomit in the tenement block's garden. Had someone jumped over the fence? A fox, perhaps? When it happened again a few weeks later, at exactly the same spot, a few neighbours wondered, whispered, but no more.

Lynsey's room was directly above, three storeys up. A nice kid, attractive and successful, when she began wearing long-sleeved tops and jeans, where before she'd worn cami tops and skimpy shorts, no one paid much attention.

One day, she left and was never seen again. Finally, Lynsey had found a way to make people notice.

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A Homeless Christmas

24/12/2020

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For one homeless family, it's their third Christmas living like sardines in just two spare rooms in an uncle's flat. Underneath the tiny tree is a handful of presents, all for the two children.

The ten-year-old boy has two parcels. One is a new pack of playing cards, the other is The Pan Book of Card Games. Quickly, the mother leaves the room, fearing that her son will see her tears of shame.

But the boy is thrilled. For him, a new world has opened: cribbage; bezique; solo whist; gin rummy; and so many others. It's his best Christmas ever.

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Terminal Neurostupidoma

27/10/2020

The surgeon was showing the patient an x-ray of his head.

"Bad news, sir," said the medic. "That mass in your brain is terminal neurostupidoma."

The patient shrugged. "Nothing wrong with me, doc."

"Typical symptoms are complete deafness and blindness. You feel nothing."

"Deaf? Blind?"

"What's climate change? Black lives matter? COVID?"

"Don't exist. Bullshit, all of them."

"As I said, sir, deaf and blind. That and your hat."
The patient stood up, marched over to a wall mirror and pointed to his red baseball cap.

"So? It's a regular cap. Popular brand – AGAM. Everybody's wearing them."

"Not everyone, sir."

The Girl in the Crowd

2/10/2020

Sometimes, I see her in distant crowds. I try to ensure she doesn't see me, but I suspect she's picked me out once or twice. I'm not sure who's likely to be more embarrassed by memories of our brief liaison, her or me. We simply needed each other at the time, but it turned out that her need for me was even more short-term than my need for her. And it was hardly ideal for morale to discover that I wasn't even her only one.

I'd still love to know what she saw in me during those few short weeks.

Remembering Tom

11/9/2020

As she did that same day each year, Jane sat on the park bench, gazing at the gap in the skyline where Tom had once worked. Why, she asked herself? Thousands dead in the aeroplanes, in the buildings, and amongst the emergency workers; countless thousands more in the years of reprisals that followed. What God could condone such unspeakable evil?

Jane clutched an old red Nokia 3210 mobile phone, remembering Tom's last words: "I love you." She brushed a tear away.

A hand gently touched her arm. "Come on, Mum, let's go home. It doesn't get any easier, does it?"

Analgesic Housework

4/9/2020

Sometimes, in the afternoons, she would catch herself staring wistfully into the middle distance. Why did it have to be, she would ask herself? Then she would take a deep breath and throw herself into some analgesic housework, or perhaps she'd bake a cake. But a walk offered too much opportunity for remembering.

Her husband had struggled even more, and eventually, she'd lost him, too, unable to live in a home filled nowadays with only sadness and memories. She didn't blame him: no parent is ever prepared for the loss of a child.

At least she had a clean house.

Bleak Factory

14/8/2020

Kismet Quick surveyed his asbestos processing factory, relishing the noise and intense heat, then did his hourly worker count to ensure that no child was slacking.

Suddenly he yelled, "Mrs Screech! Where's Hamill?"

A round, red-faced woman appeared, breathless. "Jack Hamill's with me, getting his finger sown back on, Mr Quick."

"Why? Does he NEED them all?"

"Well – "

"Get him back to work. Iodine on the missing finger!"

Mrs Screech nodded, returning with the injured boy. Beneath her own machine, Emily smiled, knowing that, as the only ones with sensible names, she and Jack were destined for each other.

When God's Patience Finally Ran Out

7/8/2020

God looked at Her inbox and sighed. Ever since She'd gone all IT and invited prayers online or via social media, She'd been swamped with demands for action on one topic: sexual harassment. Mainly from women, the complaints were of inappropriate comments and, of course, intimate touching. One third of all women confessed that sharing a lift with a man alone made them afraid. Then there was Harvey Weinstein and the #metoo movement.

By 2019, God's patience had run out. They were quite right. It was time to make everyone respect each other's personal space. Time for a new coronavirus...

Might Be Something in It

17/7/2020

They were both reading: she was browsing Women's Health, while he was deeply engrossed in Golf Monthly. Suddenly, she broke the silence.

"It says here that couples who share the housework have much better sex lives." She didn't look up.

"Hmm?" He didn't look up either.

"I put the dishes in the dishwasher." He didn't reply, so she continued, "There are still pans to wash."

"Hmm?" No more.

She sighed, stood up. "I'll deal with the pans, then I'm off to bed."

"Goodnight, love," he said, eventually.

"Goodnight," she called back, then added more quietly, "Might be something in it."
.

Strip Battleships in Lockdown

26/6/2020

"C3."

"Hit," Sarah sighed, slowly removing her bra.

In Lockdown, they'd discovered the delights of Strip Battleships on Zoom. Each 'hit' obliged the other to remove an item of clothing.

Now, each sat wearing just one thing. Sarah missed with D6. From her sofa, she noticed that, behind Chris, the cooker needed cleaning.

"C4."

"Damn!" Sarah cried. She stood up, turned around, and slid her knickers to the floor. "Satisfied?"

"Very. Ready? GO!!"

They arrived at their bedroom simultaneously. Battleships got them in the mood every time, except that once when they accidentally dialled her mother into the game, too.

Chopin Waltz in D flat

10/4/2020

In COVID-19, Simon saw opportunity: master Chopin's D flat "Minute" Waltz.

Even for concert pianists, the Minute Waltz requires nearly two minutes' performance. No virtuoso, Simon's record was over five. Now, trapped in lockdown, Simon set about practising non-stop each day from morning till night.

Two weeks later, he could play the entire piece in under four minutes; by week six, in just three. During week twelve, Simon smashed the two minute barrier. Then... silence.

Days later, police discovered Simon's decaying body slumped over the keys. No one had noticed: his neighbours had long ago self-isolated from his piano playing.

The 74 Last Words from the Cross

10/4/2020

One day soon, ladies and gentlemen... one day soon, I know we all shall walk together in harmony... that people of all genders, of all ages, and of all races and religions will discover the shared joy of our common diversity... that those blessed with wealth, good health and good fortune will rejoice in sharing it with those less fortunate... that we will no longer fear the oppression of those paid to protect us –––––

The bullet fired from the crowd at that point pierced her skull at an angle of 34˚, simultaneously exploding her brains and the hopes of humanity.

STUPID-20

3/4/2020

After the plague came the next plague: STUPID-20. It began with one person, but was highly infectious and passed quickly from individual to individual in minutes. Transmission appeared either oral or through the eyes as people excreted and ingested stupid words.

Within days, people were stockpiling toilet paper; within weeks, as the pandemic swept worldwide, they were electing the stupidest people they could find. There was no cure, no hope.

Eventually, of course, enough people recovered to establish herd immunity in society. But as with the common cold, immunity didn't last long. When STUPID-21 appeared, the whole thing started again.

Valentine's Day Inspiration

14/2/2020

Rose lay back, smiling: she and Mark had celebrated Valentine's Day.

"It's amazing the things that come to you when you're making love," she said.

"I was a bit distracted," Mark admitted. "Go on."

"Imagine the heat we've just generated. If only we could hook everyone up to the Electricity Grid... all that renewable energy!"

Mark chuckled. "Well, if anyone in the entire world can make that happen, it's you."

He was right. On Valentine's Day exactly ten years later, Professor Rose Lennox received the Nobel Prizes both for Physics (body-heat transfer to electricity) and for Economics (combating Global Warming).

Miscarriage of Justice

31/1/2020

The judge stared disdainfully at Rabbie Burns, standing in the dock.

"Burns, you're charged with cruelty to animals, namely one poor, innocent haggis. How do you plead?"

"N-not guilty M'lud. But –"

"Silence!"

The Procurator Fiscal began to present the Crown's case: photographs of a disembowelled haggis; mobile phone footage of a club dinner; and the Address to the Haggis in Burns' own hand.

The judge looked down at Burns. "Well, Burns?"

"But it was Veganuary, M'lud! It was a vegan haggis!"

"Nonsense! Even vegan haggises have two short legs and two long ones. Guilty! Five years! Take him down!"

The Nice Boy at the Party

10/1/2020

Charlotte awoke, face-down. The bed was strange, the room was strange, she felt more than a little strange, too. She looked at her watch: almost eleven.

Memories of the previous night were hazy. She'd met a nice boy at the party. Perhaps he'd been kind and put her to bed. Charlotte could see her coat on a chair by the window.

She got up and found the bathroom. She slipped her jeans and knickers down. It was then, as she sat, she spotted his one mistake: her knickers were inside out. Suddenly, Charlotte's life would never be the same again.

Longed-For

5/1/2020

She gazed up at him. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

He returned her smile. "Too long." He realised how much they needed this.

He asked, "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Don't be silly. Hurry up, it's cold."

Gently, he slipped inside. She gasped.

"Goodness, you're freezing!" she said.

"What do you expect?" he said. "We forgot to pack pyjamas."

"We haven't been camping for years. We were always going to forget something." She zipped up the bag. "Come, hold me tight, keep me warm."

So he did. And within a minute or so, both were in deep, longed-for sleep.

On the Horizon

27/9/2019

Standing on the rocky shore with the waves lapping around their feet, they were both struck by how cold the water was: melting ice from the Arctic had not only raised sea levels but made it chillier as well.

That was the least of their problems now. Now that the remaining mainlanders had discovered that the island could still grow food, they'd be on their way, hungry, desperate, prepared to kill for whatever they needed. Even if they survived the onslaught, the islanders knew that there wouldn't be enough food for everyone.

Someone spotted the first boats on the horizon.

Emergency Services

20/9/2019

Struck by a passing car in a hit-and-run accident, the cyclist lay in the street with both legs and his right arm broken. In great pain, he managed to call 999.

"Hello," said the operator. Noting the cyclist's whereabouts and mobile number, she finally asked which service was required.

"Ambulance... and police," he gasped. "Hurry, please, I'm in agony here!"

"I can get an ambulance to you in about an hour," said the operator. "Police in half a hour."

The cyclist groaned. "That long? It's an emergency?"

"I could do a pizza in ten minutes maximum, sir," the operator suggested.

Sniper

6/9/2019

The Austrian Steyr SSG69 rifle the assassin used is accurate to five inches of the target. Positioned on a skyscraper just over a mile away, she could hardly miss.

Immediately afterwards, a removal company spirited the weapon out of the building in a filing cabinet, then later that day out of the country altogether, never to return. It had already killed a president in Africa, drugs barons in the Philipinnes and South America, and a Russian dissident. It would kill again.

And the sniper? Changing into a blouse, suit and high heels, she returned to her office, her work complete.

Struggle

23/8/2019

It was now or never, she told herself. The pair of them lay on the bed together, and if she was ever going to sort out their relationship, she could delay no longer. Hesitantly, she reached across.

They launched into a violent struggle. Although able to remain upright at first, she was writhing on the floor in no time, pushing and pulling with every ounce of strength in her body. She was in such a grip that she could barely breathe.

Suddenly, with one final pull of the zip, she had won. "Yes!" she cried, "I'm into a size 12!"

Donald and Melania, in the Afternoon Sun

16/8/2019

Donald and Melania lay, naked as nature herself had intended, soaking up the afternoon sun. Away from prying eyes, they'd skinny-dipped in the pond before drying off poolside.

An hour of doing nothing later, Donald edged closer to Melania.

"Hey Mel, what about it? Right here?" There was a lascivious gleam in his eye.

Melania didn't move. "Do as you must." So he did.

Afterwards, he lay satisfied; she was just relieved it was over.

"You did your duty, Mel," he said.

"I did. But must you make that awful croaking noise, Donald?"

"Sorry, Mel. It's what we frogs do."

One Day in the Life

9/8/2019

He sat outside a flower shop window, shoulders slumped, staring at the pavement. Four policemen stood around, having arrived in two patrol cars. None of the policemen acted harshly; they just wanted to help. The flower shop owner, who'd called them, understandably didn't know what to do.

The man sat silently for ages, incongrously framed by roses and chrysanthemums. Then he said his name, and the police were able to find out some details about him: the usual problems: drugs, alcohol, unemployment, mental health, hopelessness.

They took him to a nearby hostel. Tomorrow he'd be back, or somewhere else similar.

The Woman in Number 7

2/8/2019

The woman across the road from me in number 7 is a hired killer. To my certain knowledge, she's taken out at least five individuals. She specialises in contracts on cheating husbands or wives, or the brazen husseys who break up marriages. Her methods are simple: she approaches them in broad daylight and shoots. No one ever expects a hit from a woman, do they?

You don't believe me, officer? Well it's the truth. Sure, that's my gun there with my fingerprints, there's gun residue on my hands, and my wife's blood is all over my clothes.

But I'm innocent.

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