Weekly Flash Fiction

Stubborn to the Last

8/2/2019

I tried to tell him, move with the times or they'll leave you behind.

But he paid no attention. Instead he insisted on sticking to his old stone age ways, writing down his manuscripts using fountain pen and paper. I swear I saw a couple of quills on his desk one time.

And so, when agents and publishers were demanding double-spaced typewritten manuscripts, his handwritten masterpieces ended up in the 'Rejected' tray. When everyone started use word processors and email, he set his face against them, too. No website either.

Eventually he resisted the flu vaccination and that was that.

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Foreplay

1/2/2019

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As she snuggled under the covers, her body tingling with anticpation, she felt those familiar feelings again. The foreplay was almost her favourite moment: she caressed its firmness, aware only too well of the pleasure that would soon engulf her.

She stroked it, back and forwards, wondering how something how something so strong and hard could lead to something so soft and tender.

She could wait no longer. She turned to page one and began to read.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

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The Last Chapter

11/1/2019

Deciding that one husband was one too many, she decided to rationalise. Inspired by the book How to Murder Someone in Five Easy Stages, she armed herself and arranged to meet her husband at a quiet railway station. Why he agreed, no one knows.

Once alone, she smashed his head fourteen times with a rolling pin, threw the body onto the railway line for the next train to crush, then fled.

The police naturally assumed suicide initially, but then forensics found blood traces away from the platform's edge.

The moral? Always read the last chapter: "How Not to Get Caught."

The Henderson's Christmas Light Show

21/12/2018

On Eastfield Street, 53 otherwise identical bungalows vied to create the biggest garish light show in their annual Christmas Competition.

The winner had a year's bragging rights: the Hendersons were going for seven-in-a-row. A giant light-festooned rotating Christmas tree dominated the front garden, a laser-lit Santa Claus laughed 'Ho ho ho' against the front of the house, a giant teddy bear sat on the roof, dressed in Santa hat and scarf, while a decent-sized lit-up miniature railway reindeer and sleigh chugged round the building every minute.

It all made the sign on the gate rather redundant:

Not Thelma, Not Louise

14/12/2018

Hurtling in her car towards the cliff-edge, she asked herself how it had come to this.

Others said it was because she wanted so much, didn't think about the consequences. She on the other hand understood that it was her destiny. She had promised to follow this road. Any sort of U-turn would betray that promise, would see her pilloried. Not that there appeared to be any road back anyway, and the car appeared to have no brake or reverse gear.

No, she must be strong, she mustn't cry. Foot on the accelerator, look straight ahead. Shame about the car.

Making Christmas Great Again

7/12/2018

The main thing about the new Santa Claus was that he was likely to deliver on his promises. None of this child-centred soppy romanticism. Out went the unaffordable train sets and overpriced high-heeled boots. From now on it would be Adults First: kids' presents could wait.

Rednecks loved him. This Santa fired all the reindeer, employed truckers instead, and built a wall between the USA and Lapland which the reindeer paid for. And kissing under the mistletoe? Hey, this guy didn't mess, he knew what to do!

Why did nobody think of using The Apprentice as a selection tool before?

Haggis Giganticis

30/11/2018

For St Andrew's Day.

Entering the dining room, the guests gasped. A giant haggis sat on the table, legs splayed, belly-up, stomach sliced open to reveal steaming entrails. As tradition demanded, its shorter left legs pointed north.

A female expert on haggis giganticis explained that it was self-disembowelling. "They cry 'Freedom!' doing it," she said. Most diners, though, wanted to know what the beast was made of.

"Take and look," said the expert. As they bent over to see, the diners were sucked inside the haggis' belly until all were consumed, making it larger still.

The belch made a hole in the ozone layer.

Life is Hard, but It's Harder When You're Stupid, Pilgrim

23/11/2018

Look, I don' know what went wrong down there. I thought we was just-a-gonna help those "Pilgrim" guys in their hour of need, ya know... help pick a few squash, make some soup, maybe. Boy were those guys ugly by the way – some of them had hair on their heads! How gross is that?

Anyway, those Pilgrim guys acted like they was John Wayne and it got a little nasty. But they sure seemed grateful afterwards and promised to cook a nice big meal for us at Christmas. Y'all invited. They're promisin' we'll end up feelin' real stuffed. Sounds nice.

Triotripe, the Literary Agency

16/11/2018

Literary agency 3Tripe had no paying clients. With only a stupid name and no influence over publishers, it merely provided addresses where authors might send their own manuscripts.

But 3Tripe was surprisingly profitable, supporting five staff including a well-paid Managing Director. It generated income by suing everyone imaginable for non-existent claims of defamation or breaches of copyright. Most victims should have fought the claims, but 3Tripe's bullying and intimidatory legal threats harassed them into settling needlessly.

Then, one day, 3Tripe received a demand for payment for legal fees from its own lawyers. It went broke within a week. Nobody cried.

Poppies

9/11/2018

My grandson and I are attending his first football match; it's Remembrance Weekend. My club has a strong connection with the Great War and observes its usual impeccable minute's silence before kickoff.

He's a bit bewildered. "Why are we wearing poppies, Grandpa?"

"To remember soldiers who died fighting for their country."

"You said wars were stupid."

"They are, usually. But soldiers don't start wars. They follow government orders."

"So wars are the government's fault?"

"Yup."

He pauses.

"But don't we elect governments?"

"Yup."

"Does that mean it's our fault the soldiers die, Grandpa?"

"Sort of. That's why we wear poppies."

The Day of the Dead

2/11/2018

The ritual of Santa Muerte concluded The Day of the Dead celebrations. A "husband" pretended to be dead and was carried in an open coffin to the local cemetary, his black-caped "mourning widow" leading the entire village in a drunken cortege. The local priest would then conduct a graveside "ceremony". Just as the coffin was lowered, the "deceased" husband would leap out, miraculously alive, and kiss his wife.

This time, the coffin was lowered and the husband leapt out – but couldn't find his wife's mouth to kiss. Then he saw the scythe.

"I've waited so long for this," she said.

In Mexico, the Grim Reaper is generally female, called 'La Catrina'

Lanterns

26/10/2018

The lanterns had her surrounded; she knew now that her fate was sealed. Steeling herself to die bravely, she looked their leader directly in the eye. But they could read her mind. Each of them.

"You wonder how our candles never run out?" they spoke in unison. "We use your human flesh as tallow and your bones as wicks. Your body will keep us all going for hours."

"You'll never conquer us," she said defiantly. "The leaders of the free world will never surrender!"

The lanterns grinned evilly. "That's just where you're wrong. We already lead your precious free world."

Halloween Horror

24/10/2018

Everywhere I turned there were reminders of Halloween. Piled high on supermarket shelves were witches' costumes, pumpkins, ghostly effigies, scary cats, skeletons, spiders' webs, plastic eyeballs and other dismembered body parts. An entire row was devoted to bags of chocolate bars and sweets for the annual festival where children are permitted to demand goods with menaces from unsuspecting neighbours.

Feeling claustrophobic as they looked down on me from above, I could stand no more. Terrorised, I turned to flee the store via the exit lift.

My blood froze. The route was barred.

"Not so fast," they said. "Trick or treat?"

The Literary Agency

19/10/2018

The Battle of the High Seas

12/10/2018

The Chair called the meeting to order, then the President spoke.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the latter said, "we must take a stand against these beasts of the sea."

The other boats nodded their brows. They knew who she meant: cruise ships that sailed back and forth, disgorging human refuse onto quaysides each morning all along the Mediterranean.

"We shall nevah. Surrenduh," one English yacht declared.

"Freedom!" yelled a Scottish boat.

A catamaran with an American accent began to reel off the Gettysburg Address when suddenly he was stopped in his tracks.

"Cruise ship!! Cruise ship!!" came the cry. "To battle!!"

Playtime

5/10/2018

An adult might have spoken to him, tried to offer a sense of perspective, but the supervisors were too busy in other areas. Instead, Liam was left in one corner, alone, desolate, with no one to play with. He'd no idea why, simply that none of his classmates wanted to do what he wanted to do. Liam wanted to pretend, to imagine, to be in his own world, he didn't want to play football or tig or chasing or any of those shouty games that everyone else seemed to enjoy. But at least he managed not to be seen crying.

To The Victors

28/9/2018

The two armies lined up nervously in serried ranks: footsoldiers at the front ,while their generals plotted tactics safely out of harm's way.

Bands began to beat out the sound of war.

Suddenly all hell broke loose! Long-range missiles were launched to soften up opposition troops! There were screams as innocent civilian onlookers were felled by stray shells! Then it was on to close combat as the two sides duelled with flashing swords.

Then... as abruptly as it had begun, the battle ended. To the victor, the spoils. To the loser, the promise of another Ryder Cup two years later.

Hot Chilli Pickle

25/9/2018

He needed to begin seated.

Licking his lips, he lined the jars up then took out a teaspoon he reserved especially for the purpose. Removing the lids, he laid them carefully beside each jar. Then he began to consume their contents: hot chilli pickle: one, two, three, four – eleven in all. His companions watched in awe. A woman nearly fainted.

Finally finished, he was ready. He lay back and breathed out long and hard, continuing to inhale and exhale as deeply as possible. The hot air balloon started to rise.

"Ooohhh....," said his passengers, amazed instead now by the view.

Creation

14/9/2018

"Will you be much longer?" he said, feeling the tension. "I can only hang on for so long."

"I'm doing my best," she replied. Her eyes were closed. "I need to relax."

He kissed her ears, and each side of her neck. Her smile voiced her silent approval. Suddenly, he felt a change, a massive surge of energy as it came from inside her.

She lay back and grinned. "Gosh, you've become so demanding recently. Ever since you became editor of that flash fiction site."

He took the sheet of paper from her. "Deadlines have to be met, my love."

Vidi, Veni, Vici

7/9/2018

She awoke with a splitting headache.

What had she done? She remembered signing papers, not understanding but signing anyway. Copies lay beside her bed. She realised she'd been drugged, date-raped, violated. She shuddered.

"I saw, I came, I conquered," drawled a voice behind her. She turned. The beast lay beside her, wearing a self-satisfied grin.

"You're screwed, lady." He waved his mobile phone. It was all recorded. The media would tear her to pieces. Irresponsible. She'd get the blame.

She turned away in self-loathing. Then she felt his orange skin crawling on her again as he grabbed her from behind...

Wonderful

31/8/2018

"Go on," she said. "Try it, it's what you want."

He reached out, felt the tender skin, felt its softness as it gave a little to his touch. Bewitched by the glorious red round forbidden fruit, he hesitated.

"It's OK, really," she repeated softly. "Let me help you."

She was wearing perfume. Reaching behind his head, she guided his mouth towards it. Suddenly, exquisite juices were running down his chin.

Embarrassed, he looked up. "Sorry. I'm making a mess."

"Good?"

He nodded. "Wonderful."

"Fine. But next time you think about stealing one of your neighbour's tomatoes, please just ask instead."

The Test

24/8/2018

Each evening she took out the same album, containing around 130 family photographs. Some dated back decades, others were less than twelve months old. Each evening she tested herself, counting the pictures where she could still identify all of the faces, using a small handheld click-counter bought online.

107. It had been only 103 the previous evening when she'd been tired, but her scores had been dropping generally in recent months.

She knew what was wrong, but wasn't yet ready to tell anyone, not even a doctor. Because when she did so, she knew her life would change for ever.

Drabble Trouble

15/8/2018

Truth to tell, they nearly came to blows about it.

She'd insisted that it could be fewer than a hundred words. He – a pedant – insisted that it was a round ton or nothing at all. She'd entered a 99-word story to a "drabble" competition. He was horrified to discover that it had won first prize.

It hadn't helped that his own story, exactly 100 words long, hadn't even received an honourable mention. They argued long into the night until exhaustion overcame them.

A few days later she received a cheque for £99, £1 less than she'd expected. He felt vindicated.

The Secret Agent at the Edinburgh Fringe

10/8/2018

This story is to all intents and purposes true, and happened to me recently.

Writers had fifteen minutes each to speak about their books. I was the last of five.

My eyes were drawn towards the literary agent sitting in the audience back row. Although I'd heard much, I'd never previously laid eyes on her. People spoke her name in hushed tones: single-handedly, she turned ordinary writers into mega-rich superstars.

Her agency had rejected my first book.

Now was my chance, though. My act could sell Dostoyevsky to five-year-olds. I'd grab her attention and she'd approach me afterwards, smiling.

But... as the fourth writer ended her talk, the agent silently rose and slipped away.

The Forest in July

29/7/2018

Considering it was now July, and the mating season was largely over, the forest was surprisingly vibrant. The warm sun had brought a large variety of butterflies, moths, bees, wasps, ladybirds, ants and many other insects; ponds were alive with skaters.

Even the odd bird could be heard. Adult cuckoos had long since flown south, leaving their eggs behind to destroy the broods of meadow pipits and dunnocks. Nor was this a swift or swallow area. But there was one persistent chiffchaff: chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff.

Suddenly there was a commotion and the chiffchaff was silenced. Lunch, thought the goshawk, tucking in.

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