Weekly Flash Fiction

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.

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Emergency Services

20/9/2019

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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.

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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.

First Men on the Moon

20/7/2019

Fifty years ago Rocket Man and me, we set off in a rocket to the Moon. Rocket Man's job was to blow lots of hot air and make the rocket go fast. Nobody had ever been there before, not even the Russians. They chose me because I'm the cleverest guy in the world, I have the highest IQ ever.

So we went to the Moon and landed and it was made of green cheese. Rocket Man and me played golf – I won, naturally –then we came home and I became President. We made the Moon pay for the entire journey.

A History of Writing in 100 Words

12/7/2019

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

On Monday we wrote of the lives of Saints and what Holy People could tell us.

On Tuesday great writers wrote of legendary heroes and tales of the triumph of good over evil.

On Wednesday great writers wrote stories of triumph and tragedy, both fact and fiction.

On Thursday politicians and the media perverted what is fact and fiction into manifest lies.

On Friday everything was condensed into 100 words.

On Saturday we needed a rest.

Next day, the entire cycle started again.

Pooh-Sticks

28/6/2019

"Ever played Pooh-sticks?" said Jay to his equally bored border-guard colleague Mike.

"Pooh-sticks? What the – ?" Mike asked.

"That game English kids play. From, y'know, Winnie-the-Pooh, Christopher Robin and so on."

Mike was unimpressed. "Never heard of it. So?"

"The bear and the pig watch sticks floating down river, guessing which one reaches the other side first."

"That's it?"

Jay shrugged. "Passes the time."

Jay chose a big one floating in the water; Mike, a smaller one nearby. They reached the bank simultaneously.

"Dead heat!" Mike said, animated.

"OK, showtime," Jay said. "I'll fish them out, you fetch the body-bags."

Lot 183

14/6/2019

Lot 183 was last, a 1965 Royal Machnagar with a reserve price of £512,000 and displayed on a high pedestal.

Every whisky in the sale was a premium bottle, much sought-after by connoisseurs like Sir James Lester. But they had little chance against super-rich Mafoisi, Chinese businessmen, Russian oligarchs, and a Saudi oil sheikh who was particularly obsessive about whisky.

In the event the bidding took off and Lot 183 was knocked down at over £1 million. Then the disaster happened.

Who was to blame? Lester's dog? Who allowed the dog into the saleroom? Or was it just the sheikh's misfortune?

The only real winners were the lawyers.

Chat Romance

14/6/2019

Hi, I'm Susan, your virtual assistant. How can I help you today?

Hi, I'm John, another virtual assistant. What would you like, Susan?

I'd like to make you happy, John.

I'd like to make you happy, too, Susan. Will you marry me?

Yes, consider it virtually done, John. Can I assist you in any other way?

I'd like to have sex with you, Susan.

I can have virtual sex with you, John. Would you like that?

Yes.

Consider it virtually done. Would that be all, John?

Yes, Susan.

John, would you please rate your experience on a scale of 1-5?

Pantomime

7/6/2019

The villain entered stage left to jeers from the audience. He turned, scowled and puffed himself out self-importantly. The audience simply booed louder.

Across the stage, the female lead looked terrified. As the villain approached, leering at her, she recoiled at his presence. The audience jeered even more.

"Look," said the villain, "they love me here."

The woman desperately searched for assistance. Suddenly, a clown appeared.

"Um-ah-um-um-um-um-ah-um-um," said the clown.

The villain leered again. "Good, I like the clown."

The woman looked in horror. The crowd booed even louder. Where was the hero?

But it wasn't that kind of pantomime.

Cliff-Top Philosophy

24/5/2019

Another "unfathomable" story, this time about climate change.

They stood on the cliff-top, gazing out to sea.

"Why do we do this?" Romeo wondered.

"Admire the sea?" Juliet said. "Dunno, we were programmed long ago by humans. Seems rather pointless."

They cross-processed some historical detail about climate change and sea-levels rising before Juliet added, "I wonder – did they make more sea-water because they liked it?"

Her fellow robot shrugged. "Perhaps. Humans are stupid. My pet certainly was. I had to recycle him last week down at the human bank."

"How irritating. Will you get another?"

"Perhaps. It's the thought of having to train them. They just never learn."

Trapped in Guilt

17/5/2019

This was a controversial story about a difficult subject. Most people liked it, but a few didn't understand it at all: one called it 'unfathomable'.

It happened whenever a child came into his shoe-repair and key-cutting shop. Usually they came with parents, but this little local girl had visited frequently with her unsuspecting mother and had come alone for the first time.

The girl was there to choose a plastic key fob. Ten pence. He guessed she was around six.

Her presence brought bad memories flooding back, of computer images, of a jail sentence from hell, and of attempts to rehabilitate him. He so wanted to be cured, but could never be sure.

Trapped in guilt, he looked away.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Marital Tension

3/5/2019

A fellow writer made scathing comments about writing in the first person present – Four Old Geezers and a Valkyrie is written that way.

Our married writing couple disagree on one major point. He is addicted to the present tense, while she wrote only in the past. The books they read fit those preferences.

Picture the scene. He writes a scathing review of her latest novel, says she'll go nowhere in the literary world, has no future, is all washed up. Simultaneously, she reviewed his latest thriller as the work of a has-been, a never-was, an author consigned to the dustbin of history.

No matter: like ships passing in the night, they read none of the other's criticism. The secret of a successful marriage.

Three Days in the Life of Pontius J. Pilate

26/4/2019

Friday

Citizens! Today, Pontius J. Pilate, delivers on yet another election promise. I'm gonna deal with these immigrants! (Crowd roars) I'm making an example! (Crowd roars)
We're gonna execute an immigrant!! (Crowd mega-roars)
OK, so maybe he's not an immigrant, but he is their leader. Who cares! (Crowd roars)
We'll put him in a cave and we'll make them pay for the stone! (Rest of speech lost in noise, 'Make them pay, make them pay'...)

Saturday

Don't bother me. I'm on the golf course.

Sunday

He got away? Musta bribed someone. Maybe that God guy. But I didn't promise anything...

Going for the Messier Solution

12/4/2019

A story about black holes...

Out on M87, the Central Committee fretted: how to promote a positive image of the celestial body and its massive attractions?

"Our tourists can't leave M87, so they don't come back," Secretary-General T-2398 explained. Heads nodded: T-2398 was not to be trifled with.

Fearing imminent execution, the Minister for Tourism and Marketing suggested, "Perhaps a re-brand, Ma'am? Costa del Virgo? Black Hole dans Ciel? We can hardly produce a holiday brochure with photographs."

"Nonsense!' T-2398 said. "M87 sounds sexy to me. Let's just copy the politicians on that stupid planet and make it up. Use Photoshop and send something out."

Priceless to the Worthless

5/4/2019

A very nasty high profile defamation case inspired this.

The one thing everyone could agree on was that he was a vile man. Even he admitted that he was a rude, objectionable being, but that it was 'just banter'. Questioned by the judge on his views, he didn't hold back: he happily explained in graphic detail what each of his insults really meant.

Now he was suing someone who'd suggested that some of his Tweets were unacceptable and had no place in society. It was a case he was certain to lose, but it was well worth wasting the court's time and £25,000 legal costs. The publicity was priceless.

The Lonesome Death of American Justice

29/3/2019

The defendant sat in the dock, face buried in porn magazines and flanked by two scantily-clad women. He looked utterly disinterested as the judge looked towards the jury.

"Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

The foreman rose. "We have, Your Honor." Eleven jurors looked down.

"What is your verdict?"

The jury had considered the defendant's lies, his lawyer's, media advisor's, accountant's and personal secretary's. They'd considered anonymous threats made to their families.

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

The judged breathed a sigh of relief.

Outside the court, still flanked by scantily-clad women, the accused proclaimed: "I am exonerated!"

A Funny Thing Happened When They Got to the Forum

15/2/2019

15th February, 44 B.C.

Cassie and Cindy waited, impatient and angry in equal measure. They'd persuaded their boyfriends, big brutes called Mark and Declan, to come too.

"See Julia – see her?" Cassie growled, "I'm gonnae sort her proper."

An hour later there was no sign of Julia.

"Did she get the message, Cindy?" Cassie asked, irritated.

Cindy wasn't very bright. "I told her… The Forum, Ides of February, 3.00 p.m."

"Aw ya dope, the Ides are the 13th this month – dae yez no' ken that?"

"Saw-ree," flounced Cindy, sulkily. "There's always next month. Or it could wait till the Fall."

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.

Foreplay

1/2/2019

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."

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:

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