Tag Archives: flash fiction

Memory Flames – Friday Fictioneers

I can definitely say that this is the latest I’ve ever posted a Friday Fictioneers story. I’ve been the first one before, so now I guess I’m trying to be the last. I started a new job today as an ESL Instructor at a university in Iowa and also moved into a new place this weekend, so I’m hoping after this to finally settle down to a routine. This summer has been quite crazy in many ways. I apologize that I have not been able to read many stories in the last few months. I will try to be better about that from now on.

I would say that this story is weird, but that describes most of mine. I’d say it’s different, but . . . again. Read it and tell me what you think.

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Memory Flames

When I first saw it, it terrified me. I had emerged from subterranean haunts far below and saw it dancing a hypnotic, alien gyration on the edge of my vision.

It was the Other and as much as it repelled me, I drew closer because of a ghost of a memory long ago. It reminded me of her, before we were sundered; before she ascended and I sunk down to personify the Underworld.

*        *        *

Frank came back from gathering wood and froze. A shadow, like an incorporeal old man was bending over his campfire, warming non-existent hands over its cheery flames.


A Sticky Situation – Friday Fictioneers

This story is much later than I usually post it, but it’s been a crazy week in a lot of respects. For one thing, I just got a new job, so I’ll be moving to Iowa very soon. Hopefully, soon thereafter things will finally get back to normal here at the Green-Walled Tower. I also have a bonus story today: my 6-year-old nephew Henry saw the picture and wrote a story for the picture. He has a great imagination.

copyright Madison Woods

copyright Madison Woods

A Sticky Situation

“. . . and that’s why I’m carrying two tons of powdered sugar, the burnt remains of 8000 Pikachu plushies, and assorted donkey organs across the desert at night.” My palms were sweaty as I finished my convoluted, yet totally accurate explanation.

The cop who had pulled me over stared at me and then his face slowly cracked into a smile. He began to laugh until tears were streaming down his face and he was pounding the side of my car.

“So . . . we’re all good?” I asked tentatively.

“Yeah, but you’ll still have to come to the station. They’ll never believe me otherwise.”

 

The Sticky Man

by Henry

There was a person who stepped on it, and then the sticky goo floated up into the air and the person floated up on it. Up, up, up.

And then it went down and smashed into pieces and then everything disappeared and turned into monsters, even the sticky goo turned into monsters. Then it turned back into earth, and then into monsters again.

Then it jumped way up and went into space and hit into Earth and broke into pieces and saw a castle and went in and there was a dragon inside, and it was a king dragon.

 


Truck Reborn – Friday Fictioneers

Copyright Roger Bultot

Copyright Roger Bultot

Truck Reborn

The state fair was abuzz with the news: a boy had grown a truck for his 4-H project.

“How did you do it?” the judge asked.

“I planted part of the chassis and watered it with motor oil, infused with Miracle-Gro,” the boy said dully. His was the only unexcited face in sight. “It doesn’t matter: it didn’t work.”

“What do you mean? This is a miracle! You took a wrecked truck and brought it back to life.”

“But I did it for my dad.”

“Ah,” the judge said. “Where is he?”

“He was in the truck when it wrecked.”

 


Dear Mr. Jackson – Friday Fictioneers

copyright Jan Wayne Fields

copyright Jan Wayne Fields

Dear Mr. Jackson

Dear Mr. Jackson,

I am writing to inform you that

 

Hey Travis,

How are you? Listen, you remember that concert a few months ago when

 

Travis, you bastard! You ruined my life and now you’re gonna

 

Travis,

I really need you now. I feel so alone. I can’t tell my parents and

 

Hey babe!

I got some big news for you!! I’m so excited and

 

Dear Prick,

I know it’s hard for a colossal douche like you to understand but

 

Travis,

I’ve got something to say. Please, please don’t be mad but

 

Travis,

Please call me. We have to talk.

 


Home, Sweet Home – Friday Fictioneers

Today I have a double feature for you. I only wrote one though: the other story is by a guest blogger, author Sheila Stewart, who is also my sister. She wrote a Friday Fictioneer story but doesn’t have a blog so I said I would post it for her. Our two stories go together but could also be taken separately.

copyright Bjorn Rudberg

copyright Bjorn Rudberg

Home, Sweet Home (Part 1)

by Sheila Stewart

I found a body on my back deck today. It wasn’t the oddest thing I’d found back there, but it was a bit annoying. Bodies stink and leak. At least I could use the old clothes and blankets people tossed down. I could mend the broken furniture and decorate with sculptures made from various odds and ends I couldn’t figure out what else to do with.

I’m not sure how people got the idea that my house was a garbage dump, but I’m not complaining.

Not usually anyway.

Except now I need to go bury the body with the others.

Home, Sweet Home (Part 2)

by David Stewart

“I just love this to death,” Alice gushed at the hot real estate agent. “The view, the veranda: it’s perfect.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “It’s a bit pricey and this slope looks prone to avalanches. Plus, what’s this MCMG at the bottom of the paperwork?”

“Legal mumbo-jumbo,” the agent said quickly, flashing a grin. “You wanna see the jacuzzi?”

Alice was slightly concerned three months later when she dug up a tibia in the garden, but after she found two skulls, Chris studied the title. On the last page, in 4-point font was the note:

MCMG: May Contain Mass Grave.

 

 


The Physics of Angels – Friday Fictioneer

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

The Physics of Angels

“Mommy, how does the plane fly?”

“Sweetie, remember that word ‘migraine’ I taught you—”

“But how?”

“Angels. Angels keep it up.”

“But how does it go down?”

“Well, when they want to go down, the pilots start swearing a lot and it makes the angels drop us . . . slowly.”

“But you said a bad word before when you spilled your coffee and it didn’t go down then.”

“Oh that? That kind of word isn’t going to do anything. The pilots have to say really terrible, sinful words.”

“Like what?”

“Are you kidding? If I told you, you’d crash the plane.”


포크 주세요 (Fork Please) – Friday Fictioneers

Today I must beg your indulgence. I wrote today’s Friday Fictioneers story in Korean. Yes, it is pertinent, and yes, there is a translation. However, only the Korean version is 100 words long.

I wrote it with non-Korean speakers in mind, but still I’d like you to read the Korean first (there’s English in it). Try to make guesses about what’s going on before you read the translation. Consider it a metaphor for living abroad, when you can catch part of what is going on, but not the whole thing, and many times, not the most important nuances.

 

포크 주세요

외국사람 커플 들어갈때 식당이 조용했다. 다른 손님이 없었다. 3시: 점심과 저녁의 바쁜 시간 딱 사이 있었다.

직원이 와서 남자가 메뉴판을 얼른 보고 손가락으로 가리켰다. “Also, fork please. Fork?” 포크로 먹는 손짓했다.

“You should try using chopsticks, Mark.” 여자친구가 말했다.

그때 한국인 할아버지 들어왔다. 외국사람 커플 밖에 손님이 없는지 확인한 후에 자리에 앉아서 떡볶이를 주문했다. “그리고 포크주세요” 라고 말했다.

마크가 들어서 웃었다. “You see? Even Koreans are using forks these days. Chopsticks are history.”

할아버지가 코트를 벗었다. 왼손이 없고 오른손에 엄지 손가락만 남았다. 떡볶이를 받아서 포크를 느리고 아프게 들고 먹기 시작했다.

이제 마크가 웃지 않았다. “Maybe I’ll try chopsticks after all.”

 

_______________________________________________________________________

And now, the translation:

_______________________________________________________________________

 Fork, Please.

The restaurant was quiet and empty when the non-Korean couple entered. It was 3:00: right between the lunch and dinner rush.

The waitress came over and the man scanned the menu and pointed to something. “Also, fork please. Fork?” He mimed using a fork.

“You should try using chopsticks, Mark,” his girlfriend said.

Just then, an old Korean man came in. After making sure there was no one in the restaurant besides the foreign couple, he sat down and ordered. “Fork, please,” he said.

Mark heard him and laughed. “You see? Even Koreans are using forks these days. Chopsticks are history.”

The old man took off his coat. His left hand was gone and on the right, only the thumb remained. He got his food and slowly, painfully picked up the fork and began to eat.

Mark wasn’t laughing anymore. “Maybe I’ll try chopsticks after all.”

 


Ramning Evidence – Friday Fictioneers

The title is a terrible pun, I know. I just hope I’m the first one to make it this week.

copyright Adam Ickes

copyright Adam Ickes

Ramning Evidence

My grandfather said it was a relic, that hideous taxidermist’s ram that sat in the corner and stared with unblinking eyes. He said he got it in Africa. He told the tale in great detail and I listened, worried, since it hadn’t been in his nursing home room the week before.

Finally, I stole it while he was sleeping. That night, I picked it apart. I found the hidden cameras inside, the listening devices. Armed with damning evidence, I threatened to sue the nursing home.

Turns out, my grandfather bought it online. He thought the nurses were stealing his books.


Superdad

This is the first time in a long time that I’ve had the time, energy, and Internet access to do the Sunday Photo Fiction story. Hopefully, though, I can continue this from now on though.

copyright Al Forbes

copyright Al Forbes

Superdad

“You know, Harry,” I said, sitting down on a bench overlooking the lake. “This is where I went to camp when I was young. That’s when I found I had powers.”

“Is this like how you say you have eyes on the back of your head?” my son Harry asked.

“Kind of,” I said. Except I could use my mind to move things. I was out one night and suddenly—POW!—a boulder almost fell on me. I picked it up with my mind and threw it in the lake. SPLASH!”

“So, you’re like a Superdad?” Harry asked, skepticism oozing from his expression. “Well, do something now to prove it.”

“Ooh sorry, I’m retired now. Being a father and all, you know.”

“Yeah. Can we get ice cream now?”

“Sure,” I said. Harry stood up and walked towards the roadside ice cream stand.

“You almost had him there,” a middle-aged man sitting nearby commented.

“I don’t know; kids are pretty shrewd these days. Excuse me for a moment.” I could see a swimmer across the lake struggling in deep water. I pulled him into the shallows, turned and nodded to the man, then followed Harry to get ice cream.


Approaching Storms – Friday Fictioneers

Copyright Kelly Sands

Copyright Kelly Sands

Approaching Storms

A storm was coming.

Rebecca stood, tied to a stake, on the uncannily silent beach, watching coal-black clouds gather and build. She had deserted. Tomorrow she would be shot.

Lightning blazed through the approaching tempest. In its fitful glow, a warship appeared, then many more. They were not friendly, Rebecca knew. The invasion had finally come.

Darkness thickened but still no alarm sounded. The sentries must be asleep.

She imagined herself raising the alarm, being pardoned—a hero. She pictured the invasion force rescuing her. The calculating wheels of  self-preservation spun. She opened her mouth to scream, but still hesitated.

 


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