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Showing posts from April, 2015

Thank you!

Well, that's it for another issue.

We hope you enjoy the tsunami of words, the torrent of tales, the... the... what's the word?
FlashFlood!

A huge thank you to everyone who submitted a story. This time around we had to expand beyond our normal 144 story limit (that's one every 10 minutes for 24 hours) and squeeze in an extra few, because there were just too many stories we liked. So, thank you, thank you, thank you.

If you weren't included, don't be disheartened, chances are it was because we were getting a slew of stories on the same subject (a lot of death this time; and vampires) so it may have been just that we had fulfilled our quota of your topic. And we will be back with another journal later in the year, so you can always try again (when the main topics will probably be something random like stoats, or maybe okapi).

And, don't forget, today we have announced the launch of this year's Micro-Fiction Competition and also the opening of submissions for …

'Murder On a Death Bed' by Bart Van Goethem

She bowed her head towards his mouth and, barely audible, he said, Honey, I... I need to confess something.



FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015. In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words).  So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?
More information about these and the Day itself available at nationalflashfictionday.co.uk.

'Supreme Dragon' by Holly Geely

Spring meant that the humans would be imitating his form, donning a fabric carcass created in his image. Every year he was outraged by their presumptuousness. They had his looks right, leftover from a time when humans gave him due respect, but they did not know him. They did not know how he moved.
He was Dragon.
They would dance the night away, light their firecrackers, perform their rituals. None of them would look to him. They no longer believed.
He was Supreme. He was beyond their mortal ways.
But if he was completely honest, he was bummed that they hadn’t invited him to the festival.




FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015. In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words).  So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?
More information about these and the Day itself available at nationalflashfiction…

'Rose Petals' by Susan Shipp

She lays there, my other identical self, older than I by twenty minutes.  Her eyes are closed, and her breath laboured.  She clings tenuously to life – fighting to stay with me.  She will lose.  I knew that in my heart, long before the monitors told me so.
            A warm breeze filters through the open window of her hospital room, carrying the heady scent of rose; her favourite flower.  Letting go of her hand, I ease up from the chair by her bed and move to the window, arriving in time to see a rose-petal fall softly to the moist, warm earth.
            For a moment, I smile, and the years tumble away and we are children once more …
            ‘Hurry up Jude.  We must get them before they turn brown.’             ‘Let me finish this page.’             ‘No, you must help me now.’             As usual, I put my book down and follow my sister’s instruction.  She will not stop until I do.             ‘Go and get a dish: the one with the pink roses.  I’ll start collecting.’ She dips her hea…

"The Long Flight" by Rhoda Greaves

They ask if you have anything to say. You look up towards us in the gallery, and I hope you can feel me there with you, holding you. I think you’re going to speak, just for me. And I’m trembling. I want you to. But I don’t want to be recognised. Not that I’d deny you. Not even here.My aunt and uncle lent me the money for the flight, even though they thought I was crazy to come. I spent it drinking mini wines and trying not to tell the nice man in the smart grey suit next to me, why I was travelling to the States alone. My parents gave me the money last time. But made me pay it back when they found out why I’d gone.
You shake your head, and my heart settles its rhythm. The journalists take out their pads and scribble, and to my right she flops into her hands, weeping. An older man props an arm awkwardly around her shoulders, but instead of it soothing her, she just gets louder.
‘My babies,’ she wails. And as she pulls her hand from her mouth, tendrils of snot contaminate the arms of her …

'Girl' by Claire Whatley

She’s here again.  With that same vacuous stare. She perches on the edge of her café chair, smiling at some private joke. I see her everywhere. Today she’s in jodhpurs. I would say they flattered her legs but her legs are perfect already. I read the other day that a woman’s thighs should never touch. I imagine her standing, and envisage the gap for a clear passage of air to waft straight through her legs, right up to the top.
The shirt that hugs her tiny waist is the same virgin-blue as those inscrutable eyes. Her blonde hair is scooped into a firework, sparking and tumbling in graceful disarray. For a moment I think her head turns, and unblinking, she glances my way. Her secret smile widens just a touch. I look down at my own lumpen form, and, finishing my frappuccino, I stand. Katy scoops a last finger of milkshake froth and hops down from her chair. I take her hand and we leave. The eyes of the young woman catch mine one last time before she disappears from view. 
I stride through th…

"The Right Recipe" by Diane Simmons

I decline the slice of cake Michael offers. I do this every week, but he always tries to bully me into eating one. John, as usual, grabs the largest piece and they both giggle. I hate those giggles – the Sunday afternoons lost.

John and I have only lived together for two months, but he obviously relishes Michael’s non-stop invitations.

I thought I’d be enough.

‘I’m getting tickets for Glastonbury. Do you want some?’ Michael asks.

I’d planned on Florence, but John doesn’t hesitate, looks thrilled to be asked, seems to follow Michael’s lead no matter what.

I can bake too, know exactly what I need to put in the cake I take round to Michael’s. It’s good to be friendly to neighbours, John says.

And it seems only polite, if Michael’s so keen on cakes stuffed with drugs, for me to oblige, to provide the hit of all hits.



FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015. In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Com…

'The Mutton and the Lamb' by Debbie Young

The sequins spelling out “Justin Bieber” across the woman’s crop top were in a shade of silver that exactly matched her hair. But  this dubious fashion statement was lost on the two teenage girls who were staring at her from within the cosy confines of the bus shelter. Their gaze was transfixed by her bare, white, blue-veined thighs. Combined with the scarlet mini skirt,  the effect was that the components of the Union Jack were waiting to be properly assembled. Stumbling on too-tight wedge-heeled red sandals, this spectacle approached the bus stop. The darker of the girls pulled a tasteful lavender cashmere wrap more closely about her shoulders, although it was not cold that had made her shudder.
The woman juddered to a halt before them, as if she’d inadvertently put her shoes into neutral.  From behind bifocals, she flashed a smirk at the cashmered girl.
“So, darling, now you know how it feels when someone borrows your favourite clothes without asking.”
Glancing sideways, the teenager c…

'The Lovers' by Oli Morriss

They had been rushed into hospital, their faces wrapped in bandages already turning a deep red.
They had been placed on beds next to each other under the watchful eyes of the next of kin.
The next of kin had put a photograph beside their beds for when they awoke.
They had been pulled into surgery and the surgeons had pulled off the bandages.
The people in the room had tried to stay conscious.
The surgeons operated, aware at all times of the next of kin watching from the observation room.
They had skin removed and replaced – they had metal placed in bone.
They had their faces wrapped back up.
They were taken back to their room.
The next of kin looked over them, then left.
They woke a week later, surrounded by drips and doctors and a photo on a table.
The bandages had been removed and they looked at each other unseeing.
The faces on the photo were blank.


FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015. In the build up to the day we have now launch…

'Ice Bear' by Nina H B Jorgensen

I’m melting.

The bear looks at me. I look at the bear. We’re the same colour. We have that much in common at least. We’re both a sort of white with a hint of muddy grey like a concrete wall where damp has seeped through and left a birth mark the shape of some far away continent. When the snow comes it paints over the ugly patch, the part that has grown old. For a while the wall looks white again and the sky puts the paint back in its cupboard and the bear turns its head away.

The bear can’t save me. I can’t save the bear. The birth mark won’t rub off despite our attempts to lick it clean. Last year we were both bigger versions of ourselves. We have that in common too. We were fatter then on cold winds and seal blubber and we stood tall like light-houses flashing our own beams of existence across the night. But now the sea is nibbling at us like hungry fish and the bear has to watch its step and tiptoe or we’ll both go under.

If the bear could speak it would ask me:…

"Through wooden bone and slate skin" by Lynn Love

A boy lives in the roof. He smells of slate and warm pigeon breasts on crisp winter mornings.    Stolen feathers prick his scalp instead of hair. A flightless fledgling, he’s pressed under roof tiles, body bulging between the slats.    Hunched under the low roof, my limbs become a geometry lesson of angles. My foot scuffs the Christmas box- it tinkles, showing off its boa of fairy lights. The boy’s there, tickling my cheek with his musty down. He asks me to stay and I’m willing-unwilling but I sink to the floor anyway and listen, the thick, soft dust a cushion under my knees.    He whispers of the stars, the drift of a million suns that wink and shimmer, filling the sky with inky purple shadows. He bellows of the storms that have shuddered through his eaves, shaking plaster dust from his joists, threatening to tear his wooden skeleton from his slate skin. He drones of the bees, their waxy hexagons that tunnelled through him until his hollows shook with waggle dances and sung with the hiv…

'Flask' by Mandy Huggins

Josie walked past the shelter where the tramp always sat. He was there even in the bitter cold. As always, she pretended not to see him, but as she climbed the icy path an idea came to her. She could bring him some of the homemade soup that was left over from last night. When she came back out with her flask, snow was falling again. She could hear the soft sigh of the waves below, and through the trees she glimpsed the distant lights from fishing boats, marking the invisible horizon. She grasped the frosty railing as she descended the slope, the wool of her glove sticking to the metal. For a moment she thought the tramp had gone, and part of her was relieved. But he was still there, huddled in the corner. As she crossed the path she lost her footing, the flask crashed to the ground with her, and when she unscrewed the lid, the soup was a mess of glass. She considered turning round without saying anything. After all, it made no difference now. But he called out to her, and asked if she was…

"The Party's Over" by Tracey Walsh

She'd have done anything to be picked as Lord Lloyd-Webber's Nancy. Queued for hours to get into the auditions but was rejected as too young. Same thing with Maria, and too old for Dorothy or the dozens of Matildas that came along later. Frustrated, she restricted her singing to the occasional karaoke competition just to remind herself that she did have a talent.  Long after she swore she'd never join the cattle market that was the X Factor auditions, she was scrolling through her Facebook updates and there it was, her dream job: ‘Promoted by Princess Parties: Can you sing like a Disney Princess? Do you love kids and want to earn a second income? Click here!’ She sailed through the audition and turned up for Princess Practice that weekend. It was all quite straightforward - parents with more money than patience booked a 'Disney Princess' to entertain at their kid's party. Singing talent was a bonus but mainly it was crowd control.  Home exhausted after her first bo…