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Lines in the Sand

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A silver Vauxhall with alloy wheels. A 1600. Easy to break into. He knows how to hot wire. His father taught him. Father gone. Left. Walked out. Five years back. Seems forever. The car started, a Def Leppard CD stereo system. He turns the volume up. Loud. Louder. Fifteen minutes later he pulls over. Checks the cubby-hole. Only the car manual there and three CDs he doesn’t recognise. The car is immaculate inside - nothing to identify the owner, not even a packet of sweets. The only personal touch is the chrome skull’s head on the gearstick, and the CDs. Out-of-date. Older guy, must be. He runs his hand over the dashboard, feels the cold of the skull’s head. The seats are low and comfortable. He flicks the electric windows up and down, puts the car back into gear. He hasn’t got his licence yet but he’s been driving for years. The needle hits sixty, and seventy on the long straight road. The seawall to the left, the caravan park to his right. He opens the window and the war...
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Robert gets everything in order

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Robert gets everything in order All the lawns on Mentone Avenue are mowed on Wednesdays. That’s because Robert owns all the houses on Mentone Avenue. It was not the way that Robert had envisaged his retirement working out. He made it to the finish line in the Department for Construction with his home paid for, a secure income from his superannuation for life and some untraceable accounts in the Caymans. His wife left him almost immediately, to partner up with a man who apparently offered more excitement and sense of adventure. Never a keen gardener in the past, growing his own food had now become an obsession for Robert, albeit one with an emphasis on orderliness and strict boundaries. Of course he could not eat even a small proportion of the seasonal harvests, so he gave most of it away to initially grateful (and then later inwardly groaning and discreetly binning) neighbours. Having used most of the arable land he owned, except for a small front lawn, he took advantage of th...
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Chocolate with hazelnuts

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by George Dimitriu Mary was walking through the thick, cool forest, her blood still bubbling. Two days had passed since she had set out, driven by the revolt. How can I let myself be controlled by technology? Let Artificial Intelligence know what I'm doing at any moment, what I want at any moment, what I'm thinking at any moment? The drop that had filled the glass had been the chocolate thing. I would like to eat a chocolate with hazelnuts! she had thought aloud, then unlocked her phone to read her emails. An ad featuring a giant chocolate bar with hazelnuts was playing on the screen. Fear had distorted the beautiful features of his face, which then let itself be invaded by rage. No, I don't want to live in a world that controls me like a pawn. Her blue eyes sparkled. He glances around the room angrily, only to be struck by the calendar hanging on the wall: August 13, 2028. What have we gotten to? What is happening to humanity? After a day and a night of m...
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Mr Danny’s Memories

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Mr Danny’s Memories Danny sat in the sitting room of the elder care unit. His face showed the undeniable signs of his seventy-nine years of life. Age had etched wrinkles into his features, and weariness showed in his eyes. He had staked his claim on a well-loved armchair, making it his own. His body creaked and groaned with each movement, like an old wooden house settling into its foundations. His gaze swept over his fellow residents; some confined to wheelchairs, others nestled in cushioned armchairs. The room was their shared sanctuary. Skylights cast warm patches of sunlight on the open space where they sat along the walls or around tables scattered across the wooden floor. Despite their battles against the ravages of time, each person held onto their dignity as if it were a treasured possession. They had survived life’s trials. His eyes would stumble upon less appealing sights - sparse hairs sprouting from a woman's chin or a man with an ear bulging like an over-ripe plum....
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Loss

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After Monica lost hours of beauty rest because of a hissing radiator, she lost her way to work thanks to an unexpected detour. That afternoon she lost her job due to her extended lunch break. That evening Monica lost nothing, but gained a few pounds devouring a chocolate layer cake. by Roberta Beach Jacobson
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Invitation to Worthing Flash

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There is only one rule. All stories must be below 1000 words. There is also an annual contest for 100-word stories.  Looking at the blog you will see there is no restriction on subject matter or type of story.  Although the majority of the posts are of prose, I have recently accepted two poems. If you take the two most popular poems in England, Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade" and Rudyard Kipling's "If" they do not total 1000 words between them. And "brevity is the soul of wit" according to Shakespeare. Derek McMillan Send your masterpiece to worthingflash@gmail.com for consideration for inclusion in the blog.
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Quiet Friend

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By Savannah Hernandez She has no face– this girl sitting and hugging her knees beside me. She has no face, but I can tell everything about her; her body says it all. She is shy, perhaps, easily frightened by me at first– as was I by her– but we learned neither of us was a threat to one another. I suppose she decided to stay– or perhaps I decided to stay with her, to keep her with me. Maybe I pity her, seeing her dressed in rags and her hair matted, and when I look into her home, it is nothing but bare floors and crumbling walls. I do not know her story. “What is your name?” I ask her. She doesn’t answer; but then again, she has no mouth. She stares with nothing but a faceless expression. “Well…that’s okay,” I say. “I don’t remember mine either.” Her shoulders slump, and she scoots closer to me. “I promise to keep you safe.” Savannah Hernandez writes, "This is .  a chapter from my novella-in-flash that I am writing and developing.  This beginning piece focu...
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