Worthing Flash

Deadline looms in frontof him. The assignment has to be completed. It is already the dead of night, but not much headway has been made. Some lines are furiously typed, but instantly deleted. He gives a violent shake to his head, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, wanting to get rid of the obsession. The wall clock continues to tick. He gives up, thinking that he will restart in the morning. However, he can do no more than toss about in the bed, sleep still eluding him. He gets up, tries to discipline the teasing thoughts, but to no avail. Mind filled, but, at the same time, blank. The loud tweet of a solitary love bird heralds another day. A notification beeps in. The line reads, “A morning text doesn’t only mean Good Morning. It also means I think about you, when I wake up.”
He doesn’t reply. He simply smiles.
Vijai Pant is a freelance writer living in India.

Every city has one; that invisible boundary that divides the rich and poor and the safe and the dangerous. Often it is just a matter of fifty metres or a couple of streets and the whole neighbourhood changes and usually, you don’t notice until it could be too late. Sue and I had been wandering hand in hand with no particular place to go, chatting and sight-seeing and then we suddenly saw the plush shops of jewellery and designer clothes and handbags had vanished and were replaced by tacky bars, boarded up shops, and rundown discount stores. She glanced at me; I could tell already she was uneasy.
“John,” she whispered. “Is this a good idea?” I had no real reason to be concerned apart from the reputation the district had, particularly for people who were clearly tourists.
“Let’s keep going. Stay close and we’ll keep our heads down.” It might have been my imagination, my paranoia but I got the feeling we had been spotted. Those going past seem to look our way as if assessing us and looki…

Among my treasured childhood souvenirs is a 1951 soccer annual which I stole from my brother in 1952.

But my most prized possession is -- or to be more precise, was -- a letter sent to me by Doris Day in response to a fan letter I sent to her.

The missive from Ms Day read: 'Dear David, it is always a pleasure to hear from my young British friends.

'I wish you every success in your endeavours and hope that you, too, will find success in life. Kind regards, Doris.

'P.S. It is very warm here in Hollywood. I hope it is warm where you are.'

Warm? Blimey, it was freezing cold where I was -- a draughty terraced house in a cobbled street in murky Manchester.

But my 12-year-old pumping heart was positively on fire the morning I picked up Doris's letter from the hall mat.

I must have read the thing a hundred times before bolting down my breakfast and belting round to my pal Eric's house.

'Guess who's written to me!' I yelled through the letter box.

Eric, still in his …

by J. L. Dean

You started as a secretary and worked hard.  Working by day and studying at night, you became a lawyer.  An Associate.  A Partner.  

It is a success story to be proud of and you are right to be so.  But what else is known about you?  The team you manager is notorious in the company; think about that word for a minute.  Notorious.  Not admired; not sought-after; notorious.  Your team assistants are known not to stay; your manner is to blame.  You have been spoken to but because it is your team and you know best, you shout them down.  

Attention to detail is your god.  A mistake, however minor, you understand as both a personal insult and an opportunity.  No one will echo your rise; you will make sure of that.  You had to fight and you fight still, against your own team; against those who long to follow where you lead.  You could have been an inspiration, yet the desire to humiliate is stronger.  You don’t point out an error when you can trumpet it to the rest of the departme…

My heart thundered in my chest as I reached for the door handle. With my free hand I reached up and wiped away a lake of sweat from my fore head. Bracing myself I opened the door and stepped through. A ferocious beast lurked on the other side of the door waiting for an opportunity to tear me to pieces.
“You’re late again Miss Lican.” Hissed Mr Moor, my maths teacher.
“Sorry sir”, I mumbled, “I just…”
“Don’t give me another excuse young lady…” he interrupted, “you’ve earned yourself a detention after school…”
That’s how it all began. It wasn’t even my fault I was late, I couldn’t ignore that text and then I needed to go to my locker..and before I knew it I was 15 minutes late and now I had a detention…on Halloween of all days. I had so many plans that evening I couldn’t afford to waste time at school! So anyway, since the meeting with Mrs Lake, the headmistress, if I’d missed the detention would have been worse than murder I went along. Our school finished quite late in the day and it…

The blood moon hung low in the sky, dressing the moorland in a crimson cloak. The hiker, already regretting choosing the longer path, shrunk into the upturned collar of his coat and shivered. Muted howling could be heard in the distance and he wondered again whether the rumours of wild wolves on the moor were true.

“Mind playing tricks”, he muttered to himself as wisps of ground mist obscured his feet. 

“Superstitious nonsense…there is no beast! No beast! No slavering jaws in the night”
His leather boot sunk into the peaty earth and he felt a shiver of dread roll over him. Instantly stories of walkers straying off the beaten track into treacherous bogs sprung to mind. He himself had seen the discoloured bones of a horse revealed from a bog pit when the waters receded in the height of summer. He retreated rapidly back to firmer ground cursing, “Mustn’t lose the path, mustn’t lose the path.”
The hiker looked around, trying desperately to get his bearings in the changing alien landscape, his…