Worthing Flash

by Paul Murgatroyd Christopher Tinker sat back at his Victorian roll-top desk, nibbled a biscotto, took a sip of Madeira and nodded judiciously. The poem resonated with him. He didn’t know what its title (Ipsation) meant, and he wasn’t quite sure of its overall thrust, but, no matter, he felt that it was immanent. He read it again: skald of allusion symbolatry’s archpriest imagistic orgastic as you chant nothing assonantal to a trio of congeners in your CLOAK of ebony at the shrill demented heart of a selva oscura pay no attention to the profanum vulgus ignore all the littlepeople who dismiss your poems as pointless and unintelligible for u are singing in perfect harmony with the world of selfish self-indulgent humanity speeding eyes wide shut to nullity Yes, he decided, it was unobvious and dislocative; it had dare and edge; and it transcended tralaticious clarity – just the thing for Castalian Wood. As a courtesy, he’d show it to young Rodney...

I am sure you are itching to write a story for the 100-word challenge of #worthingflash If so, please email your masterpiece to me at worthingflash@gmail.com and it will be considered for the contest. The entries will be published during September and the winner will get a copy of "The Pernicious Snood" which is also due to be published in September 2025. The only rule is that it has to be 100 words or fewer in length. I look forward to reading yours. All the best Derek McMillan

It is a rare event for #worthingflash to publish poetry. Thanks to Abeera Mirza for these two poems. BETRAYAL   When I think of you My eyes fill with tears, Sharing so many memories  Together for so many years. I lay on my bed, stare at the ceiling So many endless nights. Questions I keep asking myself  Till the dawn of morning light. Tears drench my pillow An empty one lies next to me. Just a vivid reminder That you have left, set me free.  Empty walls devoid of photos  Where pictures used to hang. Memories of our family  Around campfires where we sang. The good times we enjoyed Adventures and games we played. Hugging and kissing In bed for hours, we stayed.   The smell of cologne on a pillow  Sends daggers through my heart. So many years Ripped and torn apart. You will always be a part of me In my dreams when I sleep. The diamond ring is a reminder  I will treasure and always keep. ©Abeera Mirza REMINISCENCE To savour life as tasting w...

Today is the eighth anniversary of #worthingflash. It now has over 100 writers and 100,000 readers. This story was published first by "Free Flash Fiction": “I spoke with my father last night, er and my mother,” I said. “‘Er’ indeed,” said Martin, “you realise they are both dead?” “Yes and no.” “What do you mean, ‘yes and no’. You don’t believe in ghosts do you… and if you say ‘yes and no’ again, this conversation is at an end.” “My father explained to me about ghosts sixty-five years ago so I may not be word perfect. Ghosts, he said, are ideas in your head. When people die their souls either cease to exist or they go to heaven. In dreams and reveries, nobody really dies. I revisited my childhood home,” “In a dream?” “Mm Hm.” “For the tape, Derek nodded,” I think my old friend Martin watches way too much detective fiction. “My father,” “Who died when you were seven?” “Yes, that father. I only had the one.” “He was there, my mother was in the scullery. My wife was there too so ...

By Garry Engkent [ Prologue: This is a true story—okay, not quite. I changed a few facts and details even though my therapist suggested the whole truth and nothing but the truth as a kind of confessional to ease the stress. “Confession is good for mental health.” I insisted on not giving real names, not in first person. Just Tom, Dick and Harry. To give some distance, perspective. My female therapist sighed. It has been a tough six months for both of us here in the institute .] On a Wednesday, he killed his three closest friends—violently, mercilessly, deliberately. Why? Twenty years ago, he and his buddies played a childish game on an old woman. “Hey, your shoelace is undone,” he said, pointing down at her shoes. Automatically, the old lady looked down. “Made you look!” he laughed, and his pals joined in to humiliate the white-haired woman more. When this trick was played, many times before with his friends taking turns, the tricked person looked embarrass...

Darkness My Old Friend It’s only a shadow on the wall, but it makes the hairs on Carrie’s arms rise. She wakes from a nightmare, just in time, as one does when the chase is on and you’re the prey, and she can’t drop off back to sleep. She goes downstairs to get a glass of milk and check out the shadow. She lives alone in the woods and enjoys the dark. It feels primitive. Makes fear scintillating. Spawns bogeymen. She never locks her doors. Makes no sense, since all an intruder has to do is bust a window on the first floor. No burglar alarms either. If some fool is that desperate, come on in! She makes her way down the stairs, half asleep, half on instinctive alert, and again spots the shadow, sliding across the fridge like a smudge. Forget the milk. She slips silently outside. The night is warm, and she knows her way around as well outside as in. She tiptoes down the hill toward the creek, to the clearing she created as a meditation space. Leaves underfoot are damp, mu...