Worthing Flash

If ever the train does not pass over the bridge in the night he cannot sleep. Under the bridge the river slides green and slow, past the implacable mountains, the old town and the new warehouses, past the willow trees and the fishermen on the banks. There was once another bridge over this river but that was years ago and it pains his heart to remember it. He stood with his wife on that bridge the day of their silver wedding anniversary and he presented her with a pair of filigree earrings and she smiled as wide and tall as its stone arch. It grieves him to think of his wife because she too is gone like the old bridge. Instead, he concentrates on the rumble of the freight train, the solidness of it, not the ghost of his wife and the days of pounding sorrow, or the way the bridge crumpled under the weight of explosions, his wife collapsed in his arms. There are two ducks on the river, a mallard and a hen. He watches as they follow each other through the eddies, as the sound of the

The Excited Courage I Needed Dad was very protective of me as I grew up. I saw his safety rules as signs of a mean Dad. Everyone was riding a bike. Except me. We lived at the end of a short driveway which veered off from a 300-foot lane. The neighbour children flew down this lane with their bicycles, and I could only watch them enviously and wistfully, not partaking, forbidden from riding a bicycle. Often, in the midst of those long summers, I sat at the edge of our yard watching them ride. They loved the attention my close observation gave them, and they pedalled fast and furious past me, knowing they were the object of my envy. The winter I was eleven, five years after my sister died, my father surprised me with a bike. It was no ordinary bike that he had purchased it at a used bicycle shop and had hidden in a shed out back. Carefully, with his artist’s hand, he painted it light blue with white trim. He had even painted the handlebars and wheels with silver paint. I like to ha

Today is the seventh anniversary of #worthingflash. It now has over 100 writers and 84,000 readers. The following story was published in Entropy Squared and is available in their print edition. Queenie was a friend of mine. I went to visit one weekend. Her husband was there but I didn’t get to see him much because he was “busy working on the boat.” He was working in the garden. I went out to say hello but he was silent and went on with the work. We had a meal, just the two of us. Queenie was used to dining alone. When we heard that the boat had sunk on its first voyage, there was a certain amount of hilarity. He had escaped with his life. The devil looks after his own. From Guest Contributor Derek McMillan Derek is the writer of “Murder from Beyond the Grave” available on eBay.

This is the link to an exciting podcast https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-x7PZn3ddyI&ab_channel=ArtPulseNetwork Rajan V Kokkuri has been a writer with #worthingflash for many years and this is his podcast.

In those days I had two secret sisters, invisible to the world. I kept them in my jewellery box until we were alone. Then I’d pull them out, stretching them until they were bigger than me, big enough to shield me from spitballs or get me out of the locker I’d been shoved into. I named one Billie and the other Jo. I also had an older brother, ever-present but welcome nowhere. He tracked me like an animal at school, and at home when our parents went out, telling him, “You’re in charge of your sister,” he’d groan, then twist out a lopsided smile for me. By the time I heard the car back out of the driveway, I was already in Mother’s closet amid the swish of satin and the scream of zippers, listening to the plop and plod of my brother’s leather boots. I imagined myself grown up and gone from the house; disappointed that wishing did not make it so. “I don’t know why you think you can hide from me,” he said when he found me. Now would be a good time for my invisible sisters to burst in

I checked my watch and looked again at my colleagues. They too were hoping and yet still not quite believing. Could this really be the end after so long or was it just another lie after so many lies before over the last few years. But the rumours were there and they were strong rumours that peace was about to break out. The Armistice had been signed and soon they would not be trying to kill each other as they had been for so long. Soon we could go home but to a different world and a different way of life. And we would be asking had it been worth it, had the constant slaughter achieved anything or had it been just a pointless, evil waste. Then came the news; it was official, it was all over. A few men cheered, a couple were quietly sobbing but most us sat quietly saying very little and staring into space I think we all had difficulty in grasping or even believing the truth; it really had come to an end and it really was time to go home. Soon it was hailed as victory, not just for the Al