Worthing Flash

Teachers are familiar with pupils who will write the minimum because it minimises the mistakes they might make. With flash fiction, correction should normally involve shortening the story.  Shakespeare used the phrase "Brevity is the soul of wit." He deliberately gave it to the most tedious character in "Hamlet", Polonius. Most stories can be improved by removing redundant phrases or words. Mark Twain once apologised for the length of a letter to a friend by saying, "I didn't have time to write a short one." Flash fiction is not a soft option. It involves thinking about what point you are trying to make and eliminating everything else. Pupils are invited to send their flash fiction to worthingflash@gmail.com for the chance to have it published in the blog worthingflash.blogspot.com , and I can assure you there is nothing better for motivation than seeing your work in print and realising other people will read it.

                                       from #worthingflash

Heavenly Calling by George Dimitriu Gicu, a corpulent and bearded individual, arrived one summer in Poiana Braşov together with his sons. The first thing they did was to eat fried potatoes with various toppings, out of some cardboard Mexican hats. Fatty! Very fat, so they went for a quick walk to recover. At one point, Gicu sees a large, transparent sphere, guarded by two men, so he goes towards them: – Hello! What's with this sphere? Is it for zorbing? – Yes! – I want to use it too! He had heard about the new fun in Poiana and was curious to try it too. Basically, you entered that sphere, let yourself be tied with some harnesses and then you started downhill, in a fraternal communion with it. He informs his children that such a thing is not for them and leaves them at the arrival point with one of the men, after which he begins to climb the hill with the other. On the way, he tries to pull the tongue of the man who was pushing the sphere toward...

Fox Path She knows the path the fox takes - past the bramble bushes, through the long grass, to the left of the anthill, and under the trees into the copse. Ash Alder Beech Hazel Holly Oak Her mother is crying in the house. At night, the fox cries too. She is not afraid of the fox, she fears her mother’s tears. The path runs along the edge of the field where the fallen tree lies speckled with moss and lichen. Crow Jay Pigeon Rook The path leads down to the pond banked with reeds, slippery with mud and the paw-prints of voles. Coot Heron Mallard The fox does not swim in the pond but stares up at the sky. Cumulus Cirrus Stratus A small wind shivers the leaves of the alders. The fox is gone. Her father is gone but the fox will return and her mother cries in the house. Daisy Dandelion Dog-rose Glittering like stars, the dew in the long grass. by Bronwen Griffiths

Plausible Deniability The problem with being sick, she thought, is that everyone wants to take care of you but no one wants to indulge you, and what is the point of being cared for when what one requires most when one is sick is indulgence? She was tired of the flu, so she got out of bed. Her best tactic in dealing with illness, the last weapon against disease in her arsenal, was denial. She would not be sick. She fed the dog, washed the linens, showered and dressed, ate, got Dad’s coffee, emptied the dishwasher, caught up on emails, rescheduled Hugo and Shawna and Mac, asked Brenda and Rita to take the lead in the Zoom presentation tomorrow, which she would attend but would let her voice excuse her from leading. She graded all the papers. Then she woke Kat and told them they would be going to get Kat’s hair done as planned. Kat dutifully showered and dressed, but then they said, “I can drive myself. You look like you still need to rest.” “Nonsense,” she answered, “But if you ...

Welcome to the castle, pour a coffee, take a seat, Everyone’s suspicious, and most have got cold feet Traitor’s in the turret, hooded drama all the way Murder comes at midnight, so it’s a normal day   There’s a shield, and there’s a dagger, there’s a whisper in the hall Someone swore on grannies life, they’re a Faithful after all “I’m 100%, faithful” they say with nervous laugh, Which is exactly how we know, they’re planning traitorous stuff   Ok now let the game begin, I’ll go with her, you go with him Who’s a Traitor? Who’s a friend? We’ll decide and then pretend Were we right then from the start, has paranoia played its part? Pass the blame, and act dismayed, swear you knew, but were betrayed   Round table starts the evening, so cue dramatic pause Then someone clears their throat, like they’re defending a great cause “I don’t have any proof,” they say, “but I’ll say it anyway” “I just a got that feeling when you breathed in that stra...