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Worthing Flash welcomes flash fiction from Worthing and the rest of the world

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The aim of this blog is to encourage flash fiction in Worthing. However, it would be churlish to turn aside anyone from outside Worthing who wants to contribute so that is not going to happen. There have been stories on this blog from every continent (except Antarctica) Just send your flash fiction (under 1000 words - sometimes as little as 75 words) to worthingflash@gmail.com Writers of the World unite! Now read the stories. 

A Dollar’s Worth of Destiny

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I’ve picked up a job as an extra in Nicole Theron’s new vehicle, ‘There Will Be Blood In Fargo’. I’m Customer No. 3 on the set of the Transylvania Bar. I have a bushy beard and I’m mostly in shadow, so no-one picks up on the fangs. One of the Coens (I can never remember which is which) yells ‘Action’. In strides Nicole in all her pale and willowy elegance. She orders a Rhesus Negative Highball and scans the room. ‘Cut. That’s lunch. Back in an hour,’ shouts Ethol. As she slides off her stool, Nicole glances in my direction and our eyes lock briefly, each excitedly conveying ‘It takes one to know one’. At lunch she sits, alone, under a giant beach umbrella. She’s wearing dark shades (just like mine) and her caked-on make-up makes her skin look like alabaster. She sips from a steel thermos, presumably to disguise the metallic smell of its contents. I loiter until she sees me and then, with a barely perceptible nod, she invites me to take the director’s chair beside her. From the s

The Drain of Habit

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With a white apron cinching her waist a young woman in black leans against the courtyard door, watching the older couple at the table against the wall—his lips moving, teeth occasionally visible, her face in her hands. She never responds, never moves until the man stands, and with only the slightest of pause, a single tick, he walks out. She raises her head in his receding footsteps and looks at the young woman in black. Neither flinch, holding the other’s gaze, sharing an understanding (to be given their due) of how love seeps away.     Chella Courington (she/her) is a writer/teacher whose poetry and fiction appear in numerous anthologies and journals including DMQ Review, The Los Angeles Review, and New World Writing. A Pushcart and Best New Poets Nominee, Courington was raised in the Appalachian south and now lives in Central California. She has two recent microchaps of poetry— Good Trouble , Origami Poems Project, and Hell Hath , Maverick Duck Press.

Correctional

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I have just finished this excellent book. The writer is N J Crosskey who has contributed to #worthingflash . You may have reservations about dystopian fiction but don't let that stop you from reading this book. There is irony and humour there too alongside the horrific vision of the society of the future. And if this is the reality of the future then forewarned is forearmed!

Zu Zhun

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  It was a rundown dilapidated district of back -to -back terrace housing, alleyways, yards and neglected spaces. Nan occupied an upstairs back bedroom overlooking a corner. She was bedbound, through old age and illness, and had herself raised enough to look through the window and see part of that quarter. Mostly she saw the back of Mr Cotton’s house, which had an eight foot fence along the rear, paths, and uncared for gardens. Old man Cotton had a dog, a big cross of some sort, as mean as himself what with his harsh treatment of it, that would jump the fence and terrorise the alley. It was always snapping and growling after anyone who used those back lanes. Cotton had to do something because the inhabitants were scared of being mauled. So he tied the dog with a length of chain and went and got drunk m

The Pigeon and the Mouse

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A garden table spread with seed- Somewhere wood pigeons come to feed. First one, then two, then three, then four There really isn't room for more! But Piggy Pigeon will not share. He'll chase them all away from there- Alone, he gobbles up his fill Head bobbing, as he pecks, until A little mouse, with beady eye Is hiding in the bush nearby. He scuttles forward, grabs a seed And runs away, a daring deed. The pigeon's wings shake in surprise As if he can't believe his eyes He pauses, waits, then bows his head Eyes focussed on the food instead Of witnessing the swift approach Of tiny rodent – to encroach On his domain, his morning feast This time to stay a while, at least, To nibble while the greedy bird Continues, as if he's not heard The mouse arrive – but soon he stops And flaps his wings and the mouse hops Away to hide, but only 'till He hopes the pigeon'

Echoes of Appledore.

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No soul met us the night we entered Snowdrop Cottage. It was black as pitch until I lit the storm lamp, then shadows danced on the walls as the wind outside rapidly gained strength. It was late, and with my birthday the next day, I made my way to bed. The dog, not happy to stay below, chased me up the stairs to the low beamed room. I don’t remember falling asleep, but an ancient dialect jolted me awake in the early hours. Hastily I lit a candle and looked over at the dog. She was deep in slumber. I wanted to rise, to go the window and see what all the noise was about. But, pinned to the mattress by some unseen force I could only witness the sounds of people issuing orders, panicked screams and something roaring, whooshing like the sea. It was so noisy I thought the whole street must have woken. The sound of clanking metal followed, with more rushing, and the slosh of water. It must be a storm, I thought, the wind bellowing through the village causing irreparable damage only v