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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. 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. 

Another Storm

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They sat at the kitchen table, listening to the storm raging. She flinched whenever a gust rattled the windows. He gently laid his gnarled hand on hers, enfolding her trembling fingers. “Everything will be fine,” he said. “If that oak had fallen ten feet closer in the Great Storm, we’d have been crushed,” she replied. He caressed the wooden table with his free hand and smiled. “But it didn’t, we weren’t and now we have this lovely table. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” An hour later the wind died down. “You were right,” she said.    

Catastrophe

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 The phenomenon begins with a whir of wind against an ever-increasing purr. Felines drape long limbs of ancient oaks in a strange and unexpected threat outside your windowpane. Persians, Maine Coons, Bengals—hang from branches like gossamer strands of Spanish Moss. Only… these don Morion Helmets as conquistadores of old. Ready for battle, they are ranked, filed—a midnight mass, staring you down. Then, the attack… the break from stationary to stride, fangs baring serrated blades to draw the blood of revenge. Quick, grab the shutters, fasten the hook closures, dampen the burning candle wicks. The clowder is here.   by Keith Hoerner  

In the Gaunt Shadow of the Devil’s Knuckles.

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The frost-ruby sun creeping over Skull Crag catches Serena serenading the unsullied morning. ‘ Massive anchovy shoals spotted in Biscay Bay,’ father had said. Shin deep in glacial brine, she harvests the razor shells herded into the gaunt shadow of the Devil's Knuckles by the looming daylight. ‘ Calm seas, don't fret.’ Back aching from scooping tightly sealed clams one by one into her calf-skin sack, Serena straightens for a stolen moment to check again for father's missing trawler. Every muscle below Serena's knees is deadened by the out-flowing current, her fingers the same blue as her reddened eyes.    

A Bad Day at Dachau

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  Chuck Johnson, from Grand Falls, Michigan, felt sorry for the busy young barmaid and gave her a big tip and a smile as he paid for his drink, making her smile back. He took a pull from his beer and sat there in the bar of his hotel in Munich scratching his grey beard and pondering. His day at Dachau had not gone well. The concentration camp had simply not made the impression on him that he’d expected. He’d found the parade ground staggering because it was so vast, to accommodate the thousands of prisoners lined up there to be counted; and the ovens and the ‘shower room’ for gassing the inmates had a big impact on him, for sure. But apart from that, overall he’d been surprisingly underwhelmed, and now he was trying to work out exactly why. Somehow the infamous camp was just ordinary, with that neat little entrance sign, and a main road running past it, and bus stops outside…Many of the buildings were just reconstructions. The barracks especially were inauthentic, showing the s

Four stories from Tony Roberts

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BAD NEWS 100 I was busy with tissue samples for testing. I know that even if it is bad news prompt treatment will usually save them or prolong their lives so I had to get it right. I glanced at the name and I gaped; it was for Pete Jones. I checked the address; yes it was him, the man who stole my girl all those years ago. I held my breath and finished the test. Then I punched the air in delight; it was cancer. I had sworn revenge one day. I sent him the all-clear letter saying re-test in two years. FLY LIKE A BIRD 100 His father smiled as he showed his son the wings he had made out of feathers and wax. “We can escape from this accused island,” he said. They hurried to the headland and stood at the cliff edge. “Follow me,” his father said; “but not too low in the sea spray and not too high in the sun.” Soon they were flying towards their freedom. The son could not believe it. He was swooping down and flying higher and higher. He felt the hot sun but then saw his feathers float away

Quandary

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Pride is a terrible thing. You’re meant to have it but you can’t have too much. How the hell can you tell where the line is so you don’t cross over? Yesterday’s an example: Sunday dinner with all the relatives. The inevitable question: “How’ve you been doing at school?” I could blow my own horn and say I’ve been made captain of the hockey team but I know Cousin George just got dropped in his favourite sport. So I say, “I think I’ll need some tutoring in French (George’s forte).” Mum murmurs, “I’m so proud of his diplomacy!”  Susan Cornford