Worthing Flash

  Terry “call me Tes” Makepiece was a hero. During the time I was shielded against Covid he did the shopping and took the dog for long walks. The prices in the shops were shocking, he said. When I could get out and about again I found the prices weren't so bad. Perhaps they'd gone down. When I took the dog for a walk, Nancy took me straight to the Rose and Crown. The barmaid greeted her, “Hello Nance, I see you brought the old skinflint with you this time.” I had my doubts about Tes but you don't question a hero.   (I didn't enter this for #100-word challenge because I can't enter my own contest. Also it has 101 words) Derek McMillan is a writer in Durrington. His latest work is an audiobook of short stories.  Brevity is available on eBay Click Here

By Frances Edington Silvie stirred but didn’t wake when the white tissue paper was unfolded; she didn’t wake when familiar hands lifted her from her box and slotted her wings in her back. She only woke when those hands put her silver wand into her right fist; then she opened blue eyes and gazed with affectionate recognition into Charlotte’s face. She’d known that face for more than thirty years and each time she woke she noticed a few changes from the passing of another year. Placing Silvie gently atop a pile of Christmas decorations on the dining table, Charlotte left. Silvie looked around; nothing had changed since last New Year when she’d been stowed away. In the adjacent sitting room, she saw a Christmas tree with strings of lights already threaded in its branches; the ritual of decorating the tree would come later. With a couple of hours till then, Silvie recalled the day she’d met Charlotte; she’d been on display with other handmade toys in a stall in the Christmas

Gagging from the stench he tentatively removed the dressing from the festering carbuncle on the old man's leg. Just how long he'd sat here a burning question on his mind. Fortuitously he had found him, when he arrived unannounced . He had been unannounced because this was not where he was meant to be. By going to the wrong address the man he was meant to meet, a syrian refugee was probably wondering where he was. Rivulets of sweat dripped off his head. It was bloody hot. Surveying the old man's surroundings he shuddered, what a mess, piles of rubbish, uneaten food with cockroaches scurrying here and there. 'My name's Cheps, what's yours?' he asked the old man. It's Bert young man and thanks for asking. Looking Bert in the eyes Chep said, 'What's to be done with you?' Bert replied, "Don't you go worrying about me, i'll be fine.' 'Well I can't leave you here, you'd better come with me.' Checking the time on his

Worthing Flash invites flash fiction, between 85 and 1000 words, for next year's blog. A new year will be upon us before you know it. If you have a gmail account, please comment on stories because this gives writers a boost. Please read some of the stories to get an idea of the range of styles and genres. It is quite broad. Running this blog has been great fun for me and it has brought a lot of writers joy too. Happy Christmas to all. Derek McMillan

  I stand in water. It sloshes ’round my scuffed black leather wingtips, laps up the ankles of my rumpled dress slacks, turns khaki to the color of murky brown. Onlookers furrow their brows, incredulous that I do not see I am in danger of drowning, that if I don’t make a move for it, the water will continue to rise until it covers my soon-to-be-bald head. What they do not realize is I have already drowned. Can they not see my sopping clothes; the now sea-weed green tweed jacket; my wrinkled, white translucent skin? This water is receding. I have survived my Biblical Flood. I am coming up for air, not suffocating. My exploded lungs have been cauterized; I now breathe shallower: but calm and sure. I stand in water. I look for you, but waves wash you to another shore, an island uncharted, perhaps, to inhibit my finding you. Did you suffer so? Rather than buoy you up, did my selfishness climb squarely on your shoulders and thrust you downward? Push you under into the electric bos

  Showing no sign of remorse, he stood holding the knife still dripping with blood. Late afternoon sun glinting in his eyes, he hurled the knife over the ship's railing into the turbulent wake. He had waited for this last night at sea to settle the score. To the passers-by he appeared a round set middle aged man with a sprinkle of grey dappled through his hair. He strode along the deck, head held high, stepping into the bridge whereupon an ensign cried "Captain's on the bridge!". "Steer 180 degrees and full steam ahead" the Captain commanded, "and advise the passengers to have passports ready to stamp". Musing to himself he thought there's one passenger not going to enjoy the next port. Below deck a naked man stood shivering looking at the mess that had been his cabin. To cuckold the captain, had been his downfall. What should've been a one night stand, had gone on too long. The Captain had stormed into the cabin brandishing

The standard of work in the 100-word challenge was exceptional and I am tempted to try the experiment again next year.  This year the winner is Patricia Feinberg Stoner and the winning entry is here.   Many thanks to everyone who took part. It was a joy to read your entries.