Worthing Flash

A young man, his mouth wide-open in a silent scream, holds out a hand shorn of two fingers, trying to fend off a maddened mob of dogs. But fangs are rending his legs and back and shoulders. Jaws crunch bone, bolt chunks of flesh. One hound hangs from a pale cheek, ripping off a rag of skin; another, snout-deep, is savaging the groin; another drags out a lump of lung. Foam-flecks whirl, slivers of drool trail, blood spurts and spatters and mists. Alastair stared at all this with roving eyes, relishing the carnage before him in his sour mood. Then he muttered: ‘I suppose that’s what’s known as going to the dogs.’ As he grinned at his own joke, he spotted something like horns sprouting from the young man’s head. He frowned and turned to the plaque beside the painting for an explanation. It informed him that this was the hunter Actaeon being turned into a stag and attacked by his own dogs as punishment for catching sight of the goddess Diana’s body while she was bathing. Alastair immedia

The Tree I had given JJ the Power of Attorney thingee. For when I was not with it anymore. I had gone to see an old school friend in the next town for two days and he had swung into action. I arrived home and the tree was gone except for a pile of smouldering branches. A truck was chugging away, loaded with rounds of oak. My oak. It had been on the farm for ninety years, planted by my father, JJ’s grandfather. JJ was actually John Junior, his father also being John. JJ ran the farm now; my John having passed some twenty years earlier. My John had taken over the farm, when my parents died in a car crash. We moved into the house I grew up in, from the old shearer’s quarters down the driveway. John, bless him, left his accountancy job in town and threw himself into running my family farm. It was rough country, hilly, scrubby and dry. Days were long and I had baby JJ to deal with. The oak tree was my solace. It always had been. As an only child it was my friend. It grew to one s

I am always pleasantly surprised by the response from writers to #worthingflash. The quantity and quality of flash fiction which I receive is remarkable. Over 100 people have written stories for #worthingflash and every story receives my undivided attention. Please email stories. The only rule is that they should be under 1000 words in length, sometimes the stories are much fewer than 1000 words. I would also welcome any pictures you have to go with your story. Please send your masterpiece to worthingflash@gmail.com http://worthingflash.blogspot.com Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/worthingflash/ You do not have to join facebook to support #worthingflash. Derek McMillan

Here’s the direct link to Amazon. https://bit.ly/ABronxGirl Also here is the link to my Zoom A BRONX GIRL book release event from November 4th, a rousing interview hosted by Lloyd Russell from local California TV’s “LIT with LLOYD“ show where he interviews me about the memoir. Lots of friends from my Bronx days are also featured here talking about their experience of growing up in New York City and specifically on the great old Bronx! Link to the recorded Zoom interview below. Please have the passcode handy which is also indicated below. https://csueb.zoom.us/rec/share/rKaqq3vBr2yEGzJ8OiZDSTls-g79_nKp8ugZEEd5laJTlmi6FBV8NuZ-tEliwAwK.bXVngSB7gXS7yIXM

Finding my Feet. . I was doing my best to stay calm, about to make my television debut. I was to be interviewed by local reporter, Rick Sullivan, for News at Six. ‘ Dora, tell us a little about your background and working life?’ Rick said. ‘ Born and raised here, in this water-front town. I was an only child , single and active in the community and the church. I c are d for both my elderly parents with home helps, of course. Then M other died two years ago.’ I produced a spotless white hankie from my cardigan pocket and blew my nose. ‘ After finishing school, I trained as a post office worker and rose through the ranks. I was the local postmistress for thirty years.’ ‘ A responsible position,’ Rick said. ‘ Nowadays you volunteer for Neighbourhood Watch duty in the town. Tell us about a typical day. What was your first day like?’ "It wasn't the best of starts," I said and took a deep breath and began to tell him what happened. 'It was a January day

"That'll be five quid, miss," "Oh, you must be new. I'm Eloise Craven, Mr Coward is my uncle and family members go free." "No miss." "Pardon?" "Mr Coward is like an honorary (he pronounced it "honerry") uncle not a blood relative so it's five pounds if you please." "If you please," sounded like a threat and the door of the Coward and Co taxi was locked by the driver so Eloise had to pay up. She duly exploded when she got home, "Here, mum do you know what uncle Staf has gone and done now." She was rather deflated by the response, "Yes I do." "He's only gone and charged me for, well charged me by proxy, for the taxi fare." "I know. Elly, it is all a matter of overheads you see. He couldn't go on giving us free ride