Worthing Flash

by Norbert Kovacs (Response to The Angelus by Jean-Francois Millet (France) 1857-59 and Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet's Angelus by Salvador Dalí (Spain) 1933-35. Image URLs: http://www.musee-orsay.fr/en/artworks/langelus-345 and https://archive.thedali.org/MWEBimages/Collection%20Images/OILS_images%20saved%20for%20Web/2000.5_Arch%20Rem_web.jpg) The copy of the Angelus had worried him from when he first saw it hanging on the schoolroom wall. He believed the two peasants had buried a dead infant in the field at their feet. Later, he heard it said the peasants had stopped work to pray the Angelus after hearing the church bell ring in the distance. But his first reading of the picture stuck with him, and he went on trusting it. The basket by the peasant woman, he told himself, did not hold potatoes as it appeared, but the rumpled blanket that had swaddled her infant. The two absorbed in prayer were no mere peasants, either. Didn't the sharp angle of the woman'

Cathy Cade Griller scrambled over the top of the skip and landed beside Shorty on the flattened cardboard that topped the pile of rubbish. Footsteps pounded along the alley, returning slowly. Blue lights strobing above them slowly moved away, and the alley was quiet apart from the scurrying of rats. Griller whispered, “That were close, Shorty.” As he struggled to sit up, his chunky frame sank further into the pile. Bits of scrap splashed into water at the bottom of the skip sending up a waft of rotting vegetables. Shorty took out a pack of cigarette papers and fashioned a lean roll-up. “At least we got a good haul of phones.” “Err…” “Come on, Griller. I passed you ’arf a dozen I lifted from them carol singers. What’ve you done wiv ’em?” “I put ’em in the backpack, Shorty. Like you said.” Shorty grabbed the bag. “It’s empty!” “I think they come out when I landed in the skip.” Shorty closed his eyes. Their lids were twitching, but as he took a deep drag of the roll-up

Butch spied them from his window. White coats, needles, clipboards and file. When the buzzer sounded, he scrambled to the balcony. He tugged the bedsheet before climbing down, spats smack-smacking off brick. Next door, Parker yelped. He put finger to lips and ran, vest flying, bowler rolling across the lawn. Behind, they shouted his name. ­­  Butch leapt into his Mustang and took off, flashing lights in hot pursuit. He roared through reds, reared theatrically over tracks. Hard turn, slide, and CRASH! (“Sorry about that fruit stand, folks!”).   Soon, the teeming city gave way to an inconclusive horizon. Butch skidded to a stop before a cliff’s stark plunge. Behind, red lights scalpeled through clouds of dust. Damn, they were relentless! No choice but to leap. SPLASH! He swam wildly until the current did the work. Ashore, exhausted, he was surprised by a timely burro, which waddled him to town.  Where he donned a wig. Lost significant weight. And appetite. One

by Susan Cornford I hunt at night, like an owl, finding my prey in the darkness. It is not evil, as some people would like to think, but only a matter of meeting my needs. This is the wisdom of natural, accumulated lore. Slowly I walk down a side street in half-light, my acute sight and hearing alert. It is late but a long time until morning. I know there will be someone who will be leaving a party or taking a shortcut; I have stalked here before. The click of stilettos on concrete, an unsteady rhythm, is now coming closer. A doorway enfolds me. Soon she makes her way past me and I can make out alternating pale and dark stripes on her top; she is a chipmunk! My laughter is swallowed and bubbles inside me like soda. Pursuit begins as she stumbles, fumbling her phone from her pocket and speaking. ‘Jason? Please pick up, Jason. I’m sorry. I’m lost somewhere and I need you to come and pick me up. I’ll look for a street sign. I don’t know how I got here. I drank too much at that p

I wish you all a Merry Christmas. It has been a good year for #worthingflash thanks to the 100+ writers who have supported it by sending in their stories. I am now asking for new stories for the new year.  Send them to worthingflash@gmail.com The only rule is that they should be less than 1000 words in length.  Some people have tried their hand at stories of 100 or even six words so there is really no lower limit! There is a Facebook page and the stories are publicised on Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/worthingflash/ You do not need to join Facebook if you do not like the idea. Stories are also publicised to other groups on Facebook and on "Mastodon" which is an alternative to Twitter. Anything you can do to publicise #worthingflash will get more people reading your stories. All the best Derek McMillan #worthingflash

Photos of workers picking coffee beans in Guatemala or somewhere, not here with the privileged. I savor the scone Mickey brought, watch the device-addicted vaguely respond to things not in their aura. An older gentleman in a plaid cap, black and white checks, snoozes in his easy chair, hands folded as if in prayer, not smitten by tech, too old probably.  Music beats from ceiling speaks, woman’s voice. An Asian man, middle aged or more, shakes his head at someone I can’t see in the store across the way. Coffee shop we sit is morning full of everyone going somewhere different. Mickey’s pen moves beside me, scone wrap crinks, he sniffs. The music beats, beats, beats a rhythm that portends something urgent, something serious and then fades to horns from another world before a similar beat prevails. It is all the same, really. Voices, espresso steam machine, chatter  I can’t quite pick up or understand over the incessant beat, beat, beat and the workers in the coffee fields on the

‘You are not getting any younger Mum.’ Sally frowned. She knew her only child Daniel, meant well, but she did not need reminding that she was no longer in her prime. ‘A wet floor shower would be the sensible option,’ Daniel continued. Sally adjusted the phone against her ear. She had rung Daniel to tell him about her bathroom disaster and he was full of “helpful advice.” A new bathroom had not been on her current financial plan. However yesterday she had returned home from work to find an alarming puddle in the doorway of her bathroom and bubbly flooring. Sally called a plumber straight away, who arrived in the statutory overalls, whistling, bristly faced and sparkly eyed. ‘Your pipes have been leaking for some time, down the walls under your bath and under the flooring,’ he informed Sally. ‘The whole lot will have to be ripped out and replaced.’ At this point the plumber sucked in his lips in and declared, ‘wouldn’t like to be in your boots.’ Alarmed, Sally h