Worthing Flash

This is the link to an exciting podcast https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-x7PZn3ddyI&ab_channel=ArtPulseNetwork Rajan V Kokkuri has been a writer with #worthingflash for many years and this is his podcast.

In those days I had two secret sisters, invisible to the world. I kept them in my jewellery box until we were alone. Then I’d pull them out, stretching them until they were bigger than me, big enough to shield me from spitballs or get me out of the locker I’d been shoved into. I named one Billie and the other Jo. I also had an older brother, ever-present but welcome nowhere. He tracked me like an animal at school, and at home when our parents went out, telling him, “You’re in charge of your sister,” he’d groan, then twist out a lopsided smile for me. By the time I heard the car back out of the driveway, I was already in Mother’s closet amid the swish of satin and the scream of zippers, listening to the plop and plod of my brother’s leather boots. I imagined myself grown up and gone from the house; disappointed that wishing did not make it so. “I don’t know why you think you can hide from me,” he said when he found me. Now would be a good time for my invisible sisters to burst in

I checked my watch and looked again at my colleagues. They too were hoping and yet still not quite believing. Could this really be the end after so long or was it just another lie after so many lies before over the last few years. But the rumours were there and they were strong rumours that peace was about to break out. The Armistice had been signed and soon they would not be trying to kill each other as they had been for so long. Soon we could go home but to a different world and a different way of life. And we would be asking had it been worth it, had the constant slaughter achieved anything or had it been just a pointless, evil waste. Then came the news; it was official, it was all over. A few men cheered, a couple were quietly sobbing but most us sat quietly saying very little and staring into space I think we all had difficulty in grasping or even believing the truth; it really had come to an end and it really was time to go home. Soon it was hailed as victory, not just for the Al

Thank you to everyone who took part in the 100-word challenge. I enjoyed reading all the entries. There will be another one next year. For this year, I welcome any story under 1000 words - including stories a lot shorter. Please email them to worthingflash@gmail.com or indeed just reply to this email. Any kind of attachment will do (although I struggle with PDFs!) or the story can be pasted into the text of the email. We now have over 110 contributors and I am very pleased with that. There is a facebook page although nobody is obliged to join facebook it does help promote stories on the blog. https://www.facebook.com/worthingflash I also put links on to Mastodon which is less compromised than X (formerly twitter).  Derek McMillan Editor #worthingflash

I sigh as I sink down onto the sand and hug my knees to my chest against the coolness of the predawn air. I have struggled to get here but now I am just in time to witness a most glorious event, unseen by so many. The air tingles with anticipation as the world seems to hold its breath, as do I, as slowly there is a lightening to the east over the dark unfathomable ocean. A slither of white light rises over the indigo horizon and as it grows the white turns to gold, spilling its wake across the incoming waves like millions of diamonds. I take a deep breath of delight, tasting the salty air brought to me by the mild sea breeze, as the colours before me change again. It is like watching a giant Kaleidoscope, as the sun moves a little higher painting the morning sky vivid purple with a splash of green and many shades of blue; too many to count. As the warmth of the sun final reaches close enough to touch my face, I close my eyes against its brightness and the corners of my mou

This is nothing new, I tell you. I see him, every Sunday morning. He does this for five, six minutes – comes out bare-chested, donning this same black boxer shorts...meticulously lines up all seven of his schoolteacher-wife Francisca’s multi-colored honeypot-covers while whistling some vaguely-familiar Gospel tune...and then struts back into his downstairs apartment, B9, like nothing has happened. I see this, and I wonder – someplace inside my usually befogged head because I can’t do it out loud like some mad man – about his sanity. And his utter lack of male-pride. As far as my tribesmen, the understandably-populous and undeniably-industrious Agĩkũyũ of Central Kenya are concerned, a married man who wilfully handles his wife’s undies, wet or otherwise, in such a public manner is as irresponsible as he is irreverent; a sordid fool who not only invites a curse upon himself and his future descendants, but also openly disgraces his forefathers long-departed. Forever. Celebrated