Worthing Flash

by William Kitcher I never did find out her name. For some reason, I thought it was Wanda. We met in the park. I was sitting on a bench, looking for pictures in the clouds. When I looked down, Wanda was sitting on the bench across from me. I hadn’t noticed her there before. Perhaps she had been, and I’d just been oblivious, a not unlikely state for me. She was staring at me. I smiled at her but Wanda made no reaction. “Hi,” I said. No reaction. I went back to cloud gazing. The next time I looked at Wanda, she was lying down on the bench. She looked comfortable. She yawned once, then fell asleep. I sat there for another couple of hours. No one came by. Wanda woke up, stretched, and got off the bench. She took a few steps toward me. I looked at her. Nice looking, I thought. Mature. Calm. “Do you wanna come home with me?” Wanda just stood there. I got up and started for home. She followed me. We’ve been together for ten years now. She doesn’t eat much...

I Am That Old Flash Memoir by Michael Field What does it mean to be old? How do you measure aging? Using years is common, or maybe decades like marking birthdays with a 0 at the end of them. I am the youngest of three boys so, as a middle-aged adult, relativity to my relatives provided me with a barrier to feeling old. However, both my brothers are now in their 80s; thus, I am younger than ancient which is not so comforting! Eschewing metrics to measure age, some people mark milestone events such as the first presidential election they voted in. I turned 21 in 1972, just in time for Nixon vs. McGovern. I was from a staunch Republican family but had become an anti-war activist in college. A vote for either candidate would have been a betrayal of my newly forged values. Away at college, I requested an absentee ballot and voted write-in for then Senator Ed Muskie who represented my home state of Maine. Muskie’s campaign had been sabotaged by a political trick, a forged letter. Then, w...

Prison Yard Princess By Linda S. Gunther “ Please, leave me alone.” “ You’re the new prison yard Princess. And, I’m the Queen around these parts, Miss Uppity.” “ Can you stop smoking that joint? Please, I got asthma. I shouldn’t be in here.” “ They all say that their first month inside. But why so pale? Your cheeks were rosy this morning. I noticed.” “ That prison guard, Cynthia, she’s the mother of my boyfriend. He framed me for smuggling drugs.” “ Cynthia? God-damn! She sold me this weed.” “ She had him set me up. Send me to her prison.” “ Don’t worry, Princess. I got plans for her. And they ain’t pretty.”

by Paul Murgatroyd Christopher Tinker sat back at his Victorian roll-top desk, nibbled a biscotto, took a sip of Madeira and nodded judiciously. The poem resonated with him. He didn’t know what its title (Ipsation) meant, and he wasn’t quite sure of its overall thrust, but, no matter, he felt that it was immanent. He read it again: skald of allusion symbolatry’s archpriest imagistic orgastic as you chant nothing assonantal to a trio of congeners in your CLOAK of ebony at the shrill demented heart of a selva oscura pay no attention to the profanum vulgus ignore all the littlepeople who dismiss your poems as pointless and unintelligible for u are singing in perfect harmony with the world of selfish self-indulgent humanity speeding eyes wide shut to nullity Yes, he decided, it was unobvious and dislocative; it had dare and edge; and it transcended tralaticious clarity – just the thing for Castalian Wood. As a courtesy, he’d show it to young Rodney...

I am sure you are itching to write a story for the 100-word challenge of #worthingflash If so, please email your masterpiece to me at worthingflash@gmail.com and it will be considered for the contest. The entries will be published during September and the winner will get a copy of "The Pernicious Snood" which is also due to be published in September 2025. The only rule is that it has to be 100 words or fewer in length. I look forward to reading yours. All the best Derek McMillan

It is a rare event for #worthingflash to publish poetry. Thanks to Abeera Mirza for these two poems. BETRAYAL   When I think of you My eyes fill with tears, Sharing so many memories  Together for so many years. I lay on my bed, stare at the ceiling So many endless nights. Questions I keep asking myself  Till the dawn of morning light. Tears drench my pillow An empty one lies next to me. Just a vivid reminder That you have left, set me free.  Empty walls devoid of photos  Where pictures used to hang. Memories of our family  Around campfires where we sang. The good times we enjoyed Adventures and games we played. Hugging and kissing In bed for hours, we stayed.   The smell of cologne on a pillow  Sends daggers through my heart. So many years Ripped and torn apart. You will always be a part of me In my dreams when I sleep. The diamond ring is a reminder  I will treasure and always keep. ©Abeera Mirza REMINISCENCE To savour life as tasting w...

Today is the eighth anniversary of #worthingflash. It now has over 100 writers and 100,000 readers. This story was published first by "Free Flash Fiction": “I spoke with my father last night, er and my mother,” I said. “‘Er’ indeed,” said Martin, “you realise they are both dead?” “Yes and no.” “What do you mean, ‘yes and no’. You don’t believe in ghosts do you… and if you say ‘yes and no’ again, this conversation is at an end.” “My father explained to me about ghosts sixty-five years ago so I may not be word perfect. Ghosts, he said, are ideas in your head. When people die their souls either cease to exist or they go to heaven. In dreams and reveries, nobody really dies. I revisited my childhood home,” “In a dream?” “Mm Hm.” “For the tape, Derek nodded,” I think my old friend Martin watches way too much detective fiction. “My father,” “Who died when you were seven?” “Yes, that father. I only had the one.” “He was there, my mother was in the scullery. My wife was there too so ...