Worthing Flash

We had never seen a white fox. We called it a ghost fox. Foxes cannot talk so think of it as a fairy story and go with it. I was teaching the white fox binary arithmetic. There are 10 types of fox. Those who understand binary arithmetic and those who do not. What he said at first was reassuring in a way. "We do not eat humans. You are too big and the meat just goes off." "We do kill you though." the last bit was a little muffled because he had his teeth in my neck. Derek McMillan Derek McMillan is the author of the Durrington Detective Agency stories which are available as audio CDs here

How To Operate a Teleport You will need: One lucky penny Space and time of your own A good chair An excuse You must Not: Have a faint heart. Use Magic. IF you are sitting comfortably you may begin. A penny for your thoughts. Catch your own train of thought, this is cheaper off peak. Ride that train until you have bypassed the event horizon. You are now lost in your own thoughts, and a satnav will not help you. To return blink three times. You have travelled one way, in time not space. Was your journey really necessary? By Richard Stephenson

A Fine Romance Meeting in the canteen was a calculated axiom of fate, my gaze being a constant variable in the equation. “ Aren’t we a right pair?” I said. You giggled.” I figure we’ll be married before summer.” I wasn’t a fraction out. Our marriage was a developing proof, with new terms and responsibilities that required multiple formulae. We quickly discovered love transcends mere equations; it's an intricate blend of trust, communication, respect, and shared experiences multiplied over time. Despite our different functions, our personalities graphed together like parallel lines, intersecting at the angle of the heart and reducing conflict to almost zero. Jungle Instincts 1 In the boutique we jostled for dominance at the clothes’ rail. “Oh, Leone, you’d never dare wear that,” Diana said, her smile challenging. We sprinted toward the fitting room, barrelling past customers. I imagined myself in the disco, turning heads like sunflowers as I hunted prey. The fitting ro...

  "Seeking salvation" “Back when?” the voice queries. Loud coughing is heard. “Yesterday,” she answers.  “How did it go?” the voice continues. “Glad to have attended the Kumbh. You know how religious we are,” she says. Persistent coughs continue. “Just hold on,” she mutes the phone. “It's so irritating! Take her to the other room,” she tells her son. “Grandma wants to talk to you,” the son retorts. She ignores him and continues. “Feels good to have washed off all that Karma,” she gushes on the phone. The chronic coughing gets louder. “Will you be quiet!” she screams at her wheelchair bound mother-in-law.

Ties: Fractured and Unfractured' She tiptoed to her two-year-old daughter, who was fast asleep. Sitting by her side, she took her hand, the tiny fingers instinctively twitching around hers, as if pleading. She choked up, eyes moist, overwhelmed with grief and guilt. Fighting back tears, she gently freed her hand, picked up her belongings, and headed for the door. This time, she appeared determined to leave her failed marriage behind and start life afresh with her newfound love, who would be waiting for her at the bus stop. There was no time to waste. It was now or never, and she knew the answer. Vijai Pant India

Addicted By Michael Field My wife complains that I am addicted to the internet, especially Facebook, saying I am self-destructively doomscrolling. I protest that I am not addicted, I can stop anytime! It is just that my friends reside in there. Yes! My friends convene in Facebook - along with some fascinating strangers. And a host of not so interesting strangers. And pitiful people who desperately need their grammar and spelling corrected. Oh! There are scores of obnoxious pontificators whose views infuriate me until my cursor heads for the X. Then, one of my friends likes one of my posts and the cycle repeats!

Our statistics from blogger. As you can see, #worthingflash has no followers but with 142,141 views that does not seem to have done any harm.  Derek McMillan

The Message He picked up the phone and looked at the keys And called up the message she sent She sung him a song maybe five seconds long And he knew soon what every word meant   “I’ve something to tell you please wait there for me” Was the only part he could hear He waited alone until later that day When the song and the message came clear   He picked up the phone and looked at the keys A year troubled by that strange song So he pushed the key that was written “Delete” Thinking now it was time to move on by Don McBeth

‘Friday the thirteenth! Hardly the date for a party,’ Sharon said. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘If you’re born on the 13th, your birthday’s bound to fall on a Friday some years.’ She shuddered. ‘But it’s so unlucky.’ Pat laughed. ‘Surely you’re not superstitious!’ Jacky was unnaturally quiet. I was her birthday. ‘Anyway, I don’t believe it’s unlucky,’ I put in. ‘Both my grandparents lived in houses number 13, and I’m still alive.’ ‘Both sets?’ ‘My paternal grandad built his house in West Wickham and called it No 2. Someone built a house at the end of the road and numbered that 2. A third family built at the other end of the road and numbered that 2 as well. Then the whole road was built up and the council renumbered. My grandad’s house was between No 11 and No 15. It wasn’t actually numbered 13 until he sold up after grandma died. And my maternal grandparents lived in 13 Whitworth Road, South Norwood - admittedly that was after my...

Washington Theatre Three blocks from the mill. Lights down, burgundy velvet curtains opening. The smell  of popcorn permeating. Father, away in the War. My mother took me to the movies. We sat in the dark, watching movies I was too young to understand, but, somehow, I did. Brando in “On the Waterfront,” Rhett, Scarlet, Heathcliff. I sat beside her, picking   seeds from a pomegranate. Staining my fingers, soaking it all in. As solemn as Sunday Mass.  Mother instilled her love of movies in me. That theatre, old, and in a bad part of town, has survived. Dark, teeming with ghosts. Sandra Giedeman  

The Human-Spider Rathin Bhattacharjee  Rhea, kept looking at the monstrous spider behind her husband's bed. She couldn't take her eyes off the gorgeous grasshopper fighting a lost battle in the web. The creepy spider crawled down, dealt a deathly blow into the grasshopper to go back up again. It was one laborious act of playing, poking, piercing to feed on a healthy insect.  When the grasshopper fell from the web some weeks later, Rhea swept it off, recalling how Arnab, the man she dreamt of spending the rest of her days with, left her mentally dead when she'd nothing more to offer him, physically.  The end

Eyes Like Mine by Christopher Mattravers-Taylor I open the restaurant door to the bell’s familiar jingle. I sit where I can watch the kitchen entrance for her, and barely notice the lanky youth taking my order. She emerges from the kitchen, laughing over her shoulder. Time has only accentuated the beauty that captivated me for one shining night a lifetime ago. She spots me and pales. “You’re back at last.” Sitting opposite, she blinks back tears. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find you. To tell you.” The youth returns with coffee, and she smiles. “This is my son.” I meet his eyes, a moody green. My eyes.

 “If Winter Comes, Can Spring Be…” By Garry Engkent Once upon a time, 1923, a young immigrant grumbled about the snow, so much of it. Jack Frost overheard and said: “If you don’t like it here, you can go back where you belong.” Once upon a time, 2001, an immigrant’s child complained about the snow, piles and piles of it. Santa Claus overheard and said: “If you don’t like it, just go back where you belong.” Once upon a time, 2030, a senior citizen from an immigrant family moaned about shovelling the mounds of snow. A white neighbour overheard and said: “Go back where you belong!” 

It was particularly bad in summer. When she sat at her window and looked down at the beach, which was only a few meters and too many steps away from her apartment, she thought back to the time when she had also gone windsurfing on the beach with the others. And sometimes the images of the accident came back, she remembered the boat that had appeared next to her so suddenly that she had been unable to react, the slow awakening in the hospital, the doctors’ hesitant explanations. Then she hastily drew the curtains and rolled away from the window. by Andrea Tillmanns,