Worthing Flash

Voyeurism (100 words) Quibble sees a girl with the longest legs, proportioned to body, he has ever viewed. She is struggling to get something or someone out of the backseat of a car. Quibble thinks: this must be what a prairie is like – long and fearless and suited to many purposes; yes, a prairie with its yellows and unbroken wind and wild grasses and the memory of bison and nomads. She finally wedges a tuba case out of the car and Quibble imagines it is someone else’s tuba and she is transporting it as a kindness. A prairie does not need an orchestra. In June, my first collection of drabbles (13th collection overall), 226 drabbles (218 previously published, 8 still raw) from 62 venues:  "The Lechery of Fish Tuners".  It's out in paperback, Kindle e-book and on the Kindle Lending Library.  I did not do a non-Kindle epub, opting instead to try the Kindle Library.  To be in the Library, they require you not publish you bo...

New Life, New Problems Andrea Tillmanns In his first life, Leo had been rather timid. That didn’t stop him from dying in a car accident that wasn’t his fault. When he awoke in the soil, he felt as though he could uproot trees. In his new life, he was stronger than ever before. Nothing and no one would stop him now. Unfortunately, he hadn’t considered that dung beetles, while very strong, were also very small. In any case, smaller than the crow next to which he had crawled out of the ground and which was very hungry. His second life therefore lasted only a few seconds. Andrea Tillmanns lives in Germany and works full-time as a university lecturer. She has been writing poetry, short stories and novels in various genres for many years. Her poems and stories have been published in The World of Myth, Hawthorn & Ash, SciFanSat, and other journals and anthologies. She has also published more than twenty books in German. More information about the author and her texts can be found on...

How to make a Crock of Gold plant magic beans. fertilize with Rocking Horse Manure By morning you have a ladder to cloud-cuckoo land. Ascend stairway Let your heart sing. Walk to the edge of the world. Mount a Pegasus. steer Pegasus toward the crack of dawn. Prize open the crack, behold the riches inside. Grab hold of them Run for dear life. Fast as your legs can carry you Don’t let the burden of guilt weight you down Hold on to your dreams You are back at square one, with a pot of gold you never really deserved. and a tale to tell. Richard Stephenson

Cemetery At Dusk by William Kitcher I tried to pass the cemetery but Sheba strained at her leash, dragging me inside. I tried to resist but she was too strong, and pulled me as the sun set behind the mausoleum. She descended a hill and I staggered behind her. Her leash came out of my hand and she ran between gnarly trees. I caught up with her. She was sitting next to a brand-new headstone. Chiselled into it was my name and last Saturday’s date. I shook uncontrollably and stared at it. A lump came to my throat and I cried again. “I miss you, Grandpa.”

Budding "Let's meet and talk about it, but not tonight," he said. "Tonight's my first shift at the steelworks." "Right," she said. "Tomorrow night, then, in the bar." March 29th 1971. On the television screen, slaughtered bodies on the fields of My Lai. A boy, bullet ripped. An open basket, bloodied. He was grimy, thirsty when he arrived. A drink, a tacit assignation with the future, and then out into the frosty Sheffield air - a clean dry burn, the tiny needle fibres, deadly arrow tipped, embedded in his pleura, a future efflorescence, a fatal flowering over fifty years of friendship.

She did not know where to begin. She could spin a coin, stab a pencil into the map with eyes closed or visit Simone, the card reader. She did neither. She sat lonely in the house and dreamed but her dreams were stubborn and did not deliver. Months later the police found her paisley scarf tied to the branch of a hawthorn tree close by the river. People claimed they had seen her. In Tulsa, Alice Springs, Skegness. She would have white hair now. She might have drowned. No one suspected the truth. That she vanished into her own dreams.

The Crayon Heart In the footwell between his feet Nigel sees the wrapper with the crayon heart he’d drawn. They stop outside school. “ Out!” barks his father, residue of the row. “ Where were you last night?” his mother had asked, “With that slut in the pub, again? I know her smell.” The police called early. Had Nigel seen Mandy? “ Yesterday after lessons. We played on the swings. She went home over the fields. It’s quicker that way. I gave her my chocolate.” Mum will know what to do. So he nudges it under the seat as he gets out. Breaking the ice “ Morning!” the lonely man says in the lift on his way to work. “ Evening!” on the way back. They nod, murmur sometimes, look away. As most do not meet his eye and look at the floor, he decides to put on one brown shoe and one black. “ Morning!”. The woman looks up. “ Morning,” she replies. “Do you know you’ve got a different coloured shoe on each foot?” “ No….how does it go?” he asks. ...

WHEN WILL YOU COME The bell rang for a long time; I was running out of the coins calling my mother. Finally, a calm, fragile voice, she whispered, “Son, when will you come?”. Words didn’t come out from my throat. From that moment, every sleepless Gulf night was filled with longing. Each passing day felt endless until I was ready to fly. Then came the pandemic plague and flights were stopped. I finally reached home. Holding my fathers thin, bony fingers, tears streamed down my face. Overwhelmed by love, relief and exhaustion, I queetly drifted into sleep beside him. RAJAN V KOKKURI

A Party She’d always envisioned being the perfect host but the first party ended up being the last. A great shame, I thought, especially as she’d bought a dozen little partitioned dishes for nibbles, a hostess trolley, and constructed the most magnificent trifle. I’m not counting Christmas, that’s not a party. I’m talking punch bowls, champagne, intense debates either side of the political spectrum. Flirting. Snogging someone else’s spouse. Tears. Women with their arms around each others’ shoulders. Soothing tones. Tissues. A king-size bed with a single occupant. The other enjoying a lock-in at The Prince of Wales. That sort of party. by Lauren M Foster

100-word Challenge At The Other End of The Rainbow “There lies a treasure at the other end of the rainbow.” These words of the wise made Ron hit the road when he saw a rainbow emerging across the sky after a light drizzle one day. Days had turned to months, months to years before he finally got to the other end. But there’s no treasure! True meaning of the words of the wise was driven home sometime later when he realised that the experience he had gained from his treasure-haunt, the aesthetic pleasure he derived from the exquisite view all around, was worth more than that of a goldmine! Author’s Bio: Rathin Bhattacharjee is from India, English Teacher, Principal, SXPS, won HM’s Gold Medal for Lifetime Achievement in Teaching (2018). Published, anthologised extensively, he loves accepting challenges. God’s Sense of Justice The day a commemorative meeting was held in honour of Ranak’s Jyatha where the invited guests didn’t utter a single word abou...

 EARL GREY - NOT.  On Mars, Dave's robot, Barry, was learning  to brew tea. It was terribly British but shockingly awful. When Dave sipped Barry’s first attempt, his eyebrows nearly launched themselves into orbit. “Barry, is this Earl Grey or motor oil?” he asked. Barry’s circuits whirred. “It’s a hybrid!” he replied, sounding uncommonly peeved for a robot. Suddenly, the teapot beeped, sprouted legs, and ran towards the airlock. Dave chased it, shouting, “Come back, I need caffeine!” Barry blinked, confused. “Tea on Mars has unpredictable behavioural issues, ” Dave mused. “Next time, I’ll ask Barry to make toast. At least the bread won’t escape!” by Heather Turnbull

Blue Remembrance on a Waikiki Beach   My third Blue Hawaiian was an azure pool in a glass, the colour of the shirt I buried you in, the sea glass on the bracelet you gave me on our honeymoon. Each sip, a memory. As the last ukulele notes faded, I drifted from the bar to the shore.   There, I wrestled jagged driftwood to my chest. The pyre would finally release you. I called your name as sapphire flames clawed towards the heavens. Then I unclasped the bracelet. The beads caught the firelight, a final constellation, before I let them fall dissolving into fire, into ash, into sky.   Mary Anne McEnery

Take a Break fiction magazine has given its writers their marching orders and now uses AI.   Short stories appearing in the title credited to the in-house team are 100% AI generated. You are not obliged to buy this publication which has replaced writers with machines.  George Orwell predicted this in 1984. Novels for the proles were produced by novel-writing machines. The only human involvement was to keep the machines oiled. AI has great potential but as long as Big Business has control of it, AI can only be used for their purposes. Writers for #worthingflash have rejected the use of AI to write stories. If you don't like writing stories you can always do something else!  Derek McMillan     

PERSEVERANCE My father was a clever-clogs. His degree Finals paper set three compulsory questions and one optional. Choosing the gyroscope question, his result was ridiculous; another method – same result, yet another – same again. Time was now up; he’d failed. When the results were posted, his name was top. He visited his professor to get the error corrected. You were the only student to tackle the gyroscope question. The professor said. But I didn’t solve it. Father responded. You did! Gyroscopes generate astonishing forces, as you demonstrated three different ways. Remarkable! He’d passed! Frances Aitken

UNPLANNED B by Gary L. Dozier      She lays in bed by the phone waiting for Nate's call.  He never calls. She takes a warm bubble bath with a glass of wine and candles waiting  for Nate's text.  He never texts.  She blows the candles out.  Drinks the  last swig of wine.  Exits the tub.  The doorbell rings.  She answers the  door dripping wet in her bath towel.  To her surprise it's Jonathan with a  bottle of wine and massage oil, ready to supply her demand.

I can recommend Everyday Fiction as a place to submit your work. They also pay you three Canadian dollars! https://everydayfiction.com/the-ira-gunman-by-derek-mcmillan/

Fisherman’s Shanty Fog swirled around Dorian’s feet as he walked the length of the pier, posts and boardwalk disappearing behind him as those ahead revealed themselves. Yellow up ahead—must be Robert. The older man sat on a bench, his yellow cap muted in the mists, his fishing pole dangling in the water. Blue smoke curled from the joint in his hands, the floral bright in the otherwise damp air. “ He’s gone,” Robert said, his face red and crumpled. Dorian rested a hand on Robert’s leg, staring out into the fog. “Tell me stories, then. Let him live just a bit longer.” Bio: K. Andrew Turner is a queer m/m writer with hEDS and AuDHD. He writes contemporary and speculative poetry and prose exploring connection, complexity, and what it means to be human. His work delves into self-reflection, mental illness, and the messy intricacies of relationships—from the mundane to the fantastical. His published work includes The Heretic and the Broken Man (Lazuli Press), Heart, Mind, Blood, ...

Father and Son  Trevor built a large house, maybe the best in town. He meant it for his son Tom and the family Tom would have. Then Tom went away for college and decided he wouldn’t come back. Trevor lives in the house still but lets it go to shambles, unlike a home meant to last.

Fail-Safe Menu (Word count: 100) by Marcelo Medone Flaunting my status as a refined and solvent man, I invited a gorgeous woman to the most expensive and exclusive restaurant in town. “I suggest an aphrodisiac menu,” I said, winking at her. I recited the options: roast sirloin with figs, honey and cinnamon, clams with red asparagus and black caviar, prawns marinated in olive oil, mustard and mango, black truffles with blueberries, and Egyptian dates stuffed with blue cheese and grapes. All washed down with a well-chilled late-harvest rosé wine. “At your age, I suggest a little blue pill for dessert,” she said, laughing. I think she meant it. BRIEF BIO Marcelo Medone (Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee fiction writer, poet, essayist and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in more than 50 countries, including the US. He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay.

THE TALK By Linda S. Gunther Theresa and I saw politics the same way. We shared our views every month when I had my hair done at her salon. “How much shall we cut today?” “An inch?” Theresa nodded. “Guess where I’m going next week?” She grinned. “Trip to Europe?” “No. To Washington DC, just before the 250th anniversary. Can’t wait.” Silence. “You don’t think I should?” “I love D.C. but I would not choose to head there in this political climate at this particular time.” “Well…where would you live if not the U.S.?” Her tone, confrontational. “I didn’t say that I don’t love my country.” Author Bio Linda S. Gunther is the author of six published suspense novels: Ten Steps from the Hotel Inglaterra, Endangered Witness, Lost in the Wake, Finding Sandy Stonemeyer, Dream Beach, and Death is a Great Disguiser. Her memoir titled A Bronx Girl (growing up in the Bronx in the 1970’s) was released in 2024. Her short stories and book reviews have been published in a variety of literary journals acr...

Bum Luck Lavina Blossom lavinadblossom@gmail.com He swivels the rearview mirror to see his cowlick, palms it down, feels the bump. A squirrel? A cat? Soon the tire starts to limp. Maybe a nail in a chunk of wood. He curses, already late. If he gets there before the tire goes flat, he can change it at her place, show he is a handy guy. When he arrives, she's waiting outside and goes over for a closer look. "You have a damaged rim," she says. "You had better get it towed before garages close." She smiles, turns away, mumbles "dim wit." Phantom  Lavina Blossom lavinadblossom@gmail.com   She puts the romance novel she just finished into the box to trade with her neighbor, although she is nearly ready to quit. So little actual romance in them now, although a lot of sex. The back of her wrist tickles as from a light touch, and she recalls that this was the very place her late husband, moving to kiss the back of her hand, pretended to miss. His mouth pr...