Worthing Flash

This year's 100-word challenge will start receiving contributions now and they will be published in September. The prize will be a copy of "Tales of Nether Sodbury" which will be published in September. I look forward to reading your story. The only requirement is that it should be 100 words or fewer and have the heading "100-word challenge". Send them to worthingflash@gmail.com I will still welcome longer stories within the 1000 word limit of course.

The winner of the 2025 100-word challenge is Bhattacharjee Sagata and you can find the winning story here  Thank you to everyone who took part in the contest this year. It was a privilege to read all the stories.

(Derek McMillan is not eligible to win the contest because he is one of the judges. I just like writing stories.) Friends and neighbours admire our roses. They have lovely colours and they give off a marvellous melange of scents. The secret, Sandy tells me, is that our roses will not thrive unless you deadhead them, chopping off the dead or dying ones so that the new growth has room to develop. It is not a job I particularly like so I was pleased when Sandy said that she was going out into the garden for a spot of deadheading. I thought her very helpful. It was only when the neighbours started complaining about the headless corpses that I smelt a rat.     

St Petersburg, 1919   Enough's enough. Today's the day I leave the elderly couple who've taken care of me the past few months. They've been attentive but kept me too long and seem resistant to my leaving.   I thank them for getting me back to strength, and their offers to find out who I am. I politely prise the old woman's fingers from the door as the old man advances, and i'm off.   The first street is plastered with newspaper, but I'm distracted by shouting and look round. A large group of people slowly bear down on me, joyful and hungry. by Ellie Herda-Grimwood      

I wrote this piece called “the plastic surgeon’s patient” for the sole purpose of having my computer respond to me after I make a few changes to it: do you want to save the changes to the plastic surgeon’s patient? by William Kitcher    

They sat at the kitchen table, listening to the storm raging. She flinched whenever a gust rattled the windows. He gently laid his gnarled hand on hers, enfolding her trembling fingers. “Everything will be fine,” he said. “If that oak had fallen ten feet closer in the Great Storm, we’d have been crushed,” she replied. He caressed the wooden table with his free hand and smiled. “But it didn’t, we weren’t and now we have this lovely table. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” An hour later the wind died down. “You were right,” she said.    

 The phenomenon begins with a whir of wind against an ever-increasing purr. Felines drape long limbs of ancient oaks in a strange and unexpected threat outside your windowpane. Persians, Maine Coons, Bengals—hang from branches like gossamer strands of Spanish Moss. Only… these don Morion Helmets as conquistadores of old. Ready for battle, they are ranked, filed—a midnight mass, staring you down. Then, the attack… the break from stationary to stride, fangs baring serrated blades to draw the blood of revenge. Quick, grab the shutters, fasten the hook closures, dampen the burning candle wicks. The clowder is here.   by Keith Hoerner  

The frost-ruby sun creeping over Skull Crag catches Serena serenading the unsullied morning. ‘ Massive anchovy shoals spotted in Biscay Bay,’ father had said. Shin deep in glacial brine, she harvests the razor shells herded into the gaunt shadow of the Devil's Knuckles by the looming daylight. ‘ Calm seas, don't fret.’ Back aching from scooping tightly sealed clams one by one into her calf-skin sack, Serena straightens for a stolen moment to check again for father's missing trawler. Every muscle below Serena's knees is deadened by the out-flowing current, her fingers the same blue as her reddened eyes.    

BAD NEWS 100 I was busy with tissue samples for testing. I know that even if it is bad news prompt treatment will usually save them or prolong their lives so I had to get it right. I glanced at the name and I gaped; it was for Pete Jones. I checked the address; yes it was him, the man who stole my girl all those years ago. I held my breath and finished the test. Then I punched the air in delight; it was cancer. I had sworn revenge one day. I sent him the all-clear letter saying re-test in two years. FLY LIKE A BIRD 100 His father smiled as he showed his son the wings he had made out of feathers and wax. “We can escape from this accused island,” he said. They hurried to the headland and stood at the cliff edge. “Follow me,” his father said; “but not too low in the sea spray and not too high in the sun.” Soon they were flying towards their freedom. The son could not believe it. He was swooping down and flying higher and higher. He felt the hot sun but then saw his feathers float away ...

Pride is a terrible thing. You’re meant to have it but you can’t have too much. How the hell can you tell where the line is so you don’t cross over? Yesterday’s an example: Sunday dinner with all the relatives. The inevitable question: “How’ve you been doing at school?” I could blow my own horn and say I’ve been made captain of the hockey team but I know Cousin George just got dropped in his favourite sport. So I say, “I think I’ll need some tutoring in French (George’s forte).” Mum murmurs, “I’m so proud of his diplomacy!”  Susan Cornford     

Knock. Knock. “I’m coming!” I shouted as I raced to answer the door, only to find my boyfriend, Alex Collins, standing on the doorstep. “We have to leave town.” He states, “Hello to you too,” “I’m serious.” I roll my eyes, “Okay, I’ll grab my stuff.” As I’m about to walk upstairs, I overhear a news reporter say, “We are sad to report that Alex Collins, 19, was found dead an hour ago...” A shiver runs down my spine as I turn back to Alex. If the news reporter said Alex is dead, then who is standing on my doorstep?   by Ellie S Fiander      

She said come to bed and he said not yet. He told her hurry up or they’d be late to the party and she said we don’t have to be the first ones there. She felt loving and tried to sit on his lap. He said he’d get a charley horse. He went to bed and tried to spoon. She shrugged him off, feigning sleep. She left the house before he got up. He came home late from his card game after she’d gone to bed. Sunday they went out for brunch and then had sex. Monday it began anew.   by Paul Beckman

  Bleary eyed, little Daniel poked his breakfast. "What's troubling you, Danny?" mother asked. Pulling a crescent stone from his pocket, Daniel blurted, "I found the Moon under the Mulberry Bush yesterday. It fell!" Tears welled. "May I see it?" All serious, his mother examined the rock. "Don't you worry, Danny-jo, I’ll take care of this." Thrilled, Daniel gobbled his eggs and ran outside, freed. Some evenings later, mother said, "Come DJ." On the landing, she pointed into the sky. Daniel beamed like the crescent moon hanging low on the horizon. "Mommy, I love you!"   Daniel Cryns      

  MY FATHER’S SECRET John bought me a drink and we sat down; he had asked to meet me and I was intrigued. “Steve; your dad has just died?” I nodded uneasily. “For the last eight years your dad and I were lovers.” “That’s ridiculous.” “We were very discreet.” “Now you want to claim under his will.” “Too late; I am dying of aids. I caught it from him; my first lover. He made me happier than I ever thought possible. I thought long and hard; I knew what to do. I would get the will varied and help John through his final days. HAVE YOU HEARD THE NEWS? The phone rang and woke me. I was tempted to ignore it but I picked it up. “Hello?”I said. “John it’s Sue here.” From her excited and breathless tone I guessed some latest gossip was swiftly heading my way; and I was right. And she was always the first to know. “Peter and Jane have split up and the rumour is that she is already seeing someone.” “Really,” I said. “Let me know when you know something.” “Will do, must dash.” With that s...

  Driving home from library  That car in front It's going toooooo………….. S*** it's hit Happens in real time Seems like slow motion  No sound heard  Before commotion  Brings back times No warnings given  On life's course Not  expected  Waiting in emergency  Feeling faint headed I'm going toooooo………… S*** I fainted Happens in real time Feels like slow motion  No sound heard Before commotion Doctors bending down Taking charge  Voices heard He's got a pulse No sound heard My voice no motion  I'm out of car Taking charge        Andrew Ballard is a 60-year-old living in South Australia  and only recently started writing flash fiction and free verse poetry.     

 Battle of the Ball His gun unloaded — in the face of being captured, and killed — Corporal Rathers looks to the “truck”... the ball at the top of the flagpole. Artillery fire blazes in the distance. Or is it nearer? He climbs quickly, breaks the ball off the top and slides down. The contents inside aren’t as expected: there’s the razor blade to cut off the flag’s Stars and Stripes, the match to burn them, but the bullet to take his own life is MIA. He does his duty, then thinks about the bullet. Until one shot – through his right temple — takes all thought away. Double-Edged Sword She holds two swords of societal success. Her career of achievement, her marriage of love realized. Nice house, nicer car. The look men look at — even her husband. Meditative dreams on summer days under a comforter of cool breezes. Still, one regret reflects the swords’ sharp edges. Cut her caesarean style — deep as you like; take out the child she cannot carry… his son. The single thing sh...

  ‘Come here,’ he said, slipping his arm around me. ‘I’ve something for you,’ smiling, he pulled his fingers through my hair, pushed it behind my ears; his eyes twinkling, he twisted a flower into it. I giggled, swayed my hips like the sexy senorita I imagined myself to be. ‘A spring flower for my May,’ he said, nibbling my ear. ‘That hurts.’ ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, his lips tickling my cheek. Then it wasn’t his lips, but a feather. I laughed, threw my head back. The flower fluttered to the ground, petals scattered everywhere. ‘Stupid bitch,’ he yelled, pulling my hair.    

  My mobile flashed with a WhatsApp message from my friend who was on vacation. ‘I am sick and need a (A positive blood group) Kidney donor’. My hands shivered and mind shattered. After confirming the truth and assuring him the support, I called Dr. Ram in Kerala and Mohan who underwent kidney transplant a few months back. Mohan promised to console and guide Abhi for the treatment. My pleading with charity groups helped and collected some funds and luckily got a kidney donor also. Flight announcement awoke me. I got into a prepaid taxi and gave Abhi’s address to the driver. By Rajan V Kokkuri  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZD9XVHC/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_6ZoBFbKM6JA3V https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08JLHQFZ4/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_L1oBFbTA3TVN1 https://www.amazon.in/dp/8194564131/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_b3oBFbMJYDZ5J    

  Delivered Supine on the floor, I gaze up from our bed. Rose towers above me, ebony body a clear night sky writhing in a silken swirl dance of rainbow scarves, waxing moon smile moist, reflecting my rapture. Tomorrow became an unmet dream relinquishing its shackles on now. "The veils," I whispered. They fell—amorphous satellites drifting to earth—one on each rotation of her heavenly planet spinning in orbit around me. In splendor she whirled, unadorned, eyes blazing stars, feeding my naked hunger. Delilah pranced for the Baptist's head. Rose shimmered. I found my head and I surrendered my heart.   Evolutionary Quirks "Too much Dragnet as a kid, lady?" I jabbed. "Stuck in, 'Just the facts ma'am'? Truth is, facts lie, change. In the end, meaningless. Of course, that's conjecture too." "You a magician?" She blurted, eyes wide, sparkling. "No, what makes you ask?" "Didn't you say you ...

  She came bursting in through the front door as she always does, laden with shopping bags of dubious content. Says ‘can’t stop, got a hundred and one things to do today’ Says that every time. Today would be no different from other days. Takes her shoes off that are ‘killing her’ and sits by the window blowing smoke out from her Vape while her right foot taps out an agitated rhythm on the carpet. Starts to go through the bags giving a running commentary. ‘It’s all paid for you know, not thieved.’ I know—a different addiction.   by Janet Hardacre Author ( Taking Care of People with Dementia- an A-Z of practical help and caregivers' stories)