Worthing Flash

 Togetherness by Roberta Beach Jacobson After midnight, the voices in my head enter my stories. Is this why they exist? They whisper their way into dialogue, and I allow it. At times, I’ve encouraged it. Writer’s block has never been an issue for me, because the voices intervene. We cooperate fully, creating paragraphs and pages together, although I take all the credit.

I didn’t want the apricot toy poodle, but Dad insisted. I thought she would spend her days on a satin pillow, muzzle in the air, grooming her well-manicured curls. But she was a real puppy, and lost no time tugging the ribbon loose from her ear and clawing the baby blanket we’d brought her home in. Still, it wasn’t until she almost fell into her water dish because her head was too heavy that I saw why Dad picked her: She’d teach me how not to fall in, no matter how deep the water, or how long he’d been gone.  Cheryl Snell

I could taste the salt upon my lips as if surrounded by the ocean. My boyfriend walked ahead of me, photographing every moment. I took photographs myself, but what I was taking in was something I could never photograph. My brain is a bustling city, and every now and then, my neurons need to take a step outside for some fresh air and quiet. The minute my foot landed on the soft, moon-like terrain of Badwater Basin, the bustling city in my head went quiet. I took in the vast expanse of white terrain. And my brain took in the loudest sound it ever heard. I turned to my boyfriend and asked, “Hey, do you hear that?” He stopped, listened and asked, “What is it?” “Nothing.”   Maria Perry was inspired to start writing in high school when her high school English teacher said she was really good at writing short stories and asked if she considered being a writer. She enjoyed reading a lot of books. She majored in English/Creative Writing and Communications/Mass Comm at Cal State Univers...

It happened on a night like any other. We were at a church event having dinner. You weren’t there. I couldn’t understand why you kept calling our parents, the phone ringing repeatedly before Dad silenced it. “He wants money,” Dad said in a half-whisper to Mom. I was too young to understand that you’d done this all before: drunk texts and calls, expectations of payment. When we trudged up the driveway through the drizzling rain, we saw the first signs of sabotage. The handles of the front door had been tied shut with the garden hose and matches were on the ground. in a panic, Dad unlooped the garden hose. rain poured down on our heads as he struggled to muscle the hose out of the door handles. mom pushed us little ones inside and up to my brother’s bedroom. We felt safe at home in the dark until you shouted at us. You made threats about your “little friend.” We took that to mean a gun. I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears. You yelled at Dad. The first flames licked their way up t...

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TesCraft©55625 lands at night and reanimates me. I open a ValueNutriBreak©, eat, depilate, then run a system diagnostic. The planet should sustain life but TesCraft©55625 cannot access further data. It is nine months since TesCraft©55625 showed an ERROR message and mapped an unfamiliar star system. I can only hope TesCorp4© 's colony has reported my non-appearance. My supplies will not last and I do not have the codes to access the cargo. It is against TesCorp© policy. Dawn emerges and I stare at the plethora of green which fills the screen. * The cold hits first. Then the wet. But the air—I take in huge gulps, inhale until I’m giddy. So much green. And the trees—all trees on TesCorp7© are in TesRec© domes. None are as resplendent as these. The wet passes, and as unguarded radiation heats the day an eerie polyphonic resonance penetrates my ears. I activate TesCraft©55625’s cloaking device from my wristband then head downhill, towards a dark green mass. The mass is thous...

Enduring Together Meghashri Dalvi As the searing sun rose over the cracked streets of Greenfield, old Mr. Patel shuffled to the town square. His mind drifted back to the days when the rivers flowed and the fields were lush with green. He sighed and leaned on his cane. "Good morning, Mr. Patel," Sara called out cheerfully, despite the scorching heat. She was often the first one at the well, smiling, eager, and ready to help. "Morning, Sara," he replied, his voice gravelly with age. "Remember when this square was full of market stalls? Fresh fruits, vegetables... the aroma of bread baking." Sara smiled wistfully. "Well, haven't I heard the stories of those wonderful days?" "They were wonderful." The old man's eyes glistened. "I would come here every Sunday with my wife. We'd buy apples, as fresh as the morning dew." Young Jose waved from a distance. "Mr. Patel, I saved you a spot in line!" "T...