Flash Fiction - Sudden Fiction
or just v short stories from our members
Shift by Vicky Lloyd-West
When Simon arrives in the morning, the night shift are all dead on the floor.
He walks around them carefully. He doesn’t think it’s an emergency. He doesn’t dial 999.
He finds some food in the usual place and eats methodically, ignoring the bodies.
When the day shift comes in, all hell breaks loose.
“Get the police! Now! Don’t touch them for Christ’s sake! And get that cat off poor Alfredo’s chest!”
Simon, yowling, is unceremoniously removed.
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The Granny by Jeff Phelps
When the footlights went up the granny had disappeared from the bed and the man-wolf sat in her place wearing her night cap, pretending to knit. Why couldn’t Red Riding Hood see what was in store for her? Anyone – even a child of six - could tell this wasn’t the granny. It had a sharp pelt and dagger teeth.
The woodcutter, breaking in at the last moment, was strong and fierce but his axe, just silver-painted cardboard, was surely useless. Before the painted blade came down the wolf roared that he would have revenge. Maybe he would. Jan couldn’t be sure, despite the happiness at the end of the show - the songs and the dazzling outfits. The actors stepped forward and bowed - even the wolf, grinning, was alive. He’d come back as he’d said he would and, Jan thought, wouldn’t ever be far away again.
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Title to be decided. by Cathy Roberts
( A short paragraph from my current fantasy novel )
“The morning had an icy stillness about it. A Haar had edged in overnight, and was only now beginning to retreat under the bite of the subdued winter sun. Leaving through the side gate Wynter followed a path towards the sea, salty drizzle stinging her face with increasing force. After fifteen minutes the pale limestone track touching her property turned to pass parallel to the cliff edge. It gave off a muted glow, hinting at the lives that had once made it up, providing a safer route than the narrow country road that bordered her property. The soft touch of spring feathered her as she ran, her dogs speeding before her; dawn stretching purposely over the horizon towards the land, adding a gentle warmth to the mist, tickling the sea with colour. Picking up her pace the dogs stopped pausing to sniff and bounded on, their tongues lolling, appearing to laugh at her.”
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Border Shoreline by Grant White
( intro to The Mud & The Tide )
Border towns all look the same.
Swirl the dishwater let the tides flow,
Heading out to the sandbank.
Washing up & scraping crap don’t help me back,
But in the fog the steam keeps me warm.
People laugh & people cry, but the tides still flow.
Flick knife with nowhere to stay, got to go anywhere but home.
Snatch the cash, buy as suit from a charity shop,
Get a gun - Get a car - Head down the coast.
Dodge the customs and currents of discontent.
Steal a boat & hope it floats
Find a place to drown my dreams and launch my hopes.
Border towns, all look the same.
photograph Gordon White
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BORDER by David West
The river was colder than she had expected. Her skin was numb, her bones aching, her only thought to keep swimming. Her four-year-old boy, Mustafa, clung to her neck. His breath came in quick, sobbing bursts.
‘Hold on,’ she whispered, though her lips trembled too much to make the words intelligible. She thought of the house they had left behind, its windows shattered by morning shellfire, her mother’s shawl still hanging on the back of the chair. She pushed the memory down. Memories were harder to bear than the depths that beckoned her down to blissful oblivion. She shook her head, she had to keep going for Mustafa.
Halfway across, voices barked from the opposite shore—foreign words, sharp and clipped. The beam of a torch cut the darkness, slicing through the wavelets.
‘Almost there,’ she whispered.
Her foot found the slick mud of the bank. She hauled herself up, heart pounding, knees shaking. Mustafa slipped off her back, coughing, she snatched him up and clamped her hand over his mouth.
The beam of the torch swept over the water again, but missed them. Somewhere close, boots splashed through the shallows. She pulled Mustafa deeper into the reeds. At last, the sounds receded. She dared a look: the soldiers were gone, the river ignorant of their passage. Mustafa tugged her arm. ‘Are we safe?’ he whispered. She swallowed. Safe was a word she daren’t use yet. But she tightened her grip on his small fingers and answered, ‘We’re closer than we were yesterday.’
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