Category Archives: Flash Fiction

Concussion in the Kitchen

A short piece of flash fiction for the Friday Fictioneers prompt.

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Concussion in the Kitchen 

At first, Beryl laughed. It seemed harmless. She arrived home from work each evening to a cluttered kitchen.
Although, she was certain the place was spotless when she left in the morning.
This problem started soon after the accident. An inconsiderate driver had knocked her from her bicycle, and she spent the night in hospital with concussion. The doctor advised that her head injury may lead to confusion and disorientation: take it easy.
She took pictures of the kitchen and kept a diary; it was not her imagination!
She lived alone.
Did someone else stay in her flat?

Cold Fever

Where are you 007?
Self-isolated with man flu, Mam.
Don’t be ridiculous Bond. I want you in London tonight.
M, is that an invitation?
Don’t be flippant, this is serious Bond. Miss Corona de Ville needs to be stopped.
The Queen of Oral Pharmacies?
Bond, I want you inside her organisation and get to the bottom of her plans.
My pleasure.
Oh, Bond have you seen Miss Moneypenny? She’s missing.

Born Free

Friday Fictioneers

Read more stories here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Born Free

After the virus, only the state sponsored selected elite could procreate, and placed under medical supervision to produce fully formed immune humans.
For us it was a crime.
I collapsed to my knees. Grace was in tears, her body shaking.
‘You’re pregnant?’ I whispered into her ear. She nodded.
‘My cousin said . . .’
‘Yes!’ I held her shoulders. ‘We must go.’
We knew about the family escapees hiding around the north lakes; hunters exterminated those captured on the spot.
That night we navigated our balloon in a northward storm and prayed for our future and unborn baby in the wilderness.

Addictive Habit

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple

Posted as a contribution to Friday Fictioneers

PHOTO PROMPT © C.E. Ayr

Addictive Habit

Habit is a strange thing.
I wake early, make hot Arabic with frothy milk, and enjoy the moment of solitude as the day begins. I watch Georgios arrive in his dinghy, there is a soft murmur from the water as it nudges against the pier.
I collect a box of red mullet, sardines, a whole tuna, a case of shrimp and a parcel.
I pay cash in US dollars.
My modest fish restaurant is popular; my customers devour the infused saffron dishes.
They leave feeling euphoric and lifted from their earlier depressive thoughts and so willingly pay my exorbitant prices.

Grandmother’s Advice – Family Pagoda

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Addiction to Purple.

Friday Fictioneers

Read the other pieces of flash fiction. HERE

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Grandmother’s Advice – Family Pagoda

When we were children, we would sit with our grandmother and gaze at the boats on the lake.
She would stitch away at her patchwork quilt and listen to our problems.
‘Remember,’ she once said. ‘Hitting people is wrong; although,’ she laughed.
‘A quick slap to make a point and a kick up the butt is good for lazy ne’er-do-wells.’
She shook her head and pointed at us. ‘Yea, they soon forget the pain and may even thank you.’
‘Whatever you do; don’t torment people.’ She wagged her finger. ‘Emotional scars don’t heal.’
She would never talk about Uncle John.

Evidence of Generations Lost

Rochelle Wisoff- Fields – Addicted to Purple

Friday Fictioneers – Additional Stories

PHOTO PROMPT © Mikhael Sublett

Evidence of Generations Lost

Grandfather died from the RAF bombing in Duisburg.
From his will, we owned the Einfamilienhaus; a ruinous shell in a wild garden.
We were delighted and began the renovation work with enthusiastic zest.
We found a painting in a secret room behind a wall. Imagine our good fortune.
“It’s a masterpiece,” the Kunthaus said. “Priceless and magnificent. Looted!”
And the skeletons?
Their descendants claimed the art and wanted retribution.
Were we to pay the price for our grandfather’s past?
Later, we discovered he had hidden and saved those poor people from transportation.
Why does thirst for revenge percolate through generations?

Piano For Sale

Friday Fictioneers – Read other stories here.

Hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Piano for Sale.

‘It’s in the cellar. Each flat has a storage cage.’
She moved the boxes and we squeezed past towards the piano.
Our noses touched. I felt her heat; she brushed against me to open the lid.
‘You should get it tuned.’
As I played “Liebestruam”, I felt her breath in my ear.
‘You play so perfectly.’
She wrapped herself onto me, her chin on my shoulder.
I played on; my knees quavered, my heart in tremolo and I ached for her.
Poco a poco, our breathing accelerando.
‘You must stay.’
We were strangers, in love with music.
Ci baciamo adagio.

**
(We kiss slowly)

Healthy Curiosity or Weird Paranoia

Flash Fiction for Friday Fictioneers – Read more here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria

Healthy Curiosity or Weird Paranoia

It’s my chance to read her diary.
She scribbles secretly every night. What does she write?
Why should I care?
Perhaps she makes notes about my impotency, I’m sure.
What is she planning?
A holiday, a birthday surprise? Notes to support a divorce!
Should I? Yes, I will.
She has such beautiful writing, something I noticed before we married.
Gym – met Danni. She’s pregnant. Tried to convince her not to terminate.
Ah! I know she craves a baby.
Booked into Prima Inn for Thursday. Bought my favourite undies.
John is such a hunk.
Who’s John?

Tinker Tailor Fashion–Spy

I really like this picture as my daughter has a similar pin cushion and there are other items which are recognisable and nostalgic; indeed.

Friday Fictioneers – Go and read their stories.

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

Tinker Tailor Fashion Spy 

Caroline was just an ordinary seamstress, sewing to earn a few pennies.
She was under arrest; her background being scrutinised.
No comment was all she mumbled to the fashion police. They beat her.
She was a fool: the pin cushion from Hong Kong and the military buttons pointed to her Intelligence role in the Far East.
That was years ago. She was a civilian now and it was commercial espionage.
She had stolen Valantino’s top secret pattern for the Princess’s ballroom dress. Everyone would love a copy, like Cinderella.
Caroline was tight lipped, as an army veteran her pension meant poverty.

The Honey-Trap

Friday Fictioneers

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr

The Honey-trap

Anya was naked and walked past.
I stopped reading.
(Mrs Newsome wanted Strether to rescue Chadwick from a wicked woman.)
I was dressed when Anya emerged from the bathroom.
‘Ready?’ She adjusted her blouse.
In East-Berlin, we had met in a provocative gaze across a crowded room.
‘Will he be alone?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘My flight is tonight.’
Col Kryuchkov met us at Marx’s Tomb in Highgate, and I gave him the USB memory.
‘I love you.’ I kissed Anya. ‘Goodbye.’
The encrypted files were bogus lists of double agents.
Another time, they may return to poison me.