Showing posts with label Flood2026. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flood2026. Show all posts

Sunday, 14 June 2026

2026 FlashFlood: The Complete List

In case you missed any of the pieces we appeared during the 2026 FlashFlood, here's an index to everything.  Sadly, the 'Blog Archive' sidebar list maxes out at 100 titles per day, so use this as your guide to the complete 2026 Flood....

Happy Reading!

 

2026 FlashFlood

 

 

 

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Saturday, 13 June 2026

'New Shores' by Alex Grehy

I wake up on this beach the day after my retirement party.  I reach for my last memories - the fizz of cheap prosecco and the hubbub of my colleagues’ good wishes. 

I look around, curious. This is like a child’s painting -- yellow sand and a blue sea mirroring a cloudless sky. There is a smooth rock, dished and inviting. I sit down.

The fine sand sparkles like diamond dust. I feel compelled to touch it. I look at the grains caught on my fingertips and see a different version of myself in each one. There, I am on stage, singing Schubert, the audience applauds my luscious soprano voice. In the next I am sitting at the head of a mahogany table, the board members listening raptly as I confidently outline my plans for further success. So many unfulfilled possibilities, each grain of sand a life I could have lived. A multiverse of potentialities, piled into vast dunes by the choices I made, or failed to make. I brush the sand away, feeling the sharp cuts it leaves behind.

The surf whispers, carrying the fresh scents of salt and ozone. There is a mutuality of imagination, nothing in my life has been one thing or another. I am neither happy nor sad.

The sun kisses my face. Snowy gulls land on the shore. They pick at shells but leave me alone, for I have nothing they want. In the peace of our unshared motives, I admire the balletic strength of their commonplace beauty.

I am not dreaming. I am on this beach, like a once-jagged plank from an ancient shipwreck, smoothed by the waves. 

Habit has guided my life to this place, but now the sea lies before me, and the tide is asking for my permission to turn.


Alex Grehy (she/her) is inspired by a reflective life full of nature, rescue greyhounds, singing and chocolate. Widely published, Alex hopes that her words will engage the reader's emotions and help them make sense of the world. Her poetry collections, published by Alien Buddha Press, are available from Amazon.

 

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'Gestalt (noun): a theory that a whole is different from and more than its disparate parts' by Rachel Abbey McCafferty

Four.

You are at your uncle’s house and your parents said you could get a pet for your birthday. His dog had pups a few weeks ago and now you are surrounded in tan and white fur, cold noses and small paws pressing against you.

Fifteen.

You are at your first concert and the bass from the opener is vibrating in your sternum. The air smells of sweat and smoke and tomorrow you will, too, ears ringing and head buzzing.

Nine.

You are in class when a new kid walks in the door and introduces themselves with a stutter. Their speech is formal, stilted, stiff, and you join in the laughter breaking and cracking off the walls.

Seven. There are birthday candles. Twenty-two. There is an accident. Seventeen. There is a tentative kiss. Five. There is a swing set. Fifty-five. There is a new house. Nineteen. There is a voicemail. Twelve. There is a ferris wheel. Thirty-six. There is a bubble gum ice cream cone. Forty-two. There is a sapphire ring. Twenty-three. There is a wake. Eight. There is a school building. Twenty-nine. There is a hospital. Two, seventy-nine, forty-one, sixteen. There is, there is, there is, there is,

There is a sunset and ocean spray on your cheeks and waves like a heartbeat. You are six, you are thirteen, you are thirty-seven, you are eighty-two. The sky is red and pink and gold. The air is salty on your lips. The sand is soft beneath your feet.

 

Rachel Abbey McCafferty has been writing since she first learned that was a thing people could do. Her work has appeared in journals like HAD, Maudlin House and Identity Theory. She can be found on Bluesky and Instagram at @ramccafferty.

'Gestalt (noun): a theory that a whole is different from and more than its disparate parts' was first published in (mac)ro(mic) on May 21, 2021. 

 

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'Barometric' by Renuka Raghavan

Maya's father collected weather in Mason jars he kept along all the windowsills of their farmhouse, and she believed him, the way children believe in the weight of things they cannot see, a jar of October fog, a jar of the morning after her mother left, a jar he called the last good summer that he would hold to the light sometimes, just to watch it, but she stopped believing at fourteen when a boy at school told her that jars held nothing, that weather moved through and was gone, the way most things were gone, and she told her father this, and he unscrewed a lid and held the jar beneath her nose and she smelled something, cut grass, her own childhood, a tender quality of grief she had no word for yet, then she left for the city and grew into someone efficient and unsentimental, someone who paid bills on time and did not keep things, but years later, when her father died, she drove back to the farmhouse and found the windowsills bare, everything thrown out or given away, all glass gone, and she stood in the empty kitchen and opened her mouth and breathed, in and out, and understood then what he had really been doing all those years, not collecting weather, but teaching her that the ordinary air inside a life, if you paid attention, if you sealed it against the passing of time, was the only thing worth keeping.


Renuka Raghavan is the author of three short-form prose and poetry collections. A Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee, her most recent collection is Nothing Resplendent Lives Here (Červená Barva Press, 2022).

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Debut Flash: 'Don't write about the ceiling fan' by Anya Rosensteel

It's cliché. It's the only thing you see as you lie in  bed—that and the window. You can write about the window, and the squirrel that chastises you every morning because you have the audacity to live on a second floor. But don't write about the ceiling fan and the shadows it creates in the afternoon. The squirrel breaks your pots. It also sees you naked. Do you remember Apocalypse Now? Blades churning hot stagnant air. Of course you do. It's the ceiling fan. You've tried posting flyers — "Stop feeding the squirrel!" — complete with an FAQ about how squirrels are trash beasts that ruin the ecosystem and your life. "Q: Did you know squirrels eat baby birds? A: Yes, they are monsters in fur suits." But you still find half-buried peanut shells. Peanuts that DO NOT GROW HERE. When people read about your ceiling fan they will only think of better ceiling fans, more poetic ceiling fans. Stick with the squirrel. That fucking squirrel.

 

Anya Rosensteel is an artist living in Santa Monica, CA.

 

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'Dragonbeasts' by Alexandra Otto

Jonah vaults his toy monster truck across the cracked leather backseat. “Watch Dragonbeast’s wheelie, Mama!” 

WHEN he twirls the truck, the dragon wings extending from its cab almost fly. JONAH’S always talking and talking about ignitions, suspensions, and tires. It’s his addiction. I claw at a bottomless itch on my cheek as I search for parking. 

I pull into an abandoned strip mall lot and turn off the car. We’ll fall ASLEEP here. Quarter tank of gas. Enough to drive to the Willow Residential Center tomorrow. Already the cravings are slipping away, I tell myself. I NEED to bundle Jonah’s clothes into A makeshift pillow, but he’s not ready for sleep. Jonah’s racing his truck as I hold him. He can’t stop. He’s powerful. He’s HIT his stride, he’s a tornado, he’s a god. The Dragonbeast tamer. 

“VROOM! Across your racetrack!” He pushes his truck up the trail of collapsed veins on my right arm. Some things don’t slip away. The needle scars, the indentation on my finger from my pawned-off wedding ring, the power TO reach up and grab stars, the way I could FEEL music bleed from my stereo, as if it were as ALIVE like me, the bare hospital lightbulb blinding me like an eclipse when Jonah opened my eyelids after my overdose.

We rock back and forth as ONE, resisting the LAST cravings that try to slip into our heart-shadows this TIME, hiding in plain sight. 

I too can tame beasts. 


Alexandra Otto writes stories and short screenplays. She's working on a feature screenplay and a novel. When Alex isn't writing or teaching, she is outsmarting the largest bears in the world in Southcentral Alaska. Follow her at @alexottowrites on Twitter or Bluesky.

 

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'Thank You for Calling the Thoughts and Prayers Hotline' by Shantell Powell

Thank you for calling the thoughts and prayers hotline. You are 3,114,568th in the queue. Please be patient while we process your call. Your prayer is important to us. Please stay on the line and we will be with you as soon as possible.

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Thank you for your patience. You are 3,114,576th in the queue. We understand your frustration at being further back in the queue. Please be patient while we triage prayers. Some prayers hold higher precedence than others due to VIP privileges. In order to progress more quickly, please enter your credit card number at the tone.

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Thank you for calling the thoughts and prayers hotline. Your call is important to us. We thank you for your patience and we appreciate your donation. You have been advanced in the queue back to your original place of 3,114,568. Anticipated wait time is approximately forty days and forty nights.

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Thank you for calling the thoughts and prayers hotline. Due to inclement weather, our lines are busier than normal. The Great Flood is the result of a VIP prayer fulfillment. We will be with you as soon as possible. You may wish to contact your insurance provider to check whether your policy covers acts of God.

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Thank you for your patience. Due to the Great Flood, the queue has been reset. Eight VIPs remain in the queue. We regret that you are not one of those eight. Only those who made it aboard the ark will now be considered for prayer fulfilment. We apologize for the inconvenience of your death by drowning.

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Thank you for calling the thoughts and prayers hotline. You can rest assured that your memory will live on in our thoughts. We hold you in our prayers.


Shantell Powell is an elder goth/swamp hag who grew up in an apocalyptic cult but got better. She makes up weird stuff about nature, fairytales, and religion. Her work appears in Nightmare, Augur, The Deadlands, and more, and she is writing too many books at a time.

 

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'The Surprise Party' by Karen Crawford

Surprise! everyone screams when you walk through the door. And you are surprised! You haven’t seen these folks in years. Folks sharing stories of remember when, and such a shame.
And you nod and smile politely because your wife knows you hate surprises, and you slip away to look for her, to give her what for, and Surprise! You find her crying. Crying in the arms of your twin brother. Why is she crying in the arms of your twin brother? You haven’t celebrated a birthday with him in years. And why are they staring at a photo of you and her? Or is it him and her? And why are they sharing stories of remember when, and such a shame? And now you’re not smiling, and you don’t feel polite. And you try, again, and again, and again to reach for her arm. Surprised, when you can’t.


Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. Her work has been included in Best Microfiction Anthology 2025, Gooseberry Pie, Fictive Dream, The Citron Review and elsewhere. She is a multi-Pushcart, and Best of the Net nominee.

 

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'Gone, and All Forgotten' by Jon Fain

The kid in our class who looked like the famous actor was dubbed “Mistaken for Bacon,” which became “MFB” and then “Notorious MFB.” Years later, at a reunion, nobody knew what happened to him. At one point, I said MFB froze to death. Six degrees, get it, but nobody did.


Jon Fain’s publications include short stories in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, JONAH and Feign, flash fictions in Shooter Literary Magazine, Hawkeye and Bottle Rocket, micro fictions in Blink-Ink, Molecule and Sudden Flash, and a chapbook of flash fiction, Pass the Panpharmacon! from Greying Ghost Press.

'Gone, and All Forgotten' was previously published in The Daily Drunk, August 2020.

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'The Note My Uncle Left' by Heain Joung

This is a story about my uncle and a note he left. An uncle I had never met or even heard of, so I can’t tell you much. I just don’t have any memories to draw from. The story started for me   on a Saturday or maybe Sunday evening when I answered the phone, it was a call from the law, for my father. I handed him the phone. After a few minutes, he hung up and started to pack a small bag without telling anyone what was going on. Later I learnt that he was going to collect the body of my dead uncle who had been living on an island where he had died alone. No one had told me about him including my father whose brother he was. This is a story about him, but there just isn’t much to say. This is all I have, to tell you. There was a man I did not know. He went to an island where he knew nobody’s name, and nobody knew his. All he had when they found him on the side of the road was an old, crumpled up note in his pocket with my father’s name and address. I wonder why he went there. Maybe the wind and the sea had called him. I looked at a map of the island and tried to imagine his life but all I could find was a story full of emptiness. 

My uncle went to an island.
He lived and died by the sea.
He left a note for his brother.
And this story for me.


Originally from South Korea, Heain Joung holds an MA in Creative and Critical Writing from Sussex University. Her short fiction can be found in Full House Literary, Flashback Fiction, FlashFlood Journal, Tiny Molecules, Gastropoda, among others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Twitter (X) @heainhaven

 

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'My Absent Heart' by L. Michelle Nichols

Robert Valentine knew when he cornered me on the playground when we were eight. He was a creep even then—pale, fish belly skin. Yellow eyes. His nose was running, and there was a snot bubble in his right nostril. He said we were going to play cops and robbers, and since he was the cop, he leaned me against the fence so he could frisk me. His little fingers were beneath my clothes instantly, but he didn’t feel the parts my mother hand warned me to protect. He pressed his hand to my sternum instead. He searched for the steady lub-dub, the persistent thump of my heart, but he found nothing because there was nothing there to find. 

He stopped. Took a deep breath, tried again. He searched my entire torso, even my belly button. Then he turned me around and pressed his ear to my chest. He listened, straining against the other playground sounds, and I giggled, trying to diffuse the situation. I said, “You’re weird, Robert Valentine.” 

He looked up at me, his chaffed lips parted. He said, “You’re dead, Corina Stanley.”

“Maybe,” I said, giggling again. I didn’t want to make too much of it because I didn’t want him to tell anyone else. So, I kissed him even though his nose ran. I kissed his eye lids, his nose, his chin. I kissed each cheek. I kissed him like my mother kissed my dad. I kissed him so he would keep my secret, but he ran from me. He ran screaming to the edge of the playground, and then he stood there alone, facing the parking lot. I don’t know what scared him more—my absent heart or my kisses—but he never told.

 

L. Michelle Nichols’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fractured Lit, Juked, PANK, Permafrost, Southwest Review, storySouth, and swamp pink. She lives in rural West Texas.

 

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'Beating Odds and Keeping Time on Magnolia Street' by Jen Wyrauch Edson

Grandpa’s grafted yet dormant avocado trees negotiated smoke-flared air, stuck between incinerator, brick wall, and the room Grandma and I shared. He warm-waxed their graft sites, checked his gold pocket watch. I never heard him yell until that Santa Ana-winded night. He boomed, as winged, scorched trash lifted, collapsed to ash. Burn you next, you don’t grow right, butt of his Chesterfield cross-examined night. Quiet, old man! He snarled, unaware we heard. Vodka burns things clear, right? He toasted the wall. He’s gone, his monologue chugged on, circular as indented zeros tracking his arms. Marks I’d question one day. Zeros are nothing, he’d say, turning away, watering those trees.

We called his stories math survival. Learn enough odds to bet smart. Buy insurance, he said. Left NC at 16. Dad stopped hitting me, preferred Mom, and my sisters. Little money, this watch, he lifted it, one-way Union Pacific ticket. I was free. Took his scotch—Terrible stuff, he coughed, cancer forever chasing his lungs. Got a locksmith job. One lock’s good, two’s better. Got Mom and the girls here, fast as I could.

Cooking breakfast one morning, we asked if he looked like his dad. He said he didn’t, That was the problem. Nothing more. We turned the hi-fi up, played kitchen pan band, danced to Miles Davis’s So What until he left to see to the trees. 

 

I hope he sees he timed things right. Guacamole overflows Grandma’s fiesta bowl. Maybe he sees us, weeding, seeding, rolling dice, laughing when we burn the toast, talking it over with his trees. I hope he rests assured; Magnolia Street’s secured. Every lock’s checked twice; the bar’s fully stocked. We don’t play kitchen pan band; the stereo’s broken. Odds are we’ll fix it. His pocket watch says it’s about time. 


Jen Wyrauch Edson from Palm Desert, CA, studies with SmokeLong Fitness, has words in National Flash Fiction Day's FlashFlood 2023, Best MicroFiction, 2024. Short-listed: SmokeLong Summer 2024. Long-listed: SmokeLong MMM, 2025. Fiction MFA from Antioch University, LA. Once, she taught poetry. Serves as judge for Antioch’s Dorland Mountain Arts writing competition.

 

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'What Is Left Behind' by Monique Cuillerier

"It is time to leave, Specialist Stipes," the maintenance robot at Laurel's door said. "Your assigned ship departs this evening."

Laurel suppressed a sigh. Politically, she had not been opposed to either the robots' ascendancy or the subsequent decision that the humans would need to depart. But she still could not bring herself to finish packing.

"Our patience has limits, Specialist Stipes," the robot continued.

Laurel nodded as the door closed and sat down heavily on her bed. It was the robots' planet now and she knew it was time.

*


But she struggled with what she was leaving behind.

Like Sylvia.

Sylvia had loved Mars as much as she had loved Laurel. After her death, Laurel had felt that, if she couldn't have Sylvia anymore, at least Mars could. And she had mixed the dust of Sylvia with the dust of Mars.

But now that it was time to leave, the thought of this final separation was more than Laurel could bear.

Although she could still call to mind Sylvia's touch, her softness, those memories were increasingly fleeting and their intensity fading.

If only there was some way of taking Sylvia with her.

She abruptly sat up straight. Maybe she could. If not Sylvia, at least the possibility of her.

Energized, Laurel packed quickly. She did not have much time, but she could check her bags at the spaceport on the way.

*


The line moved slowly as the robot at the gate scanned each human's forearm and checked the result against the display, before allowing them to board the ship.

A shadow of sadness still hung over Laurel, but she held a vial of red dust in her pocket. It wasn't much, but it was Mars.

It was Sylvia.


Monique Cuillerier is a queer science fiction and horror writer living in Ottawa (Canada) with her cat Janeway. The parent of two grown children, she spends her non-writing time running, reading, and finding new things to take classes about. Her writing can be found at notwhereilive.ca

 

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'Cassandra said you shouldn’t make the coffee run to Bozeman today, ’cuz zombies' by Tom Walsh

So like every Wednesday, you drive the 40 miles to Joe’s Diner and linger over re-percolated coffee and make small talk with what’s left of your Old Yellowstone Gang. You raise your glasses to salute the missing, and debate again where the zombies hide all day. You leave at dusk, later than you meant to, and halfway home get a flat and curse yourself for having no spare and you think about the coming night alone in the cab of the pickup with only a .357 on your lap and a half box of shells on the passenger seat. At midnight you feel thuds against the side of the truck. A bloody hand slaps the driver’s side window. Faces dripping flesh appear in the rearview mirror. You unscrew the thermos, tip a fresh pour into your Coffee is Life mug, inhale the bitter aroma, and think, Let ‘em come.


Tom Walsh writes these days from Cambridge, MA. His stories can be found in Emerge, Hobart Pulp, Lost Balloon, Bending Genres, HAD, Flash Frog, The Citron Review and elsewhere. He’s working on a flash-novel play about wildfire and fate. Say hi @tom1walsh.bsky.social.

 

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Debut Flash: 'No One Will Know Unless It Takes' by Jenna Martin-Trinka

Right before you turn forty-one, you will get your IUD removed, the second one you’ve had, and you will not tell your husband. Your hands will clutch the white paper lining of the exam table, you’ll scooch down to the edge, dangle your legs until you lock them into place in the sock-covered stirrups, your nurse practitioner, always so patient, will say, “feel my touch” and, “hear this click,” and with just the slightest pull, the copper T-shape will slide out and you will think of a crack forming in a dammed river, letting a trickle of water run through it. You will say, “Goodbye, old friend,” just like you did for the first one.

You will blame your four-year-old who talks to his imaginary sister, which should not have swayed you as your best friend will tell you who is an active member of the online group One and Done and On the Fence.

You will blame the framed photographs of you at thirty-six weeks pregnant, cradling your blossoming belly, your smile so full of purpose, images meant to ground you in your new home but that now unroot you.

But you will be the one to blame—addicted to the idea of fruitfulness, to the promise of This Is What You Are Doing Now. You will hop down from the table to measure your naked body for ripeness before getting dressed, then ride the elevator down to the ground floor like you are descending into a tide of possibility.

 

Jenna Martin-Trinka writes creative nonfiction and flash fiction. She lives in the Appalachian region of Virginia with her husband, young son, and truck camper parked in the yard named Emmy Lou. Her day job is teaching Spanish as a public school teacher.

 

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'Girl as a Found Shell on the Beach' by Shareen K. Murayama

After L. Mari Harris

This girl collects scratch and sniff stickers of strawberry milk and vanilla. Casts smiles in family photos. Agrees to sunscreen, swirls capital M for Mrs. Someday in the sand. Dismisses desserts and family summer vacations. Warms beer bottles in hands, smiles at  boys in Camaros. Writes Jordache and Swatch for birthday lists. Smiles for Christmas, for New Year’s. Kicks her hopes and herkies high on the cheer team. Throws up her skirt behind the bleachers for her boyfriend’s best friends. This girl is almost intangible on the night’s shoreline. Dusted, rinsed, and shuffled farther down the years for someone to discover her again.


Shareen K. Murayama is the author of three poetry books Housebreak (Bad Betty Press, 2022) and Girl, Are You in the Experimental Group (Harbor Editions, 2022), & The Mother Who Couldn’t Describe a Thing if She Could (Harbor Editions, 2024).

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'Influencer' by R.K. West

Her skin is so delicate, she bleeds when the wind changes. She thinks “The Princess and the Pea” was a documentary. Dad blames Mom for bathing her exclusively in rose water as an infant, but now she sells it to her 20 million followers on Insta, so it’s all good.

 

R.K. West is a Canadian-American former travel blogger who sold everything, spent two years on the road, and now lives in the Pacific Northwest, next to the mighty Columbia River. West's recent work has appeared at Bright Flash Literary Review, Right Hand Pointing, Johnny America, and many others.

 

 

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'Freytag's Triangle' by Mary Guterson

She drank coffee every morning from the same mug. When the hurricane came, the sky 
split open, dropping blackness on the lawn.

 

Mary Guterson's published work includes novels, short stories, flash fiction, poems, book reviews and radio commentaries. She lives in Los Angeles.

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'Night Shift' by Michael J. Ciaraldi

I’ve been working at this bakery for years, putting up with the owner’s disgusting personality, stinginess, and micro-management. I haven’t told him yet, but I start a much better job with one of his competitors in two weeks.

Tonight, I told him, “It’s Christmas Eve and we’re closed tomorrow. You go home to your family, and I’ll close up.” He actually thanked me; I think that’s a first.

I waited until I was sure he was gone. Then I opened the back door and let in Ed, Stinky, and Little Joe. They’re good people, even if they’ve been living on the streets. They washed up, they put on aprons and hats, and we all went to work.

Ed measured out flour, chocolate chips, and raisins. Stinky cracked eggs. And I put Little Joe to work slicing up dried fruit. Meanwhile, I got out the rest of the ingredients, started softening the butter, and pre-heated the oven. All for my late mother’s famous “Jubilee Jumboes” cookie recipe, her deluxe version of Toll House cookies.

While the Jumboes were baking, we started on the cutout cookies. We finished with the gingerbread men, some of them frosted to look like Santa.

We finished around 6:00 am, then we packed up everything to take to the homeless shelter. As I went out the door, I left my resignation letter for the boss. I know it’s technically stealing to use his ingredients, but what’s he going to do, fire me?


Michael J. Ciaraldi is a retired computer scientist, roboticist, and playwright. He has been published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and in several recent and upcoming anthologies. Mike lives in Shrewsbury, MA USA with his wife and Daisy, a chihuahua. Find out more at www.ciaraldi.com .

 

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'Nothing to speak of' by Jude Higgins

 On her way back from the shops, she tripped over nothing, and fell flat on the pavement.  A young man wearing shorts, despite the autumn chill, stopped to help. He squatted down and asked if she was okay.

’Think so,’ she said, attempting to get up. He hoisted her to her feet. 

‘My gran used to have lots of falls,’ he said, kindly.” Still went out though.’

‘I didn’t “have a fall’, I fell,' she said . He looked baffled. ‘I was an English teacher,’ she explained.

‘Cool,’ he said. He collected up the vegetables that had spilled on to the pavement and put them in her bag. She leaned against a  garden wall to catch her breath.

His arm was  tattooed  with the message ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.’ He saw her looking. She used to know the rest of that prayer once.  Something to do with courage and wisdom. 

‘Life’s hard  isn’t it?’ she said.

 He nodded. ’Any damage done?’

She patted her knee where a dark stain had spread though the denim. 

‘Just a graze,’ she said, although her hand smarted and her legs felt wobbly. ‘Nothing to speak of.’ 

‘You take care, lady.’  He strode off, texting, not looking where he was going. 

He’s not afraid of “having a fall”’, she thought.

A  glossy heritage tomato she’d bought as a treat still lay in the gutter.. She couldn’t risk bending down to pick it up.  But the sight of it lying there, next to an empty crisp packet, made her want to cry.


Jude Higgins' is a widely published flash fiction writer, whose collection Clearly Defined Clouds was published in 2024. She founded Bath Flash Fiction Award and is Director of Flash Fiction Festivals UK and the short short fiction press, Ad Hoc Fiction. judehiggins.com
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2026 FlashFlood: The Complete List

In case you missed any of the pieces we appeared during the 2026 FlashFlood, here's an index to everything.  Sadly, the 'Blog Archiv...