'Weenie' by Donna B McNicol

So many years had passed and he wasn't sure he wanted to go. He'd never been before, why start now? High school hadn't been good to him. Always an outcast, never fitting in, he had dreaded every single day. He thought back over those dreadful years, hiding in the locker room, sneaking his band costume into his locker, the locker with the taunts as decoration.

"Sweetie, if you don't want to go, then don't." His wife supported him, whatever his decision. "If they weren't your friends then, why bother?

"I guess it's a challenge. You know me and personal challenges. I just can't say no." He looked at himself in the mirror. Twenty-five years had filled out his body, enhanced the angular look to his face and hardened his personality. 

"I've decided to do it, will you come too?" he asked his wife of twenty years, thinking to himself, what did I ever do to deserve her?

"Sure. I'd love to see their reaction. I actually enjoyed mine last year, even if you couldn't make it." She came up and from behind wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his back. "You'll knock their socks off."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Maybe, maybe not. Let's get dressed and grab some dinner first."

Registration at the front table was easy, he quickly found his photo name tag and put it on. "Let's get a drink," his wife suggested. They headed to the bar and ordered two glasses of wine before sitting at an empty table.

He gazed at the people meandering around the room."I recognize a few folks, the jocks and the cheerleaders. Most of the others look like strangers." 

"You're a stranger to them, too. I keep noticing women whispering and pointing this way. This is fun." His wife giggled as a couple of classmates casually walked towards them. She whispered, "Now it starts. Have fun."

He stood and held out his hand, "Jack, Dave, Sammy. Good to see you again." 

The three men stared at him, his hand, then his name tag. Finally the tallest spoke, "Weenie, is that you? My god, man. You grew up... Um, thank you for your service." Behind him one of the others offered a salute.

"Thank you. Sorry about the hand, I know it makes shaking a little awkward." 

FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015.

In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words).  So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?

More information about these and the Day itself available at nationalflashfictionday.co.uk.

"Ornithologist" by Sarah Sillars Kane

He loved the birds.

Robins, finches, dippers, tits.

Although he despised the gulls, blow-in urban intruders. “Bleedin’ vermin! They’ll be the death of me.”

An ornithologist, not a twitcher. Twitching’s what the bleedin’ neighbours did.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

He felt their beady eyes scrutinise as he filled the birdfeeders. The Parkinson’s made it a hit-and-miss affair.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

The gulls wheeled, depositing guano.

Every Thursday the wife drove him to see his neurologist.

Always running late.

Always driving too fast.

“Duck!” he yelled, as a seagull crashed through the windscreen. The car twitched into a hedge, scattering the sparrows. It was the last thing he saw.

FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015.

In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words).  So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?

More information about these and the Day itself available at nationalflashfictionday.co.uk.

'The Housework Robot' by Sara Cole

'Here, have you seen this?' He rattled the evening paper at her. ' A housework robot. I'll order one. You're not getting any younger, could do with a bit of help. ' He settled deeper into his armchair and carried on reading.

'I'll have a look when I've finished the ironing.'

He finished the sports section, and let the newspaper fall to the floor. 'I'm off to bed,' he said. 'Don't forget to empty the dishwasher.'

She drank a mug of tea and did an online shop. Snores drifted downstairs as she tidied up, unloaded the dishwasher and dropped the newspaper into the recycling bin. No time for reading tonight, she thought. Better clean the bathroom before she turned in. A ring round the bath could upset him for a week.

The housework robot arrived a few days later. She unwrapped it and pressed Start. It cleared up its packaging, then put the kettle on. She could get used to this, she thought. By the time he got home the house was pristine. She had her feet up on the sofa, and was sipping an ice-cold gin and tonic whilst flicking through the robot's instruction book.

'You're creasing the cushions,' he said. 'What's for dinner, then?'

She pressed the Waste Disposal button on the remote control and the robot followed him into the kitchen.

FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015.

In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words).  So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?

More information about these and the Day itself available at nationalflashfictionday.co.uk.

"The Holiday" by Sara Roberts

Lisa stepped onto the balcony and breathed in. This hotel had been a good idea; in the evenings the warm air was filled with the smell of frangipani and the sea sounded so near, as if it were right outside their window. It washed the night clean in the darkness and lulled her to sleep along with the sound of the crickets.

This morning, she had found herself alone. Jim must have gone for an early run along the beach. Between the palm trees bright slivers of turquoise water shone enticingly in the heat. Lisa rested her hand on the balcony railing and stretched her back, bending carefully at right angles at the waist. Perhaps they would be able to patch things up here. Nothing had been the same since they lost the baby.

No. She closed her eyes. Don’t think about that.

She might get pregnant again. That’s what the doctor said. Maybe even while they were here. Yes, it was just the right sort of place. She smiled and stood up, turning her face to the sun. Maybe she already was.

Laughter tinkled; she looked down. There was Jim, also stretching, by the side of the pool, talking to someone. She couldn’t see who it was, but a woman’s voice floated out from under the parasol directly beneath her. Lisa watched her hands grip the railing. A cold knot landed in the pit of her stomach like a stone thrown into water.

From the way Jim was puffing his chest out and making a big deal of his warm-up, Lisa knew she must be young and attractive, probably with large breasts and a small bikini. He had always been a big boob man.

Jim walked over to the pool and dived in. He crossed the whole length of it before surfacing, and emerged triumphant and streaming at the other end. Lisa almost expected him to beat his chest and roar. It was always so pathetic, so cringe-inducing, watching a man nearing middle age trying to impress a younger woman. There was something so obvious about it.

Jim’s voice rumbled and again that tinkling, high-pitched laughter rang out. He strode over to the parasol under their balcony. The laughter heightened, now tinged with a faint edge of hysteria, then stopped. In the silence, Lisa stared at the yellow and green logo of a palm tree printed on the top of the parasol and felt a piercing cold creeping up through her feet. The angry knot in her belly throbbed, and she realised dully that they were her period pains.

First published by Flash Fiction Magazine, December 2014

http://flashfictionmagazine.com/blog/2014/12/11/the-holiday/

FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015.

In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words).  So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?

More information about these and the Day itself available at nationalflashfictionday.co.uk.

"Seemingly By Accident" by Brindley Hallam Dennis

Fingle was rough with the old man; not actually violent, but he spoke sharply and moved at a speed that was always just a little faster than the old man was comfortable with. Handing him a cup of tea, Fingle would move so fast that however quickly the old man responded he would be conscious of having kept Fingle waiting. Negotiating doors, Fingle would catch his heels or bump his shoulders, always making it appear that the old man’s sluggishness, and not his own impatience, had been to blame.

            The old man never took his eyes off Fingle, and I was reminded of a farmer who, punching a puppy dog between the eyes without warning, explained that he wanted it always to be paying attention to him.

            The old man seemed slower and more stooped each time I saw him, seemed always to be straining to keep up, despite his shuffling, hesitant steps, as if afraid of falling behind; afraid of the consequences he might bring down upon his bowed head. I thought he was getting frailer; that one day Fingle, seemingly by accident, would knock him to the ground; that Fingle’s voice, harsh and peremptory, would strike him dumb, and paralysed.

            It was when they crossed the road that I feared for him most, for it seemed that Fingle chose to cross when only a precipitous rush would get them safely through the gaps between the speeding cars. I even began to suspect that he was working towards the staging of an incident in which the old man would not make it across.

            Perhaps that was why, when I heard about the accident, that I imagined the old man had been knocked down, and it was him I was thinking of when I exclaimed, not killed?  It was him I thought of when I was told, no, but he’ll be in a wheel-chair for months.

            But it was Fingle who had been crippled. Eye-witnesses said that the old man had stepped forward into a gap far too narrow and that Fingle, seeming at first to want to hurry him onwards, had found himself out in front, when the old man, with a nimbleness that had taken the watchers by surprise, had stepped back into safety.

            The vehicle that struck Fingle was large, and moving fast. He suffered multiple injuries including several broken bones. It was a miracle, people said, that he had not been killed.

            When I saw the pair of them, some weeks after, the old man was walking briskly beside the chair, which was being pushed by a young man I did not recognise. They were negotiating the heavy twin doors into their local pub, trying to manoeuvre Fingle’s out-thrust plaster-encased leg and arm through the gap, when the old man, seemingly by accident, let slip his grip on the metal handle. The door swung to against Fingle’s foot and he gave a cry of pain. The old man winced, I think.

FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015.

In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words).  So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?

More information about these and the Day itself available at nationalflashfictionday.co.uk.

Welcome to Issue 6 of FlashFlood

Well, hello, everyone!

Welcome back to the Flood of Flash. Can you believe this is our sixth issue? We have now published over 600 flash-fictions across nearly four years, and in this issue - our largest yet - we bring you 148 new tales of wonder, of darkness, of love and life and loss and laughter.

After five issues of doing this, and thinking we knew what we were getting into, we have all been amazed by the high standard of submissions this time around. You guys are definitely getting better, and our job is getting harder and harder. Thank you for that, because the harder our job, the better the journal; and this one is a corker!

Of course, as ever this journal operates in association with National Flash-Fiction Day (NFFD), being held on 27th June 2015. You can find out more details about the day on our website at http://nationalflashfictionday.co.uk/, by following us on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/nationalflashfictionday) and Twitter (https://twitter.com/nationalflashfd) and by signing up to our mailing list at nationalflashfictionday@gmail.com.

With regard to NFFD, while these stories are washing over you, you need to be thinking about new words in new orders, as we are launching this year's Micro-Fiction competition (100 word limit) and have also opened submissions for this year's Anthology (500 word limit). Follow the links for full submission guidelines.

But, you can think about all that later. Now is the time to sit back and let our latest issue buoy you up and carry you away. Bring on the Flood!


Thanks for reading.

The Editors:
Shirley Golden
Susi Holliday
Susan Howe
Caroline Kelly
Calum Kerr
Cassandra Parkin
Nettie Thompson

FlashFlood is Back!

We're getting ready to launch our build-up to this year's National Flash-Fiction Day - 27th June 2015 - and we thought what better way would there be than to do so by flooding the internet with flash-fictions.

Send us your stories, up to 500 words, on any topic, and from wherever you are in the world, and our team of editors will compile another issue of this popular journal (more than 150,000 page views so far!)

Full Submission Guidelines are accessible through the tab above, and we would love it if you could spread the word about the journal.

We can't wait to read your work. Now, get flashing!
The Editors
FlashFlood