I have been thinking about the future. This is quite hard to do, when it doesn't exist yet. It's not so much thinking, really, as guessing. Anyway, this is what happens when I think about the future: I feel dizzy.
Also, I get a sinking feeling.
My friend Carl says that's because I'm not thinking about the future, I'm just thinking about whirlpools. He thinks about them all the time, he says, and he'd appreciate it if I stopped copying him. “OK,” I tell him; but when he's not looking, I still do it anyway. It's that spinny-sinking feeling that I like—it's just like being on a ride at Alton Towers, but without having to go anywhere. All you have to do is think really, really hard.
I love whirlpools. Any kind. Any size.
Sometimes, I fill the bath and watch it empty, over and over again, imagining I'm caught in the whirl: spinning, spinning, spinning, but never quite reaching the plughole…
I hope that's what the future's like.
“You won't have a bloody future, boy, if you keep doing that,” says my Dad. “Do you want to see my water bill? Do you?” But he's just jealous, because there won't be any old people in the future. They'll all have died. Either that or it'll be full of them, that's what the papers say… but one of them will be me, I suppose, and I'll be a robot by then, so that's OK.
The future's great. You can imagine whatever you like about it—and no-one can stop you. Even if it's true.
But mostly I’m just imagining whirlpools. Because I’m pretty sure robots will be waterproof by then.
Saturday, 15 June 2019
'Hope you're happy, now Mae done turned her ankle in a hoofprint' by Brandy Wilkinson
Them cows are starting to be a problem. Bud ain't fixed that breach in the fence yet – that corner he half-patched with chicken wire – and them heifers keep wandering out, right up to the house, sinkin' their hooves about five inches deep. Now, I try not to nag 'cause I don't want Bud minding my business neither, but I told him it weren't safe for Mae and Jimmy even to play out there! Today I ain't been out hangin' laundry five minutes when I hear Jimmy holler up that Mae's hurt. I run down the hill, dodgin' hoofprints myself, yellin' down the barn at Bud that I hoped every last neighbor heard the commotion and come runnin', seein' the clothesline full of his fancy underthings blowin' in the hot August wind like flags.
'Wash That Man' by Ulrica Hume
The washing machine at home was broken. It was an old leaky Maytag. A discouraging mess—twisted panties, sky-blue jeans, and an old lover or two or three floating downstream (the reverse of spawning salmon). Each man was slightly drowned, and resuscitation given to one caused the other to be jealous. I put the lot into a wicker basket, and went off to the Soap & Suds.
DO NOT OVERFILL. After stuffing my failure into a front-loading machine, I carefully added detergent, but it could not be enough, even if bubbles overflowed, whimsical and sweet, it could not change the vitriolic words, sad looks of contempt over a shoulder, the running back to hollow hugs. Coin after coin dropped into the hidden chamber in a satisfying way, and I regretted selecting warm. Scalding hot would have been better. Or even cold, ridding them all of attendant passion. I wanted to get on with my life.
And so past loves were sanitized, a thrill to see David’s face go by, that urgently polite expression, water sloshing as the drum rapidly turned. There went limber Hadley doing cartwheels, and if I listened hard I could make out the sad thunk thunk of Paul. My hand pressed the little porthole in solidarity.
THE LAUNDRY IS NOT RESPONSIBLE. Into the dryer I tossed the damp, clotted clothes and writhing ex-lovers. I fed in more coins. I slammed the door and the next phase began—this of forgiveness.
They leapt in the perforated chamber of my heart elegantly. Their eyes were closed. Arms and legs like wheels of flesh. How clueless their penises seemed, manifest heirs warped by the cycle’s violent speed, and yet so emboldened.
First meetings, first kisses, clashes, rendezvous, phones that would not ring. Regrets like the foam articles one is not meant to put in but does. I peeked. A bewildering warmth rushed out. This promise not made, or made but denied, or the illusion of a promise only.
At the folding table I labored over the flattened, sea-breezed bodies. All the tender, origami folds shameless in their right—a swift and happy, happy-swift forgetting.
Then a formal wonder: this sock without its mate.
DO NOT OVERFILL. After stuffing my failure into a front-loading machine, I carefully added detergent, but it could not be enough, even if bubbles overflowed, whimsical and sweet, it could not change the vitriolic words, sad looks of contempt over a shoulder, the running back to hollow hugs. Coin after coin dropped into the hidden chamber in a satisfying way, and I regretted selecting warm. Scalding hot would have been better. Or even cold, ridding them all of attendant passion. I wanted to get on with my life.
And so past loves were sanitized, a thrill to see David’s face go by, that urgently polite expression, water sloshing as the drum rapidly turned. There went limber Hadley doing cartwheels, and if I listened hard I could make out the sad thunk thunk of Paul. My hand pressed the little porthole in solidarity.
THE LAUNDRY IS NOT RESPONSIBLE. Into the dryer I tossed the damp, clotted clothes and writhing ex-lovers. I fed in more coins. I slammed the door and the next phase began—this of forgiveness.
They leapt in the perforated chamber of my heart elegantly. Their eyes were closed. Arms and legs like wheels of flesh. How clueless their penises seemed, manifest heirs warped by the cycle’s violent speed, and yet so emboldened.
First meetings, first kisses, clashes, rendezvous, phones that would not ring. Regrets like the foam articles one is not meant to put in but does. I peeked. A bewildering warmth rushed out. This promise not made, or made but denied, or the illusion of a promise only.
At the folding table I labored over the flattened, sea-breezed bodies. All the tender, origami folds shameless in their right—a swift and happy, happy-swift forgetting.
Then a formal wonder: this sock without its mate.
'Blithe Spirit' by Jenny Woodhouse
The cloud on the summit of Helvellyn is the duvet, billowing over her face. She tugs on it and is back in bed. He is talking to her, talking at her, filling the room with something that sounds like joy.
‘I’ve discovered the secret. We’re going to live forever. We can drive to the Lakes without any petrol.’
She’s never, in all their years together, known him so cheerful. Though the saving on petrol is characteristic.
‘It’s four in the morning, Jack,’ she says.
‘I know,’ he responds, and laughs.
He is on his feet, at the window, throwing. Out go the alarm clock, the pillows, his elegant silk ties, his cherished camera.
The duvet follows and she’s left shivering, as if she really was on top of Helvellyn. She wonders what she’s done to deserve this.
So many years under his cloud. His silences, his rebuffs, his overdoses. Her comforting words, her reassurances, her life put on hold.
‘You’re mad,’ she says. It’s true. His mind has turned to somewhere else.
‘Only nor’ nor’ west,’ he says. He still knows his Hamlet, at least.
He’s out of the room now, out of the house, light-hearted, light-footed, as if he was five not eighty-five, into the glow of dawn. Madness it may be, but she joins him.
‘I’ve discovered the secret. We’re going to live forever. We can drive to the Lakes without any petrol.’
She’s never, in all their years together, known him so cheerful. Though the saving on petrol is characteristic.
‘It’s four in the morning, Jack,’ she says.
‘I know,’ he responds, and laughs.
He is on his feet, at the window, throwing. Out go the alarm clock, the pillows, his elegant silk ties, his cherished camera.
The duvet follows and she’s left shivering, as if she really was on top of Helvellyn. She wonders what she’s done to deserve this.
So many years under his cloud. His silences, his rebuffs, his overdoses. Her comforting words, her reassurances, her life put on hold.
‘You’re mad,’ she says. It’s true. His mind has turned to somewhere else.
‘Only nor’ nor’ west,’ he says. He still knows his Hamlet, at least.
He’s out of the room now, out of the house, light-hearted, light-footed, as if he was five not eighty-five, into the glow of dawn. Madness it may be, but she joins him.
And so the 2019 Flash Flood Begins...
National Flash Fiction Day 2019 is finally here!
In (literally) just a minute, this year's Flash Flood will begin, bringing you one story every five to ten minutes from 00:01 to 23:59 GMT.
We have veritable smörgåsbord of treats for you, with flash of every size, shape and style. Whether you like your flash traditional, experimental, literary, genre, micro or otherwise, we've got you covered.
And if that's not enough for you, head on over to The Write-In where we'll be posting flash fiction prompts every hour on the hour throughout National Flash Fiction Day. If our prompts inspire some new writing, you can submit it within 24 hours for a chance to be published over at The Write-In.
But that's not all! On 16 June we're going to continue our celebration of flash fiction with something a little different: we're publishing some of the work that has come out of Safe Ground's Flash Fiction Project in which workshop participants from HMP Wandsworth wrote flash stories around the theme of 'epiphany' in workshops run by Jonathan Crane and Safe Ground staff. We'll be sharing more about this inspiring project on Sunday.
Huge thanks go to this year's editors and to everyone who submitted work. We had over 1000 submissions this year — a record for us. We appreciated the chance to read each and every one of the flashes sent to us, whether or not we were able to fit them in this year
Finally, thank you writers and readers for helping make this year's Flash Flood such a success. We hope you enjoy this year's Flood as much as we've enjoyed putting it together!
In (literally) just a minute, this year's Flash Flood will begin, bringing you one story every five to ten minutes from 00:01 to 23:59 GMT.
We have veritable smörgåsbord of treats for you, with flash of every size, shape and style. Whether you like your flash traditional, experimental, literary, genre, micro or otherwise, we've got you covered.
And if that's not enough for you, head on over to The Write-In where we'll be posting flash fiction prompts every hour on the hour throughout National Flash Fiction Day. If our prompts inspire some new writing, you can submit it within 24 hours for a chance to be published over at The Write-In.
But that's not all! On 16 June we're going to continue our celebration of flash fiction with something a little different: we're publishing some of the work that has come out of Safe Ground's Flash Fiction Project in which workshop participants from HMP Wandsworth wrote flash stories around the theme of 'epiphany' in workshops run by Jonathan Crane and Safe Ground staff. We'll be sharing more about this inspiring project on Sunday.
Huge thanks go to this year's editors and to everyone who submitted work. We had over 1000 submissions this year — a record for us. We appreciated the chance to read each and every one of the flashes sent to us, whether or not we were able to fit them in this year
Finally, thank you writers and readers for helping make this year's Flash Flood such a success. We hope you enjoy this year's Flood as much as we've enjoyed putting it together!
Thursday, 13 June 2019
Roadmap to NFFD 2019
We're gearing up for Flash Flood 2019, making sure the windows are shuttered and the sandbags are in place. We'll publish our first story at 00:01 on 15 June, National Flash Fiction Day, but in the meantime, here's a list of all the ways you can join in this weekend....
On 15 June, we're publishing one flash every 5-10 minutes here at Flash Flood! You'll find a wild mix of flash of all sorts of flavours, and from 12:30pm - 10:30pm, we'll be publishing debut writers at thirty minutes past the hour. Dip in or read it all, it's up to you!
Write with us!
On 15 June, we're publishing a prompt every hour at The Write-In. Send us your responses within 24 hours for a chance to be published at The Write-In. (If you're publishing your work on your website or social media as well, send us the link and we'll include it with your story should it be accepted.)
Celebrate with us!
We're celebrating this year's NFFD at the Herbert Art Gallery and Museum in Coventry with a free event including flashy workshops, a panel discussion, and anthology launch. It's free but pre-booking is essential as spaces are limited. If you're after a last-minute place, email us at nationalflashfictionday@gmail.com!
Pre-order your 2019 NFFD Anthology!
We'll be sending out the first batches of print anthologies next week! Kindle eBook copies will be available later in the month. All the pre-order links are available at our Bookshop.
Keep reading with us!
We're not finished after the 15th of June! On the 16th, we'll start publishing responses to our prompts at The Write-In. And, here at Flash Flood, we'll be publishing some work generated by a fantastic flash fiction project run by Safe Ground.
Support us!
If you like what we're doing, please consider helping us continue. A list of ways you can do so (which don't all involve money) can be found on our 'Support Us' page.
Stay Tuned for more flash-tastic fun!
We have some exciting projects and collaborations coming up in 2020. Keep an eye on our website for updates, follow us on Twitter or Facebook or join our mailing list. Or just drop us a line at . You can find all our details on our 'Contact' page.
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If you know of any other exciting flash projects happening on or around National Flash Fiction Day, let us know!
Now, back to preparations. There's a storm brewing, and it's going to be a glorious one!
Friday, 3 May 2019
Flash Flood is OPEN for submissions
until Thursday 9 May 2019
at 23:59 BST (22:59 UTC)
The aim is simple: wherever you are in the world, we want your best
flash fictions. The word limit is 500 words, but that's the only rule.
Any subject, any genre, any style, any perspective, anything as long as
it's flash.
Our guidelines have changed this year, so please have a read over our submission guidelines before you send your work. If you'd like, you can also read about this year's editors.
We look forward to reading your words!
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