The Infinity Knot. Take both ends, tie them together and loop the scarf around and around. Our love will last forever; like that night at the Purple Butterfly when we had oysters and Champagne and the diamond glistened at the bottom of the glass.
French Knot. Fold scarf in half and pull both ends through the resulting loop. We drank Château Margaux while watching the artists painting portraits in Montmartre. Hip against hip we walked through the dusk and watched the moon rise over the Seine. You hummed, ‘Paris in the Springtime,’ and wrapped the pashmina around me as if I were a piece of fine bone china.
The Cowboy Scarf. Against your throat, crossed at the back then conceal the knot under the bulk of the scarf at the front. In Argentina we galloped alongside each other racing shoulder to shoulder. I whooped for joy when I steered my horse over the three-foot fence and helter-skeltered down the mountainside. At first I thought you were kidding when you took the slow way down and shouted at me for being gung ho.
Like a Bolero. Over your shoulders, under your arms and secure the ends at the back with a rubber band. It was chilly at the lakeside fund-raiser when you bid 50,000 dollars on the tiny silver poodle by Jeff Koons. You said you bought it for me, although by then I had enough trinkets to fill a Vermont barn. I did put make-up on my puffy face and go though because otherwise what would his Mom and Pop think. It was their fortune after all.
Over Under Style. Start with the European loop, but pull one end through instead of both. Then with the newly formed extra loop pull the other end through. The scarf should lie flat against your throat. You never liked other men looking at my suprasternal notch.
The Half-Bow. wind your pashmina around your neck and make one end a little longer, pull the other end halfway through to form a lopsided bow. An off-kilter look which suited the weeks when I tried to come off the Zoloft which I had taken because the doc said, “Every wife around here takes them, why should you be any different, hon?”
Cascading Effect. Grab a corner and let the edges ripple down in a waterfall. I stand on the edge of the Grand Canyon and release the scarf into the air. My thighs are sticky from the cheap leatherette of the SUV which I bought on eBay, and I stand in a superwoman pose to cool down while my old accessory rides on thermals of rising air. Outstretched wings soar high but then the wind changes and it falls like a shot bird. I scuff up some dirt with my old kick-ass boots, start the engine and head west.
Saturday, 15 June 2019
'A Small Boy Thinks About The Future' by Tim Warren
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.
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.
'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!
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