'Fire Drill' by Lynda McMahon

During fire drills we are encouraged to locate our positions depending on how we are experiencing the event. If all is going well then we are to attend the mustering point. There we check in with our supervisor and are marked off on the list. Any missing workers must be located causing delays and problems. I always try to muster.

There was an unexpected drill this morning. Not all the information we needed was available so we were less organised than usual. We began to wonder if it wasn’t a drill at all. I arrived at mustering but was denied access. Biometric testing discovered high levels of adrenaline and I was referred to the next station. This had never happened to me before but I tried to calm myself.

I presented myself at the next station. This is for those of us who require medical attention. Usually for a slight physical impairment caused by moving too quickly and colliding with objects or other workers. After treatment we are returned to mustering. For the first time I was referred to the last station.

I considered protesting but there are no proper channels for this so I refrained from comment. I’d heard stories about this situation. I could feel my heart beating very fast. The doors hissed open and I saw rows of glass fronted cubicles each with a screaming occupant. An automatic voice: Welcome to Panic Stations. May your stay be very short. I began to scream.

'Trumpeting' by Adele Evershed

Maura woke up at three am like she had for the last week, as if an invisible alarm was triggering her whole system. And just like the previous seven nights, when she batted her eyes open, she could make out a lumpy shadow growing out of the corner of her bedroom. Stan slumbered next to her, gently rumbling from both ends, totally oblivious to his wife’s night terrors.

Maura felt for her stack of Tums balanced like a cairn on the edge of her night table. Slowly

sucking one, she looked at the shadowy presence for the first time. It seemed to vibrate gently,

and then what looked like a wing unfurled to fill the space between it and Maura’s bed. The lump

in Maura’s chest glowed like red-hot coal and her scalp tingled as if her hair was being inexpertly

highlighted. She took a thick, ragged intake of breath. This last week had left her feeling charred

like a piece of stewing steak—burnt on the outside, raw, and bleeding underneath.

‘What do you want from me?’ she asked shakily, ‘Don’t I have enough to worry about without

you and your nightly visits?’ The entire shape started to sway towards Maura, and she felt a

soothing, warm breath as the elephant stroked her cheek. This proved too much; Maura could no longer keep her grief caged. A loud trumpeting woke Stan.

‘Oh love, whatever is it? Did you have a nightmare?’ he said as he took her into his arms and

wiped her cheeks with the back of his hand. ‘No, but we have to talk,’ Maura hiccupped as she

spoke, ‘Last week, I got the results of my mammogram…

The elephant in the room turned and melted into the dark.

'Let Me Break the Ice' by Mugdhaa Ranade

When you said we should break the ice, I thought you meant we should play 21 Questions, or Two Truths And A Lie, or even listen to Break The Ice by Britney Spears, not that we should literally break the ice and smash an ice stalactite that would cause an avalanche and we would have to run for our literal lives with a cartoonishly gigantic snowball rolling down the hill behind us at breakneck speed; we could have died!

But we didn’t, did we? We’re here eleven years later toasting to the occasion.

That we are. Happy Anniversary, love. I could not have asked for a better, crazier first date.

'When Hell Freezes Over' by Suzanne Hicks

It starts when someone notices a light breeze instead of the usual blast of a hair dryer on high to the face. The people wipe the last sweat from their brows. A tortured soul shrugs after being forced to walk over hot coals and finds them to be lukewarm. A demon ruins dinner, unable to bring water to a boil. Fires extinguish, lava flows harden. Up on his smoldering throne, the devil gathers his minions and tells them to prepare to go to the surface. Reports show that up there the outlook for warming is good.

'Sofa Speak' by J F King

‘Life is too short,’ V said.

There was something - K couldn’t put his finger on it – that irritated him about this style of speaking but to be irritated is to be fascinated. Afraid too, her way of speaking would rub off on him, he would become the kind of man who said he couldn’t put his finger on it.

When V set off for the TV studio that morning K checked in with his own emotions.

‘Knock ‘em dead, hit ‘em for six,’ K said but did that mean he wanted her to succeed or fail?

V hadn’t returned his goodbye kiss, pulling out from the clinch, the expression ‘you only come this way once’ already on her lips.

Only weeks before Veronica had been unemployed, redundant. She’d found a new life as a life coach. Her web site hopespringseternal.com a surprise hit launching her from job centre to TV studio in record time.

The studio light showed green – ‘you never have a second chance to make a first impression, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step’ smiled V as she took her place on the sofa.

‘You ready for this?’ said the presenter, ‘quite a journey you’ve been on.’

‘Life isn’t a rehearsal,’ V shot back.

K put his finger on the remote.

'Volume' by Jared Povanda

Actions speak louder than words, so when you left my eardrums ruptured. The windows exploded outward. The carpets rolled up tight like scrolls no one wanted to read. When you left, I was thrown against the wall. The painting of the Last Supper fell, glass shattering all around Jesus, and I couldn’t help wondering if he still flinched at pain. Actions speak: you packed your bag, and I coughed salt into the bathtub, chest dented. Actions speak: you didn’t slam the door on the way out, you left it open like you wanted me to follow, or you wanted me to be pathetic enough to follow, and I stood on the threshold and watched birds topple from the trees, stunned. Actions speak louder than words, but words still have volume. Last weekend, beside me in bed, our legs touching, my left elbow brushing your right elbow, you said you were in love with someone else. With O. Just O. Olive? Oliver? Oleander? Oil over my feet after the bottle slipped from my hands. I waited there watching the golden liquid coat the pine floors, helpless to act after the damage was already done.

NFFD 2022 Prompt #13: That's Not Cricket!

 That's Not Cricket!

This is National Flash Fiction Day's eleventh anniversary, so this year, all our prompts have something to do with the number 11....

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The word 'eleven' can refer to a cricket team...but what if the cricket team was made up of actual crickets?

For this prompt, pick a phrase, expression, or idiom and interpret it literally.  If it's raining cats and dogs, let's see the fur fly.  If you're stealing someone's thunder, maybe the victim is Thor.  If it's the last straw, then show us what happened after all the vegetation apocalypse.  Feel free to play with magical realism, fable or down-and-out silliness, whatever you fancy!

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 13: That's Not Cricket!

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 19 June 2022 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.