'How To Train Your Diary' by Jaime Bree

The diary flew across the room seemingly on the trajectory of the bookcase, but it didn't succeed, instead it embedded itself into the wall.

'Don't hesitate', it whispered playfully. 'Put me in my place before something from your past breaks free.'

I pulled. It was resolute.

'Am I going to have to?' I sighed.

I closed my eyes, twisted my hand in the air, resetting the invisible sands of time.

The book rattled defiantly then propelled itself from the wall into my hand.

I clicked the flamboyantly flapping clasp tightly shut.

'Good try, but my secrets are safe with me.'

'Regret at the End of a Jagged Path' by Suzanna Lundale

Mort nosed his way through the sack of refuse, contemplating the jagged path a once-eminent Time Magus had taken through the sands of time to land himself in the body of a goat, with no means to jump again or even to find his way back into a human body. "Balls," he swore, choosing a banana peel to snack on. 

"Thinking about your, what was it, jagged path through the sands of time?"

"You shouldn't mock a cripple," he grumbled.

"Aww, I wasn't mocking. You know you're my favorite ghost-goat," Rocio soothed, scratching behind his ears.

"Goat-ghost," he corrected.

"Whatever."

'Soft Boiled' by Donna M Day

I look down at my descendants with shame.

I ensnared the sands of time in the hourglass and controlled everything and those idiots use that infinite power to boil eggs!

Do they have any idea what it means to rule the universe and all the time in it? Of course not. No, the biggest thing that they worry about is having a hard boiled yolk. 

I have high hopes for my youngest granddaughter though. She’s still young enough to see me and she hates eggs. All I need to do now is get her to come out of her shell. 

'It Gets Everywhere' by Annette Willsch

Sand everywhere. I comb it from my hair, I blow it from my nose, I rub it from my eyes. It chafes on my skin. It’s between the sheets, making my sleep restless. Walking is difficult because it’s in my shoes. It makes my food gritty, taking away the flavour. It trickles across the TV screen, blurring my vision. It seeps into my ears muffling the sounds of the world. 

I talk to my doctor about it. She says it has to do with time. 

There’s no remedy available. Before long I’ll be buried. Buried under the sands of time.

'Dawlish Beach' by Sarah Oakes

 

We sit on this beach where the red cliffs soar and the railway dips its toes into the sea, and my mother talks of the sands of time, and how hers will run out soon, her hourglass stopping silently at deaths door, and I try to tell her that sand is infinite, and that she still has time, but she buries my words, and doesn’t want to hear of life, and so, exhausted, I walk into the symphonic sea, delighting in cadences of calm, for I still have time, and sands to enjoy, before she wears me down.

'Grit' by Sharon Boyle

On a busy Cannes beach. Alone. Marriage over. Future hazy. Sands of time whisper through his fingers. Sand that used to be solid rock. 

The shush of waves lull him. Or perhaps it’s the supermarché plonk in his sports bottle.

If he sits here all day the waves will lick him with salty water. If he sits here for twenty-six years – the length of his marriage – will the waves’ gentle, ceaseless motion scour him to sand? 

He raises his bottle to the sea and toasts to a hazy future. Sand is durable. And gritty. It can be ground no further. 

'The Boy in the Valley' by T. A. Benefield

The young pharaoh had been taken much too soon. The usual rites and preparations were hastily carried out, falling short of the dynasty’s high standards and expectations. As for his final resting place, it was a case of finding any tomb in the valley that was large enough to house the giant sarcophagus and the essential items for the pharaoh’s journey to the Duat. Some had said that it was more than he deserved, given that his father had been a heretic. But, when the sands of time were finally swept away, his name would be spoken and immortality achieved.

'Only Three Minutes to Break(up)fast' by Mairead Robinson

You like your yolks soft, pollen sticky and sun-bright runny. I lower them in. ‘Go on,’ I say, as I flip the egg-timer. 

‘It’s just time I need,’ you say. ‘A little space.’

The sands of time spill thin as my voice when I ask you, ‘Why?’

‘Not enough grist,’ you shrug, of our dozen-years love.

‘And her name is?’ I ask. You look away as the boiling water spit-bubbles over gas-jet hiss. 

‘She’s younger,’ you admit, ‘whereas you, you’ve become so hard-boiled.’

The eggs clack-rattle in the pan. I hear a crack, so like a heart, as it splits. 

'Colours' by Stella Turner

If I had to describe myself in colours it would be yellow, orange and their vibrant hues said my best and only friend Sue, like the sands of time. I’d be red for my flaking itchy eczema, blue for my down days and vivid purple for the bruises when life crushes me, grey for the skies that constrict me and boring beige for the apathy that engulfs me. But I didn’t tell her that! Sue never has time for empathy, I smiled, nodded and carried on sipping my green tea and coveted the pink iced bun on Sue’s plate.

'Scar Tissue' by Catherine O'Brien

He owns a scar. He’s crouched by her azaleas. Imperious memories hike languidly through
the sands of time as she uses the other to insert a lightly-salted pretzel between her lips, biting
down hard. 

Her next move will most likely make the outtakes reel. The television is stark in its warning
as she eases open the patio door. Dangerous. Don’t approach. 

Her mind sparkles as she leads him inside. She’s as gentle as eiderdown but says

“You should know my heart isn’t primed for pedestrianisation. Walk on it, even let your laces
lick the kerb and you’re out.”

'Reflections of Us' by Karen Walker

 

Everywhere on the beach are tiny mirrors, the summer sands of time.    

In them, we are young and swirly. How do we look? we ask the boys, knowing, of course, we look swirly and summery.

But an old man is here, too. His time should be done. His bald head, glassy eyes bounce the sun's rays back before they can reach the mirrors, us.

When one smarty boy says the beach is not made of mirrors — Silly girls, quartz particles are refracting sunlight — we know who'll end him.

If you don't, we tell Smarty Boy, your time will never come.     

'Living The Cliché' by Lynda Mcmahon

Where do clichés come from? Do they start out as startlingly clever bon mots just to dwindle into the banal and boring? Perhaps they imagine being on the tips of the tongues of the brilliant, the á la mode, the movers and shakers. Did the person watching the hour glass know they were about to coin a cliché or did they imagine that they were being deeply philosophical when they said,

“Blimey! Life is short and if we’re not careful the sands of time will run out!”

Definitely worth running up the flagpole don’t you think? Blue sky thinking, perhaps?

'Shifting Sands' by Laura Cooney

   

           We are on the shore and I look at my daughter as she talks to imaginary mermaid friends. She has such intensity, like they’re actually here. I’ve been informed that they’re about to take her swimming.

            The other one has just started making castles by herself and is carefully arranging small shells around a tower. She wants to do it on her own and goes alone to collect the shells.

            I am momentarily alone and unnecessary. It’s passing, but still. In defiance I bury my toes into the sands of time and breathe in, as if that could stop them

'Joan Takes Control' by Suzanne de Kort

 Joan has been running for as long as she can remember, chasing dandelion fluff hovering out of reach.

 

Reality shifts and splits. Mark feeds at her breast as she watches his graduation. Penny rides her bicycle, stabilisers still attached, down the aisle, her wedding dress catching in the wheels.

 

Joan wonders if Derek has left her yet, or does it happen tomorrow.

 

She is worn out trying to untangle her life.  The way to restore order is to step over the edge. She inhales deeply, shuts her eyes, and allows the sands of time to close languidly over her head.

'The Trusting Instinct' by Abha Iyengar

“Please wait, Sir,” Grace said, “I have your payment right here.”

I saw her rummaging through her desk drawer. I stood there, large-brimmed hat in hand, watching her.

I had handed Marcella the rare shell and told her to deliver it to the merchant. Two days later, Marcella had messaged, “The merchant has said, ‘Tell him to go to this store, ask for Grace, get his payment.’ I love you.” She sent the location. 

Grace looked up. She held a small revolver in her hand.

The sands of time had run out on me.

I should never have trusted Marcella.

NFFD 2023 Prompt #12: Sands of Time

 

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2023 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of time.  Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from now until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 25 June 2023....

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To celebrate the launch of our 2023 Anthology, Prompt #12 takes its inspiration from the cover art and the 100-word limit of our annual microfiction competition (published within).  Write a flash of exactly 100 words that uses the phrase 'sands of time' somewhere within the story (and not the title).

 

Note added at 25 June 2023, 15:42 BST: oops, we didn't specify clearly whether the title count should count as part of those 100 words! Therefore, we'll accept both variations.  Your piece will be considered for publication if it's 100 words exactly with or without the title included.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 12: Sands of Time.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 25 June 2023 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 2 July 2023 by going to the here (hosted by the NFFD website).