'She Fell in the Night' by Donna M Day

I need to report the death of my mother. I found her when I came over this morning. The hall
light had been left on. The double bed is undisturbed. She’s eighty and her cat is sleeping
next to her. She dropped her cup going up to bed, I think.

Transcript of 999 call begins: “I need to report the death of my mother.” Deceased is female,
eighty years old. Dressed in a pink nightgown. A ginger tabby was found sleeping next to the
body. The hall light had been left on. The double bed is undisturbed. A blue china mug was
found three feet from the body. The deceased’s son reported the death. Unlocked the door
prior to calling the police. No signs of disturbance. Everything indicates that the deceased
was alone at the time of the incident.

You can do this. Tell them you found her when you came home. The hall light had been left
on. The double bed is undisturbed. The damn cat can’t say anything. It’d look dodgy if
anything happened to him as well. Come on. Deep breath. I need to report the death of my
mother.

'Impression 9' by Jeremy Boyce

Writtle-wrattle, bump-swing, hurrying downwards into view, metal and glass hang swing slowing gradually to near stop but not. Quite. Hiss grind trundle swing slowly along the rubber runway all laid flat out for easy walking in stiff high boots tightly locked, clumping and carrying. Big wheel big teeth gearing smooths the passage opening doors for getting in and out. Yellow line this way please. Steel strands twisted woven cabling up down round and round, for endless riding, ovine steel and glass sturdy strong in perfect numbered safety one after the other before the other, keep your distance, mind the gap. Clump out, clump in, outside storage for outsize items, take your seats soggy cushion sit down, closely squeezed or all alone, no reservations needed or possible, good morning, cabin crew seats for take off. Writtle-wrattle bump-swing, hiss grind trundle swing doors closed now for upwards downwards journeys. In to out of the down up unknown. Important messaging under window open cold air, steam breath warm drifting up and out to join the passing birdsong. Do not lean, no swinging, feet hands off, rauch verboten, non sporgersi. Silent slide glide taking in the view, open window steel and glass writtle-wrattle of the passing pylons. Steel strands woven twisted tested for perfect numbered safety and endless riding. Passing by, passing up, passing down. Writtle-wrattle bump-swing hiss grind trundle doors open rubber runway step clump to another world perspective. Hats, gloves on or off, this way or that way. Yellow line rubber mat, safety in numbers. The only way is round and round.  

'Say It Again' by Suzanna Lundale

“Idiot,” Matt muttered, letting his head rest on the steering wheel. “Idiot, idiot… You could not have screwed that up more if you tried.” With a shuddering sigh, he looked up at the building – her building. The building she had walked into without a backward glance after he had looked at her, stunned at his good fortune, when she said those words. Desperately, he racked his brain for some way of apologizing – flowers, chocolate, none of the classics would work this time. Maybe, just maybe… Yes, he grinned to himself, thinking of the junk in the back of his car that he still hadn’t taken to Goodwill, even though he’d told his mom he had. There was a boombox in among that junk, bulkier than the one in the movie, maybe, but he could lift it. It might work, it could work, it had to work.

'Falling Forward' by Coleman Bigelow

“Well, you only have one life to live,” my girlfriend, Shelly, said, leaping from the airplane, a strange man strapped to her back. We’d only been dating for two months, but already she had me questioning every notion of my identity. If she’d asked me to walk across hot coals, I might have considered it. Somehow, she’d overwhelmed my overactive disaster imagination.

And there I was, in the ultimate one life to live moment, as the plane’s engines roared and deafened and the thin air of ten thousand feet whipped around me in the emptied-out cabin. Another strange man, this one attached to my back, squeezed my shoulder and maneuvered us toward the gaping doorway. “Remember, all you have to do is fall forwards.” 

I asked again if falling backwards was an exit option. I could see the man smirking over my shoulder. “Nope. There’s only one way out.” One way out of this one life to live, I thought. But I didn’t want out. I wanted back in. I was skilled at letting things rush up at me without facing them head on. My sister’s cancer, my parent’s divorce, my fourth-choice college. My long-term girlfriend, who got bored with the long-term. And now Shelly. Little Shelly, with her diminutive stature and giant personality, whom I’d met on a snowy night. Little Shelly, who peered up at me from her fur-lined parka with all-knowing owl eyes and soon convinced me to go sledding at two AM. Little Shelly, who, by the end of the night had provided me with a broken thumb and an expansive future. 

I was falling now and, although Shelly was not my tandem, she was the one who’d made me face forward—tumbling toward the strange (but not unlovable) man I’d become.

'Hushed' by Laura Cooney

 

Split, a bit. Kernelled like this pistachio.

I look up at the ghost branches of the near moonlit tree, gossamer glints in the last moments of gloaming. The buds are begging to bloom before summer begins.

 

And, I wonder,

Is this me?

 

The steam around me floats in tendrils, from tub to sky. It aspires to be cloud, loch, river, stream or ocean, it does not matter.

 

And I wonder,

Is this me?

 

As the last of the birdsong fades around me and breeze burgeons to wind. I see myself with you.

De-shelled, on a wide balcony.

 

There and slide not there. Never there, not when it matters.

 

Below us, are alpine valleys, bustling cities and quiet countryside.

It does not matter.

 

I am hushed and the hush settles upon my rushing soul.

 

And I wonder,

Is this me?

'The Second Mrs de Winter’s Book Club' by Ruth Allen-Humphreys

 

We are reading Rebecca. “Thoughts?” I am jealous that Rebecca is dead. I find that I have said this aloud and now people are looking at me. I shrug, leaving the curiosity hanging in the air. A tug at my elbow turns into an invitation for coffee. We are fellow Second Mrs de Winter’s. I leave with handy hints on how to deal with the haunting by someone who isn’t dead.

It is one triumph to every three hauntings, by someone who isn’t dead. I mention getting a dog, he says “not this again.” We have never talked of it; he is haunted by a conversation with someone who isn’t dead. I clock up the time that we have been together with greed. It will be another seven years until our relationship out lasts there’s. She lived in this house, and I do not know which room they shared. When I tell my fellow Second Mrs de Winters this, they suggest burning it down.

My husband is in the garden when his phone starts ringing. I see her name, still carrying our surname. What to do? I edge my hand towards the lock button and click, ending the call. The action is intoxicating. She rings again. What to do? I click again, again and again. What to do? I push his phone under a pile of papers and walk away, setting in motion a row so spectacular that I suspect you could hear it from space.

That night I suggest we watch the film version of Rebecca. He tells me that he is jealous of Maxim. I savour every juicy morsel of my triumph to tell my fellow Second Mrs de Winters. I suggest that our next book is Frenchman’s Creek. I have a fancy for freedom, and a pirate.

NFFD 2023 Prompt #3: Third Time’s a Charm

 

Third Time’s a Charm

 

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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Write a piece in which you have three sets of three repeated lines or phrases.  How you structure the piece is up to you, as long as you include three things that are each repeated three times.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 3: Third Time’s a Charm.

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).