'Ruby Cabernet' by Laura Cooney

The thing was, she really didn’t see it coming.

 

She should probably have seen it coming, if this had been a movie, we’d all have seen it coming, there would’ve been a music change, the camera would’ve panned out and we’d have felt it. 

But, as always, she had her nose in her phone and was totally absorbed. So she really didn’t see it coming.

How many social sites are there anyway? Most people can sustain two. She had six, all six of the main sites and she was never off them. Sometimes she’d be talking to the same people on two of them simultaneously, it was that bad. 

It was the fourth day of the holiday and the photos she took made it look like it was her ideal, but, if she was being honest, she wasn’t really enjoying it. Her husband Craig was avidly listening to this dude talking about Cabernet grapes and how hardy and blendable they were… boring and pointless. It was pissing her off, though it was an Insta post waiting to happen!

Last night Craig bored her to death in the vineyard restaurant, acting like he had a clue about the wine. It was wet, it was red, that was all that mattered.

The server had clearly noticed her, she’d liked that. Exciting! She wondered if it would lead anywhere. Tonight perhaps?

What she hadn’t noticed, on account of the phone, was that he had followed them there. He liked the way she brushed the hair from the nape of her neck, he’d chosen her. She’d like that.

 

So that was how it came to pass, in the vineyard, while she posted photos of herself drinking deep ruby cabernet, he, shockingly brazen, covered her mouth and pulled her back into the vines. Looking down at the blood, from her freshly exposed belly, he smiled. It was wet, it was red, that was all that mattered. 

'Chocolate Pumpkin Bread' by Donna M Day

Every Halloween, Mummy makes chocolate pumpkin bread. Every year, I come home to comforting cinnamon. Warm and sweet, with a sharp edge, like cough medicine.

I tiptoe through the front garden, past the glowing pumpkins and into the hall filled with ghosts, bats and spiderwebs.

I can hear Mummy in the kitchen and imagine her smiling as she stirs the thick brown spiced dough. 

When I walk in, she is laying the pumpkin seeds and leftover chocolate chips on top of the loaf.

The oven has made our small kitchen very hot, and the counters are covered in mixing bowls and spice jars.

I creep up behind Mummy and hug her. She smiles. It’s our annual treat. Every Halloween, she makes chocolate pumpkin bread and every year we hug right before she puts it in the oven.

Daddy walks in, kisses her and starts returning the jars to the spice rack.

‘Ah, cinnamon,’ he says. ‘That smell. That’s how you know it’s autumn.’

‘We’ll need to get more before Christmas,’ she replies, filling the sink with soapy water. ‘There won’t be enough for my special reindeer macarons.’

I won’t be able to come back at Christmas. The veil is too thick by midwinter.

I love you, Mummy and Daddy, and I’ll see you again next year.

'Night Terrors' by Nick Fogg

His key fumbles in the lock. I shrink under the covers. Maybe tonight he’ll just fall asleep.

The bed sags. His alcohol-foul breathing slows. I unclench my eyes.

But the space beside me is empty.

How can it be? I wasn’t asleep.

A hesitant knock at the front door. A wrung-out policewoman tells me there’s been an accident: his car, a tree. Nothing anyone could do. She’s so sorry.

I thank her, turn away. She mustn’t see my heart dancing.

Restless, I strip the bed, let the shower’s warmth caress my body.

As I slide between clean sheets, a whisper slurs from the darkness, “You know I’ll never leave you, don’t you?”

I whisper back, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

—Previously published in Tortive Theatre’s inaugural #FlashFiction101 competition in 2020.

The Biscuit Factory by Lisa Williams

 He’d wet himself; possibly worse. We were all trying to not notice that. He kept repeating that he

was waiting for his Mum. She was meeting him. Double shift at the Biscuit Factory apparently. His

Dad was working away so she’d promised him chips on the way home. I know we all felt sorry for

him but didn’t know what to do.

I noticed then the flats there were called The Biscuit Factory and it dawned on me.

He was agitated. I was imagining my own Grandad there. I went over to ask gently whether he knew

where he lived.

'Springing' by Dimitra Fimi

The back garden looks like a meadow. Daddy said he wanted to do “No Mow May”
this year, but I think he just couldn’t be bothered with the back garden. Which is a
good thing as it’s a paradise for bees and damsel flies and ladybirds now.

It’s a sunny, sparkling day, and mummy has hung the clothes out to dry for the first
time since last summer. Garments are flapping gently in the breeze, brushing the tips
of the long grass, the yellow poppies, and clusters of that strange orange flower, with
baby orange flowers all around, competing for space atop a slender stem. Mummy
says it’s called “fox and cub”. 

Daddy said he saw fox poo in the front garden. Perhaps there’s a real fox and its
cubs hiding somewhere behind this jungle of grasses.

I know it’s time.

I sit under the apple tree and wait. 

A ladybird lands on my tummy. It walks up the length of my torso and I see it flying
up, touching the tip of my nose, and disappearing above my head. 

On the washing line, the sleeve of daddy’s blue shirt picks up an orange flower and
hands it to mummy’s lilac blouse. The blouse hugs the shirt.

Then soft fur brushes my ear. “Look at them!”, says the fox, nodding at two tawny
tails frolicking among the flowers. “Aren’t they the most beautiful children in the
world?” 

I close my eyes and let the sun write secret messages on the inside of my eyelids. 

I smile and whisper the right answers back to him. 

There. I’ve made the spring spread sprightly again.

'She Looks So Like Her Mother' by Adele Evershed

Someone said as I walked past them. It wasn't true; we only shared our slant wrinkles - they rose across our foreheads like angry sergeant-major stripes and our love of gin. My sister, on the other hand, was the spit of her dark blue winter eyes, lips like a guppy from too much filler, and a long sharp nose that could smell anybody's bull shit. Like my mother, Jojo was beautiful, whereas on my good days, I'd been described as handsome, which, unless you are a man, is a label usually used to describe a prize cow or a pumpkin. But she wasn't here, so I didn't have to suffer the unfavorable comparison with my only sibling. Since the time Jojo could walk, I'd suffered her presence like a blister from an ill-fitting shoe. It suffices to say I didn't miss her, and I was rather enjoying the look of confusion on the faces of the people who enquired after her when I said she couldn't make it. Of course, I never told them the reason - that Jojo was heavily pregnant so that she couldn't fly.

Later, after the toasts and tears, another person told me I had my mother's smile as if I'd taken a putty knife, lifted her turned-up lips like old wallpaper, and pasted them on my face. It was an odd thing to say, as I didn't know the greying gentleman, so how on earth would he know? It's not like I'd been smiling during my mother's funeral.

NFFD 2024 Prompt #20: Element of Surprise

 

Prompt #20: Element of Surprise
ELEMENTS prompt E

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2024 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of The Classical Elements - Air, Earth, Water and Fire. Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from 00:00 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, 16 June 2024....

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Write a flash with a twist ending.  Can you make the twist feel 'earned' such that it's enjoyable to read and re-read the story even after the twist is discovered?

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 20: Element of Surprise.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 16 June 2024 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt by visiting the badgifier here (hosted by the NFFD website).

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