Friday, 22 June 2012

'Potting for the Other Side' by Oscar Windsor-Smith


It was an unusual place to hold a séance. Well, I'm assuming it was an unusual place. I'd never been to one before. Perhaps they often hold meetings with the hereafter in branches of Anne Summers.

Seemingly it all started with a remark someone made at around closing time in the Dog and Duck last Saturday about Carol Ridgley's old man. Well, the remark was actually about her old man's old man, if you get my drift. About his todger, pork sword, donger, salami, or – according to a familiar voice from the back of the scrum at last orders, partly drowned out by the clash of glasses and tinkle of loose change – his limp chipolata. 

"Is there anybody there?"

We were hand-to-hand, two deep and crotch to bottom, round the dildo display when Gypsy Rose Arkwright – her that works three nights a week stocking shelves at Scunthorpe ASDA – began her spiel. The lights were out but we could see quite well by the glow of luminous accessories.

"We are here to call up the spirit of Sam Ridgley's departed penis," she said, all serious like until a voice from the back row that sounded remarkably like Carol pointed out that it was the spirit that was missing not the penis. Then the same voice admitted it was an academic point.

Things became a bit heated when another voice said there was nothing at all wrong with Samuel's equipment. To be honest, in the half-light it was difficult to see who said what, and who was doing what to whom. But at some point Carol showed her colours, turned on the lights, and knocked hell out of a leggy blonde who it transpired was a bloke called Bert Higgins, singing sensation of the floorshow at Pinkies Gay Bar in the high street.

It seems Sam and Bert had been getting it together on the nights Sam was supposed to be learning to throw pots at our local art college.

It's turned out okay though for both parties, or so I hear. Sam's taken up playing the maracas and joined Bert in a double act. And Carol, thanks to some wise investments in underwear and batteries-not-included accessories from Anne Summers, is performing hot and sticky reruns of scenes from Ghost with a virile young pottery tutor she met at the art college.

So, all's well that ends with a smooth finish, eh?

Thursday, 21 June 2012

NFFD NZ Write-In

It's National Flash-Fiction Day in New Zealand, so we're launching another Write-In.Starting at 1pm BST (midnight in New Zealand, the start of their Day) and running until midnight on 22nd June BST (35 hours in total) we want you to respond to a theme and send us your stories. 

As New Zealand and the UK are on opposite sides of the world, our theme will be 'The Opposite Side'. Take that however you like - the other side of the world, the other side of the coin, the other side of the street - we don't care, it's your story, make it what you will!

Max word count is 500 and there are no limits on style or genre. Please send your stories to: nffdwritein@gmail.com with your work in the body of the email and your full name included and we'll post them up. Just one story per writer, please.

We can't wait to see your stories!
Oh, and please spread the word. We'd love as many stories as possible, from all over the globe!

Now, let's do that antipodean flash thing!

Friday, 18 May 2012

'Other Uses' by Davis W


When I felt the bullet enter my heart….
….I wondered what on Earth the wife was doing with that toy of hers.

' “Do The Hustle” ' by Davis W


“Come on then, everybody on your feet and pair up!”
“Look, this is a retirement home. Doris over there can’t even stand.”
“So there isn’t going to be a hustle?”
“Nope.”
“In that case, hand over your wallets.”

'Earrings' by Davis W


They say a lot about the person wearing them.
“Check mine out,” said Jess, proudly presenting the silver studs that her mother had stolen for her.
“Boring!” Sophie exclaimed, “Look at mine!” She pulled back blonde hair to reveal dangly ornaments that looked like splintered sunlight.
“That’s nothing,” a passing stranger said. The black swastikas hanging from his lobes were clearly discernible against the white of his bald head.

'The Girl With The Dragon Toga' by Davis W


She hated being likened to her sister. And besides, she’d got her own story.
Some people said the girl with the dragon toga had made her toga from the scales of real dragons.
The girl with the dragon toga was amused by those superstitions.
Human skin was much easier to acquire.

'The Smell Of Old Books' by Antosh W


 Really adds a sentimental quality to the fumes of an open, living room fire.