Flooding for National Flash-Fiction Day 2013

Yes, it's that time again, and the journal originally created for National Flash-Fiction Day will take to the virtual airwaves once again with a fourth edition.

The aim is simple, wherever you are in the world, we want your best flash-fictions. The word limit is 500 words, but that's the only rule. Any subject, any genre, any style, any perspective, anything as long as it's flash.

Submissions close at the 23.59, Thursday 20th June 2013 (BST), so don't delay.

The stories will be posted regularly throughout the day on National Flash-Fiction Day itself, Saturday 22nd June, providing you with a constant diet of brand new flash-fictions to fill your day.

Please paste your story into the body of your email and send it to flashfloodjournal@gmail.com. (A maximum of 3 pieces per author, please. Previously published stories are okay, but please include a citation to the original version.)

We can't wait to read your work!



Please note: Because of the flood of entries we receive, the editors will be unable to provide feedback on stories or give reasons for rejections. There are many reasons other than the quality of your story (a topic which has already been accepted, a topic which is over-used, veering more towards poetry than the editor likes, veering less towards poetry than the editor likes, personal taste) so please don't be disheartened or offended if your piece doesn't make it in.

And that's all folks - Issue 3

Well, that's the end of issue 3 of the NFFD journal, FlashFlood. We have had a huge range of stories, and I hope you have enjoyed reading them. Don't worry if you haven't had a chance to read them all, as the stories will stay up for you to read at your leisure.

Please carry on leaving your comments and sharing/tweeting your favourites.

If you've enjoyed the stories, please do sign up with National Flash-Fiction Day through Facebook, Twitter or our mailing list, as there will be a lot more coming in the next few months. NFFD is on 22nd June this year, and we hope to see you all again then.

In the meantime, we are now looking for stories for our anthology. It's 4 weeks until the deadline, so plenty of time to put fingers to keyboards and send us a story or two. All details are on the NFFD website at www.nationalflashfictionday.co.uk.

So, until then, enjoy the stories and keep flashing!

All the best from The FlashFlood Editors.

'Father and Son' by Amy Rainbow

The crying’s the hardest. Every night. For hours.

It’s just me and him, now that my wife’s gone. I’m not bad at the bathing or dressing or hair brushing, but the crying… We have a routine at bedtime. He likes routine. Teeth, pyjamas, warm milk, sleep. Except he doesn’t sleep, not for long.

Today was a six out of ten day. I managed to wash the bedding and finally fit that stair gate. He’s started coming out onto the landing at night, and the thought of him falling…

I guess this stuff comes naturally to some people. To women. He follows me everywhere; I can’t even pee in peace. Oh, and the food. One day it’s finger foods, the next day it has to be puréed. I snapped today. Threw the whole bloody lot in the bin. And that look in his eyes… I took him into the garden and we sat and watched the birds. He loves watching birds.

That’s him now. I’d better go up.

As I open the door, ammonia air hits me. I wash him, change him, change the sheets, tuck him back in. I turn off the lamp. He begins to whimper.

‘Please! Just sleep!’

I slump down, hum a lullaby that my dad used to sing. Why can’t I be patient like him? He soothed me to sleep, nursed me through chickenpox, picked me up after broken hearts. Always there for me, such a kind and gentle man.

The room is silent. I stand.  Another whimper.

‘Shut up!’

I raise my hand and even in the darkness he knows. I collapse to my knees, hug him tightly, rocking, both of us sobbing now, both of us appalled at what we have become.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m so sorry, Dad. I love you.’



[First published in A Flash of Fiction the 2012 Worcestershire Literary Festival anthology. ]

'Exposed: An Exhibition' by Leigh Bunkin

I hang by my neck, from an alabaster cord, swaying in the air-conditioned breeze of the museum. My insides trail out of me, leaving a pile of paper excrement on the floor. The guard’s laughter echoes through the high ceilinged rooms, signaling that it is morning.

I watch as the first tour of the day is provided by a docent in a sleek navy dress and white open-toed sandals. Thick plump pearls hug her neck. Straight black bobbed hair swings like a curtain at each toss of her head.

A group of people gather around a head that lies in the middle of the floor. Strands of milky, paper noodles surround the exposed skull. “As you can see this is a very unusual show. This head, for instance. The instructions from the artist were to display it on the floor. You can try it on--not really--just kidding. Remember don’t touch anything in the exhibit.

The crowd follows her to the next body, which like most of us in the exhibit, is thumb-tacked to the wall. This flimsy paper body has a chain of paper loops dangling between her legs. Her arms hang lifeless, empty breasts dangle.  “Oh my, now this is interesting. The idea behind this piece is that we are chained to the skin we have and if we don’t like it--well too bad! Play the hand you are dealt.”

“Watch out. Please walk around the bones.”

Next the group stands in front of half a body. “In this piece the artist shows her concern about the issue of how children are treated in our society. Is the baby dead or sleeping? What do you think?” She is greeted by blank stares as they look at the deflated paper baby dangling from a chalky umbilical cord. “No questions? Let’s move on.”

The next woman hangs pinned by her hair. Her circulatory system, a mass of blood red ribbons, cascades out of her body to the floor. Silver tears streak her cheeks.

Next they are looking at a picture of our creator on the wall. “This is a self portrait of the artist. She makes these pictures by laying her head and hair on a copy machine.  There’s a portrait of her hair. She’s quite into hair. You can see how pretty she is, but don’t forget, the point of the whole show is that beauty is only skin deep.”

The next wall is completely covered with sheets of eyes, our eyes, tinted blue, brown, green. “Now this piece represents the fact that the eyes are the windows to the soul. Nice, very nice.”

“Are there any questions? Well, if not, then this is the end of our tour today. Please feel free to look about on your own.”

The group scatters, huddling in smaller groups, whispering among themselves. The air-conditioned breeze ruffles our eyes enabling us to observe them watching us, as we envy the bodies they still have.

'Evonium' by Samuel Best

At the edge of the lake, a man bends to dip his fingers in the water. He brings them to his mouth and sucks. The water is bitter and leaves a salty aftertaste. Nearby on the shore, a fish carcass rots; its tail frayed, skin withered and wet. Dead eyes stare up at the baking sun. The man spits, turns from the water and retreats to a bench. He used to sit here as a child, eating dry sandwiches and fishing the summers through. It’s been a while since he visited and he’s sure he remembers things differently. 

'Snowglobe' by Angi Holden

Everyone keeps talking about the weather. There's other news of course: a couple who have gone missing with the proceeds of a charity auction; an elderly lady bludgeoned to death in her bungalow; a cabinet minister photographed in a seedy night-club with his secretary. Lisa leans back against her pillow and wonders if that even counts as news.

But it's the weather that everybody seems interested in. The third bout of snow since New Year, and this time there has been chaos. Not just in the Highlands of Scotland where, let's face it, the people are more prepared, more resourceful and are actually expecting to be snowed-in once in a while. No, this time there has been chaos in places more often associated with sunny photos in holiday brochures. She knows of a friend caught in a blizzard, who left her car and togged up in all-weather gear walked to safety. It was a week before they dug the car out.

For Lisa, the weather has been a distraction. Propped up in her sixth-floor hospital bed, she has watched the world beneath her turn into some snow-globe image of the city she knows.

Around her, patients have come and gone. Often the weather has been to blame. An elderly man, who had slipped on the icy steps by the Arndale. A woman who was cut from an overturned car. A teenager knocked down when crossing the road, her turned-up hood obliterating her view of the oncoming van. Each has their own story, and over the past few weeks most of the tales have been about the weather.

Lisa would like hers to be the same. She too would like to be able to blame something (an unseen pothole) or someone (a councillor who voted against spreading salt on the pavements) but she knows it was her fault. If only she'd got the steps out instead of climbing on that chair. If only.

The porter comes to collect her in the wheelchair.

'Time for physio,' he says, cheerfully. 'Come on. It gets better ever day. It's always the first steps that are the hardest.'

He's talking about the physical ones, of course. The pain in a limb, the strain on a muscle.

Lisa nods. She knows there is nobody to blame but herself. She accepts that now. It wasn't the uneven floor. Or the wonky leg. It was her and her impatience. And accepting that, she knows she's on the way to recovery.

'Yes,' she says. 'The first steps always are.'

Behind her, the snowglobe swirls beyond the window

'The Lost World' by Zoe Gilbert

She worked every night until she had built a planet. She added snowy, glittering peaks of joy and lethargic seas of sorrow. She cut rivers leaping with silver fish of hope and lined them with soft ferns of forgetting. Somewhere near the equator, on a green and misty landmass, she glued a house, but before she pressed it into the bosom of its own valley, she drew her heart on the bottom, secret in the foundations.

As she walked to the park, slowly, for she had not exercised in the weeks of building and her legs felt weak, she let the planet bob behind her on a long ribbon tied around its waist. She found him on the bench where they had sat so often.

 “I have brought you a gift,” she said.

“What is it?” He looked down at her pockets and into her eyes, searching.

“Can’t you see?” she replied. He glanced at the ground, then, spattered with wet leaves.

“I’ve nothing for you,” he said. “I tried, but I couldn’t get it right.”

She felt the wind tugging at the planet and drew it closer to her, until it hovered over her lap. She put her arms around it and hugged it. “I made this for you,” she said, and let her cheek rest against the grass of the rolling landmass, just beside the house that hid her heart.

His smile then was nervous. She let go of the planet and put the end of the ribbon in his hand, and as he stared down into his palm the ribbon slid across it like a river and the planet juddered and then sailed upwards, over the trees, until it was no larger in her eye than a lost balloon, and then it was gone.