Flash fiction is a comparatively recent author challenge.

There is a strict word count and the piece, not counting a title, should be an exact number of words. Exact! In these cases the number of words is 100 (could be 200 or 250 - whatever is selected), except for the last which is 210. Do the authors hit the target spot on? The last 100-worder, by the way, was written by a 14 year old.

Flash Fiction 1

The major was very drunk, very benevolent and had woken us up to see if we were all right. The sergeant considered officers to be gods, and majors to be the makers of gods. The major decided to go, since we were all right. Outside he pulled at his car door but it would not budge. The sergeant knew why but dare not speak.The major pulled, jerked, the car rocked. The sergeant spun in terror. In the end I felt it best to speak out of turn and said, “Sir, you are trying to get into the wrong car.”

Flash Fiction 2

I found the car keys in the lettuce bowl in the fridge. I was not looking for them, had I been looking for them I would not have found them. How could I have imagined the keys to have been there? My poor demented mother. To make matters worse father was in denial about her condition. Perhaps a different approach was needed. I went into the front room where they sat together, hand in hand, watching WWF Wrestling. “Where are the car keys?” I asked mother. “In the lettuce bowl in the fridge, where else would they be?” said father.

Flash Fiction 3

When I walked into the room a gossamer thread from a spider caught my face. I thought nothing of it. The following morning I slipped back into the room after breakfast as the cleaning boys were changing the bedding. “Tarantula!” I yelled for there on the wall was a huge spider. One of the boys took his broom and scooped the spider from the wall. “Don’t kill it!” I shouted. “Not kill,” said the boys. They flicked it away onto the garden. The spider made a dash into the sunken pond. There was a flurry of fish and no spider.

Flash Fiction 4

Sorry to break this pattern of betrayal, but I really need to be faithful just this once. I ate all the packets of crisps that were sitting in the cupboard yesterday. I ate each packet of crisps like I have never eaten before. But still, despite the deliciousness, I feel guilty that Father Wilkinson worked hard and came home to no crisps. He is so caring and yet I stole his crisps. How do I repent? I took selfishly and I ate shamefully! Today I plan to find out where he hides his money and buy him some new crisps.

Flash Fiction 5

A spider invaded my house. I could hear the arachnid crawling whilst I tried to sleep. For weeks it kept me awake. I needed to be rid of this irritating insect, so I invested in a frog. The frog ate the spider. Now the frog kept me awake with its constant croaking. I needed to sleep. So I went to the pet shop and bought a cat. The cat killed the frog. But the cat kept scratching the walls, ruining the wallpaper and so I got a dog. I bought a snake, then a lion. Now I need something bigger.

 Flash Fiction 6 (210 Limit)

Kasun rang me to get some weed. I rang Freddy, my dealer, and his brother said he had been arrested. I rang Kasun and told him Freddy had been arrested. He said he could not get out to link with his dealer, BB – that stood for Big Boi. “Who he?” asked I. “Listen, this is his number.” I listened. I rang BB and he said, “Who you, man?” I said, “Kasun said to ring.” “OK. Meet me at the Parade.” “Where?” “ The Indian.” “The restaurant?” “Where else?” I went there. This big black car pulls up. And this bigger black bloke gets out and I say, “Hi.” He looks me up and down like he’s stripping me for a rape and says nothing. “You selling weed?” He nods and puts my clothes back on. I give him a fiver, he gives me the plastic bag. He gets back in the car and I go to Kasun, then I go home to carry on with revising for A Level Ballet Theory. My phone rings. “Where are you, man?” “Who are you, mate?” “This is BB at the Indian.” “I just seen you, bought the weed init?” “No - what you talkin about?” And I begin to think very fast – then who was that big black bloke?

Croydon Writers