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Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction Three: Creative [Non]Fiction

18 April 2018

 

Image by Ilsa Harun


ALL THE TRUTH THAT YOU CAN FIT IN 100 WORDS AND UNDER

 

We kept a jar of my grandmother’s chilli pickle in the freezer while my father flew to Malaysia for her funeral.

BY KAREENA DHALIWAL


TO THE LAST STITCH

To the last stitch I knew him
and his power behind the pompous rage.

But nothing changed for what I knew.

He left behind his mark
like prints clawed to their stony mount.

Now I see him: a crown of horns
to commemorate the last he had of it.

BY MICHAEL DAVIES


LEASH

It’s late at night, and I am driving. My sister is in the front and Mum is in the back.

“You were a delightful child,” says Mum, to my sister. “You”—to me—“were a little shit. We had to put you on a leash.”

“No,” I say. “I was not a leash child.”

“Yes you were,” my sister says. “Don’t you remember?”

I think. I don’t remember ever being on a leash.

“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” my sister says.

“Why did you put me on a leash?” I snap.

“Because you would have run away,” Mum says.

BY JESSE PARIS-JOURDAN


THE TASTE OF COKE

I was never allowed Coca-Cola when I was kid. I’m not sure why. Other soft drinks were allowed, but never Coke.

The only exception was when we visited Grandma and Grandad. Grandad and I would walk downstairs to the bar. He would pour the Coke into my special mug.

As the years went on, I had to get the Coke bottles myself. He was always waiting though, smiling as he sat at the dinner table.

Years passed. I remember standing with my parents and sister, looking at the bar, as we cleared out the last few possessions and then left the house for good.

Sometimes, when I’m lucky, I have a sip of Coke and get the feeling again. I’m back there. And he’s smiling as we walk back upstairs and fetch my special mug, a bottle of Coke in his hand.

BY HARRY BAKER


You would think that the weather report had just warned us of an impending natural disaster.

Movement only resulted in sore feet. I had already stopped counting the number of times I had been bumped into as people squeezed by each other. The aisles were clogged with trolleys as hands stretched out to clear shelves of food. The supermarket was going to close the next day. For one day. I didn’t understand it. But my parents did. So I was stuck pushing the trolley.

BY NINA WANG


TO TASK

Here, Dad, I’ll come to task,
perhaps to a chin as Greek as mine,
or instead of coins to maps: least one of Red Hill.
I’ll manage each apace with change,
which tantalises, like the place you grew-up.

BY MICHAEL DAVIES


SEND US YOUR TINY WORDS: EDITION FIVE’S PROMPT IS ECOLOGICAL APOCALYPSE: THE END OF THE WORLD

Send your 100-word-and-under cli-fi disaster fiction to editors@farragomagazine.com


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