Global Warming – Friday Flash Fiction

A little Friday flash fiction for you…

“I’m still waiting for global warming to kick in.”

“Not half. It’s been a long winter.”

British weather offered conversation for every situation. Our new neighbours—four small children and a dog—moved in last week. We watched, half-hidden behind curtains, as they installed a trampoline in their garden.

It had been cold and wet ever since.

“How old are your wee ones?”

“The twins are three, Alex is five and Karly’s six.”

The four of them had appeared, fanning out behind their dad. They regarded me coolly, shaking their head when told to say hello.

War was silently declared.

©Emma Baird 2017

A Meeting

Here’s a little flash fiction…

A Meeting

The tutor looked familiar. It took her ten seconds to remember – the sofa in her flat, ten years previously.

Did he recognise her? Hopefully not. She made sure to look at him when he talked, the way someone who has no history with another person would.

Maybe she waved her left hand about a bit too, waggling the fourth be-ringed finger. His own left hand was bare.

Nonetheless, when he said ‘good’ in response to a point she made, she glowed. At the end, she thanked him – glad that his attention was taken up by others anxious to talk.

Exes.

Flash Fiction – Two Examples

For more than two years, I wrote a flash fiction story every week. As I love alliteration, I wrote the story on a Friday so I could call it Friday flash fiction.

I stopped because I wanted to concentrate on writing books. My imagination is finite. If I use it up on short stories, there’ll be less left for books!

However, last Friday a member of a group I’m part of wrote a lovely little tale about the founder of a flash fiction group on LinkedIn. I couldn’t resist it… Here’s the original story and my response.*

The Painting Problem, by Russell Conover

The painting club was enjoying a weekly meeting, with one exception.

“Great to see so many faces here,” Bob said with a smile.

“Yeah, but I miss our founder Jill,” Ted lamented. “Wonder what happened to her?”

The painters looked at each other and shrugged. Jill had occasionally been in touch with brief updates, but compared to her flawlessly regular masterpieces before, she’d all but vanished.

“Hey–why don’t we work together on a tribute painting for Jill?” Betty suggested.

“Awesome!” Tanya exclaimed. “Then she’ll know we miss her.”

“Let’s do it. We owe our founder a shout-out.” Ray smiled.

The Wobbly Glass, by Emma Baird

“Jill? Jill? Are you there?”

In extreme circumstances, Ouija boards served a purpose. The glass whizzed across the board to the letter Y.

Ray smiled. “Okay, so she went over to the other side.”

Betty looked puzzled. “She sounded perfectly well the last time I spoke to her.”

The glass wobbled ominously. It moved from letter to letter so fast, it was impossible to keep up.

Ray nodded slowly. “I think I know what this other side is. Clarity and precision are no longer our founder’s watchwords. I think she’s been kidnapped by the stream of consciousness crew.”

 

For more Friday flash fiction, see the WordPress site, Friday flash fiction, and the website of the sane name.

*I’m duty-bound to report that there was a typo in my story. I wrote “steam of consciousness”, rather than “stream”…

Deep-Fried Marshmallows

If you’ve ever worked with clients, you’ll probably know what I mean by this short story.

Fish_n_chips“The thing is with clients… they know for sure what they don’t want, but seldom know what they do want.”

“Too right! You’re expected to be part magician/part mind reader.”

“My mind reading skills have failed me of late.”

“Well, the usual trick is to give them the opposite of what they asked for.”

“Mmm, might work. When I gave them what they requested, they hated it.”

“Oh – they really didn’t like the battered, deep-fried marshmallows with ketchup?”

“Not one bit of it.”

“You could try fish, and maybe serve it with some fried potatoes?”

“I’ll give it a shot.”

 

©Emma Baird 2016

Big Moll Rules

office cleanerYou don’t mess with big Moll…

Literally. She is our office cleaner and her baleful glance takes in our slovenly habits. Dirty coffee cups littering surfaces. Food eaten at desks. Banana skins discarded in wastepaper bins.

She thumps her broom on the floor.

“Things are gonna change round here.” She points at all of us, and lights up a cigarette.

“You can’t – ”

The glare silences me. The last two decades’ no-smoking rules don’t apply to Moll.

“I’ll stop smoking when you b*****s clean up after yourselves.”

“Aren’t you supposed – ”

I fish the banana skin out of my bin.

 

For more Friday flash fiction, please visit the website: www.fridayflashfiction.com or the WordPress blogPic thanks to Leigh Marriner on flickr.

©Emma Baird 2016

 

 

 

 

 

One IS Fun

This week’s Friday flash fiction is a little wishful thinking on my part. I’ve just acquired another cat and I’ve spent the last few days stressing about it. Cats don’t need company – FACT. 

two cats“If one is fun, two must be amazing!” Alice trilled to The Cat.

The Cat regarded her balefully. Typical human. Imposing its wants on another species. Anthromo… Anthromorphos…

What was the darn word, anyway*?

The new companion arrived. Alice opened the carrier and he emerged, blinking.

The Cat sighed. Humans needed company. He didn’t. Who wanted more competition for food, water and places to sleep?

The little one sidled up. “Hey I know you are worried, but I promise it’s all going to be fine!”

Oh this was worse! If there was anything The Cat hated, it was a sook.

 

 

*Anthropomorphism – i.e. the attribution of human traits, emotions, and intentions to non-human species. It’s  considered to be an innate tendency of human psychology.

Delia’s Daughter

SONY DSC

As a life-long fan of the pint-sized pop princess, Delia was determined her first-born daughter would be named in her honour. Little Kylie Jones was duly monikered.

Two days in to motherhood (and having bored their family and friends senseless with endless entreaties to marvel at their daughter’s tiny eyes/nose/ears/fingers/hiccups) a letter arrived. It had an ominous air of officialdom to it.

“The name Kylie is trademarked!” Davy Jones exclaimed in horror. “We can’t use it.”

Delia Smith smarted: “Surely not? Surely you can’t do that, can you…?”

 

©Emma Baird 2016

 

OK, I couldn’t resist this story after reading about Kylie Minogue’s bid to stop Kylie Jenner trademarking the name Kylie. Go read the story – the legal wording of the opposition is hilarious…

Job Satisfaction

breadThe baker did her best. She sourced artisan flours from organic wheat. She hand-kneaded dough and left it to prove for a long time – often overnight.

She nurtured a sour dough starter, lovingly tending it and feeding it ever day so that she could produce the most delicious bread, rich and chewy its flavour fizzing on the tongue.

Naturally such bread did not come cheap. Her loaves were four times as expensive as supermarket squishy sponge as she referred to it.

Did you go into the business to make money, her friends asked?

No, only to make dough she was able to reply.

 

©Emma Baird 2016

A SANDWICH AT THE END OF THE NIGHT

sandwich 2A little short story for you – that could become something longer…

They met at university – that is to say, Nell was a student at university and Digby was a 20-year-old young entrepreneur who had figured out that the students who came into his High Street deli shop for gourmet sandwiches might appreciate the availability of those sandwiches at other times.

Times such as a Thursday night, post the weekly disco held in the union hall.

He had persuaded his dad to lend him the money to buy a cheap van, which he then converted into a mobile sandwich-making and preparing venue and he parked outside the union hall every Thursday from 10pm. At that time of the night, he was targeting the swotty students who weren’t prepared to sacrifice study time on a Friday for a hangover.

As the night progressed though, sales rose dramatically. He had always been a practical person and he couldn’t understand why students wouldn’t reason to themselves that they were only yards from their student halls and bedsits so why not conjure up their own sandwiches at tiny costs to themselves?

As he said to his Thursday night sandwich assistant, ‘ours is not to reason why’ (congratulating himself on the high-brow sound of the phrase which seemed imminently suitable for the university setting) as they enjoyed raking in money from the leery students who crowded round the van and demanded sandwiches, often two at a time.

Nell wasn’t a frequenter of the Thursday night disco. Not because she was a swotty type – though she had progressed well at university so far – but because she loathed not being able to hear herself think and being chatted up by drunken morons. (Her words, not theirs.) Continue reading