Sudden Flash
Satisfying Your Appetite For Yummy Bites of Micro Prose
The Laughing Class
by Huina Zheng
At 8:20 a.m., just as the first-period bell faded, Teacher Chen’s piercing voice filled the classroom. Since becoming their homeroom teacher in fourth grade, she had called them “stupid,” “disgusting,” and “brainless,” though to parents she insisted that “strict teachers produce top students.”
Lan, as class monitor, sat upright with a serious expression. It was her duty to set the example. Yet inside she bristled. She disliked this teacher, and even more, the endless scolding.
Let something happen. Make her stop, she shouted in her head.
She kept her back straight, for lowering her head was not allowed; she kept her hands on the desk, since hiding them below would only invite more fury. Teacher Chen, gesturing as she lectured on discipline, knocked over her water cup. Tea spread in widening circles across the podium and dripped to the floor. Lan pressed her lips tight, but her deskmate Ling let out a snicker. Instantly, the room caught fire: muffled giggles swelled into loud, unrestrained laughter. Lan joined in, her voice rising until it drowned out Teacher Chen’s scolding.
Teacher Chen’s face darkened. “Quiet! Be quiet!” she shouted. But the class only laughed harder, their voices rattling the desks and spilling into the hallway, storming into the next classroom.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
At 8:20 a.m., just as the first-period bell faded, Teacher Chen’s piercing voice filled the classroom. Since becoming their homeroom teacher in fourth grade, she had called them “stupid,” “disgusting,” and “brainless,” though to parents she insisted that “strict teachers produce top students.”
Lan, as class monitor, sat upright with a serious expression. It was her duty to set the example. Yet inside she bristled. She disliked this teacher, and even more, the endless scolding.
Let something happen. Make her stop, she shouted in her head.
She kept her back straight, for lowering her head was not allowed; she kept her hands on the desk, since hiding them below would only invite more fury. Teacher Chen, gesturing as she lectured on discipline, knocked over her water cup. Tea spread in widening circles across the podium and dripped to the floor. Lan pressed her lips tight, but her deskmate Ling let out a snicker. Instantly, the room caught fire: muffled giggles swelled into loud, unrestrained laughter. Lan joined in, her voice rising until it drowned out Teacher Chen’s scolding.
Teacher Chen’s face darkened. “Quiet! Be quiet!” she shouted. But the class only laughed harder, their voices rattling the desks and spilling into the hallway, storming into the next classroom.
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
The Woodpecker War’s First Casualty
by Salena Casha
Martin had taken to wearing pajamas and applying a stepladder to different sides of his house in fogged daylight. From across the way, Pamela watched him mount the rungs, stretching two stories, a garden hose in tow. He pointed the nozzle at a gutter, cranked it to full blast.
Good, he was finally doing something about that mess of leaves from last year. Though, there’d been a rumor that what he was really after was revenge; something had been putting holes in the stucco by his bedroom window while he slept. Perhaps, Pamela thought, he needed to focus a little less on killing a bird and a little more on reconsidering stucco in this sort of New England neighborhood.
Someone, not Pamela but someone, could say he had it coming.
She watched as water rebounded, a crank too far, and he tilted. A windmill of arms, a grasping at air. He hit the ground with a thump that Pamela heard through her window, hollow, like the earth had been dug out beneath him.
After she got her story straight, she told the authorities what she’d seen: something chartreuse and scarlet fleeing to open sky.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 150 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on HAD, F(r)iction, and Club Plum. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com
Martin had taken to wearing pajamas and applying a stepladder to different sides of his house in fogged daylight. From across the way, Pamela watched him mount the rungs, stretching two stories, a garden hose in tow. He pointed the nozzle at a gutter, cranked it to full blast.
Good, he was finally doing something about that mess of leaves from last year. Though, there’d been a rumor that what he was really after was revenge; something had been putting holes in the stucco by his bedroom window while he slept. Perhaps, Pamela thought, he needed to focus a little less on killing a bird and a little more on reconsidering stucco in this sort of New England neighborhood.
Someone, not Pamela but someone, could say he had it coming.
She watched as water rebounded, a crank too far, and he tilted. A windmill of arms, a grasping at air. He hit the ground with a thump that Pamela heard through her window, hollow, like the earth had been dug out beneath him.
After she got her story straight, she told the authorities what she’d seen: something chartreuse and scarlet fleeing to open sky.
Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 150 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on HAD, F(r)iction, and Club Plum. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com
The Companions
by James C. Clar
The island was little more than a sandbar. Hemsworth had walked its perimeter so many times he could trace its contours with his eyes closed. He had washed ashore weeks before, the only one to crawl out of the burning water when his fishing vessel split apart in a storm.
Now, the relentless sun was his only companion. He drank rainwater that caught in the trunks of palms. It kept him alive, but just barely. Fever burned through him most nights in the middle watch. He’d lie on the cooling sand looking up at the stars muttering to himself about past voyages and dreaming about the ocean-like geometry of space.
At some point, he saw them. Three figures on the shore. They were tall and pale in the liminal light of early morning. Momentarily, Hemsworth thought his eyes had tricked him yet again, but the figures remained in place as he drew nearer. He laughed. “You’re real.” He stumbled forward with arms outstretched.
“I’m Hemsworth,” he sobbed. “My ship went down three weeks ago. I thought I was alone.” His companions said nothing. The nearest was a woman in a tattered dress. Her features were sharp, serene and unreadable.
“Where are you from?” Hemsworth continued unfazed. “Another wreck? I’ve searched everywhere. I can’t believe I missed you.”
Hemsworth turned to look at the others. He thought he heard one of them, a shirtless man in duck trousers, whisper … “We’re here now.”
Hemsworth grinned through blistered lips. “Yes. We’re here together.”
He sat with them until night fell, speaking quickly and, at times, incoherently. They didn’t seem to mind. He told them about Newcastle, about his family. His voice faltered as he described the storm that had destroyed his vessel.
The woman in the dress shifted slightly. Hemsworth could have sworn he heard her assure him with sympathy, “We’re listening.”
“Thank you,” Hemsworth replied with genuine emotion. “It’s nice to finally have someone to talk to.”
The next day, he built a crude shelter to shade their pale bodies. He scrounged for what little food he could find, overjoyed to share whatever he discovered. He was certain he saw looks of approval on their inscrutable faces.
“I’ll look after you,” Hemsworth vowed, febrile sweat glistening on his brow. “We’ll be rescued soon. Together.”
Time passed. Hemsworth was even weaker now from sharing his meager food and water. It was worth it. He spent his hours talking to them, waiting for the faint syllables that sometimes floated back to him.
One bright morning, he heard loud voices carrying over the water. Hemsworth staggered from the palms just as a sea boat slid onto the beach. Two sailors leapt ashore, staring at him with astonishment.
“Christ,” one shouted. “A survivor!”
They lifted Hemsworth under the arms. As they did so, he pointed frantically back toward the palms. “There are others!”
***
Later, having been reluctantly removed from the otherwise empty island, Hemsworth lay in the sick bay of the Australian warship, Exeter. He was sedated and hooked up to an I.V. The ship’s XO spoke to the medic. “Name’s Hemsworth. He’s the sole survivor of that fishing vessel that went missing six weeks ago.”
“He’s dehydrated. Has an infection,” the medic reported, “That’s about it. I reckon it’s a miracle.”
“Good,” the XO responded. “We’ve got work to do before heading to port. A cargo ship bound for Sydney went down around here too. One of the containers must have been for a department store. The sector’s loaded with mannequins. They’re hazards to navigation and Fleet wants us to clear the area.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, Bright Flash Literary Review, Freedom Fiction Journal, The Blotter Magazine MetaStellar Magazine and Antipodean SF.
The island was little more than a sandbar. Hemsworth had walked its perimeter so many times he could trace its contours with his eyes closed. He had washed ashore weeks before, the only one to crawl out of the burning water when his fishing vessel split apart in a storm.
Now, the relentless sun was his only companion. He drank rainwater that caught in the trunks of palms. It kept him alive, but just barely. Fever burned through him most nights in the middle watch. He’d lie on the cooling sand looking up at the stars muttering to himself about past voyages and dreaming about the ocean-like geometry of space.
At some point, he saw them. Three figures on the shore. They were tall and pale in the liminal light of early morning. Momentarily, Hemsworth thought his eyes had tricked him yet again, but the figures remained in place as he drew nearer. He laughed. “You’re real.” He stumbled forward with arms outstretched.
“I’m Hemsworth,” he sobbed. “My ship went down three weeks ago. I thought I was alone.” His companions said nothing. The nearest was a woman in a tattered dress. Her features were sharp, serene and unreadable.
“Where are you from?” Hemsworth continued unfazed. “Another wreck? I’ve searched everywhere. I can’t believe I missed you.”
Hemsworth turned to look at the others. He thought he heard one of them, a shirtless man in duck trousers, whisper … “We’re here now.”
Hemsworth grinned through blistered lips. “Yes. We’re here together.”
He sat with them until night fell, speaking quickly and, at times, incoherently. They didn’t seem to mind. He told them about Newcastle, about his family. His voice faltered as he described the storm that had destroyed his vessel.
The woman in the dress shifted slightly. Hemsworth could have sworn he heard her assure him with sympathy, “We’re listening.”
“Thank you,” Hemsworth replied with genuine emotion. “It’s nice to finally have someone to talk to.”
The next day, he built a crude shelter to shade their pale bodies. He scrounged for what little food he could find, overjoyed to share whatever he discovered. He was certain he saw looks of approval on their inscrutable faces.
“I’ll look after you,” Hemsworth vowed, febrile sweat glistening on his brow. “We’ll be rescued soon. Together.”
Time passed. Hemsworth was even weaker now from sharing his meager food and water. It was worth it. He spent his hours talking to them, waiting for the faint syllables that sometimes floated back to him.
One bright morning, he heard loud voices carrying over the water. Hemsworth staggered from the palms just as a sea boat slid onto the beach. Two sailors leapt ashore, staring at him with astonishment.
“Christ,” one shouted. “A survivor!”
They lifted Hemsworth under the arms. As they did so, he pointed frantically back toward the palms. “There are others!”
***
Later, having been reluctantly removed from the otherwise empty island, Hemsworth lay in the sick bay of the Australian warship, Exeter. He was sedated and hooked up to an I.V. The ship’s XO spoke to the medic. “Name’s Hemsworth. He’s the sole survivor of that fishing vessel that went missing six weeks ago.”
“He’s dehydrated. Has an infection,” the medic reported, “That’s about it. I reckon it’s a miracle.”
“Good,” the XO responded. “We’ve got work to do before heading to port. A cargo ship bound for Sydney went down around here too. One of the containers must have been for a department store. The sector’s loaded with mannequins. They’re hazards to navigation and Fleet wants us to clear the area.”
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, Bright Flash Literary Review, Freedom Fiction Journal, The Blotter Magazine MetaStellar Magazine and Antipodean SF.
Code Blue
by Dart Humeston
Code Blue blared through the hospital’s PA system. The emergency team sprinted down the corridor, white coats flaring behind them. They burst into the patient’s room, a physician’s voice cutting through the chaos with sharp commands.
Down the hallway, Sienna stood frozen, both hands pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. Through trembling fingers, she whispered, “David is dying.”
Her friend Veronica slid an arm around her shoulders and guided her to a nearby chair. Inside the room, the rhythmic thud of CPR began as nurses and doctors shouted updates. Sienna’s gaze was glassy, her thoughts spinning ahead to a life without David—raising the kids alone, paying mortgage and college tuition, even walking the dog at dawn.
“He’s dead. He’s dead,” she murmured.
“You don’t know that,” Veronica said quickly.
Tears slipped from Sienna’s eyes. “He asked me to help steady the ladder as he got on the roof, but I said I was cooking. I killed him.”
“Why was he even on the roof?” Veronica asked.
“I was adjusting the antenna!” David said as he walked up behind them.
Startled, Veronica screamed. Sienna fainted.
David caught her just before she hit the floor. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?”
Veronica grabbed his arm, her face pale. She pointed toward the crowded hospital room.
“Oh, that,” David said, blinking. “They moved me to a different room last night. I’m fine! They just released me—I was trying to find you two.”
Relief washed over them. Veronica hugged them both as Sienna stirred awake, confusion melting into joy. She threw her arms around her husband, sobbing with laughter.
“Baby, I’m fine,” David said, grinning. “And the best part? We get Channel 7 now!”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Dart Humeston writes flash fiction and novels from Florida where he grew up dodging alligators and hurricanes. He earned a master’s degree and worked for twenty-five years in higher education, including teaching freshmen students. He lives with his wife and four cats in south-central Florida; The cats are single.
Code Blue blared through the hospital’s PA system. The emergency team sprinted down the corridor, white coats flaring behind them. They burst into the patient’s room, a physician’s voice cutting through the chaos with sharp commands.
Down the hallway, Sienna stood frozen, both hands pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. Through trembling fingers, she whispered, “David is dying.”
Her friend Veronica slid an arm around her shoulders and guided her to a nearby chair. Inside the room, the rhythmic thud of CPR began as nurses and doctors shouted updates. Sienna’s gaze was glassy, her thoughts spinning ahead to a life without David—raising the kids alone, paying mortgage and college tuition, even walking the dog at dawn.
“He’s dead. He’s dead,” she murmured.
“You don’t know that,” Veronica said quickly.
Tears slipped from Sienna’s eyes. “He asked me to help steady the ladder as he got on the roof, but I said I was cooking. I killed him.”
“Why was he even on the roof?” Veronica asked.
“I was adjusting the antenna!” David said as he walked up behind them.
Startled, Veronica screamed. Sienna fainted.
David caught her just before she hit the floor. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?”
Veronica grabbed his arm, her face pale. She pointed toward the crowded hospital room.
“Oh, that,” David said, blinking. “They moved me to a different room last night. I’m fine! They just released me—I was trying to find you two.”
Relief washed over them. Veronica hugged them both as Sienna stirred awake, confusion melting into joy. She threw her arms around her husband, sobbing with laughter.
“Baby, I’m fine,” David said, grinning. “And the best part? We get Channel 7 now!”
Dart Humeston writes flash fiction and novels from Florida where he grew up dodging alligators and hurricanes. He earned a master’s degree and worked for twenty-five years in higher education, including teaching freshmen students. He lives with his wife and four cats in south-central Florida; The cats are single.
A Christmas Punch
by Ned Serleth
The bunch of us sit and watch them put Christmas lights on the plastic tree. Each little bulb glaring out its color as if to remind everyone in the room the world is not black and white. That little truth doesn’t really appear to be the case from where I sit. The floor tiles lie in squares of black and white. The walls and ceilings are painted a colorless white. Why even the people decorating the tree wear nothing but white from their shoes to their shirts. No, maybe the world is black and white. Either way, the Christmas tree declares another year has come sliding along while Father Time slowly steals away the days.
Next comes the artificial garland with its holly looking leaves and red berries. It drapes over the door, a stark contrast of green against the antiseptic white background. The group watches as the room becomes transformed from its usual institutionalization to something that mocks a life of happiness and freedom.
Christmas music now fills the air, and some become nostalgic when Frank Sinatra croons Silent Night. Tears roll down their black or white cheeks to be wiped away by those that are able. As for me, I sit in my chair and reminisce with the best of them.
No doubt families will begin to drop by. ’Tis the season after all. Christmas, birthdays, and Easter always bring the families, although the latter is iffy.
I’ve noticed cards have begun to arrive, too. Dorothy got a homemade one from her great-granddaughter, and she hasn’t been able to stop crying since. Foolish woman. What did she expect, an invitation to the family Christmas dinner? Just as well though, she would probably have trouble digesting all those traditional Christmas foods after the gourmet meals we get here. No, it’s better just staying on our own side of the fence. Besides, I never put much stock in those family gatherings anyway. Everybody trying to be on their best behavior when they’d rather punch the son-in-law in the jaw just because.
I’ve been here ten Christmases now. One’s pretty much like the last. There’ll be turkey, instant mashed potatoes, yams, (I hate yams.), and some anemic gravy probably left over from Thanksgiving. That’s okay, I guess. There’s nothing for it. Who am I to complain. I get my three squares, a bed, and all the company I can stomach.
Here comes Joseph’s son and his fat wife. I’ve never been able to tell if she’s pregnant or ate too many Christmas dinner leftovers. They’ve got five kids in tow, so you can understand my confusion. Joseph will hug all the kids and ask the two girls for kisses. If ever there was a trophy for having a poker face, them two girls would never win it. It’s all they can do to even be here, let alone pucker up for ol’ Joseph. He’ll guilt his son into a game of cribbage while the rest of the family fidgets and fights over who gets to sit where. When the hour is up, they’ll run out of here as if the place were on fire.
Wait, here comes my two daughters. It’s so good to see them. They’ve grown up to be beautiful young ladies. They’ll ask me how I’m doing, whether they’re treating me right, and a ton of other irrelevant questions. I’d like to answer them, but all I can do is sit in this chair, and blink, and drool ever since the stroke.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Ned Serleth graduated from Northern Arizona University with a BA in education. After causing thirty-six years of damage to an untold number of students, he retired from teaching English and creative writing. He has self-published a memoir entitled Thursday at the Old Man’s Club - A Hack Memoir, the first of three books of ghost stories, The Last Three Days of Poe and Thirteen Tales of the Supernatural, and an anthology of poems called Unleash the Doggerels. He has also written for Moss Motoring, Chevy Times, and The Tennessean.
The bunch of us sit and watch them put Christmas lights on the plastic tree. Each little bulb glaring out its color as if to remind everyone in the room the world is not black and white. That little truth doesn’t really appear to be the case from where I sit. The floor tiles lie in squares of black and white. The walls and ceilings are painted a colorless white. Why even the people decorating the tree wear nothing but white from their shoes to their shirts. No, maybe the world is black and white. Either way, the Christmas tree declares another year has come sliding along while Father Time slowly steals away the days.
Next comes the artificial garland with its holly looking leaves and red berries. It drapes over the door, a stark contrast of green against the antiseptic white background. The group watches as the room becomes transformed from its usual institutionalization to something that mocks a life of happiness and freedom.
Christmas music now fills the air, and some become nostalgic when Frank Sinatra croons Silent Night. Tears roll down their black or white cheeks to be wiped away by those that are able. As for me, I sit in my chair and reminisce with the best of them.
No doubt families will begin to drop by. ’Tis the season after all. Christmas, birthdays, and Easter always bring the families, although the latter is iffy.
I’ve noticed cards have begun to arrive, too. Dorothy got a homemade one from her great-granddaughter, and she hasn’t been able to stop crying since. Foolish woman. What did she expect, an invitation to the family Christmas dinner? Just as well though, she would probably have trouble digesting all those traditional Christmas foods after the gourmet meals we get here. No, it’s better just staying on our own side of the fence. Besides, I never put much stock in those family gatherings anyway. Everybody trying to be on their best behavior when they’d rather punch the son-in-law in the jaw just because.
I’ve been here ten Christmases now. One’s pretty much like the last. There’ll be turkey, instant mashed potatoes, yams, (I hate yams.), and some anemic gravy probably left over from Thanksgiving. That’s okay, I guess. There’s nothing for it. Who am I to complain. I get my three squares, a bed, and all the company I can stomach.
Here comes Joseph’s son and his fat wife. I’ve never been able to tell if she’s pregnant or ate too many Christmas dinner leftovers. They’ve got five kids in tow, so you can understand my confusion. Joseph will hug all the kids and ask the two girls for kisses. If ever there was a trophy for having a poker face, them two girls would never win it. It’s all they can do to even be here, let alone pucker up for ol’ Joseph. He’ll guilt his son into a game of cribbage while the rest of the family fidgets and fights over who gets to sit where. When the hour is up, they’ll run out of here as if the place were on fire.
Wait, here comes my two daughters. It’s so good to see them. They’ve grown up to be beautiful young ladies. They’ll ask me how I’m doing, whether they’re treating me right, and a ton of other irrelevant questions. I’d like to answer them, but all I can do is sit in this chair, and blink, and drool ever since the stroke.
Ned Serleth graduated from Northern Arizona University with a BA in education. After causing thirty-six years of damage to an untold number of students, he retired from teaching English and creative writing. He has self-published a memoir entitled Thursday at the Old Man’s Club - A Hack Memoir, the first of three books of ghost stories, The Last Three Days of Poe and Thirteen Tales of the Supernatural, and an anthology of poems called Unleash the Doggerels. He has also written for Moss Motoring, Chevy Times, and The Tennessean.
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