FlashFeeD 1.9

Catch-up news.

A warm welcome to some new faces.

A big thank you to old friends.

I’m pleased to say that I finally rescued Sian from the overzealous spam robot this week.

This week.

The clock is ticking in the run-up top Christmas.

Think of those heroic delivery drivers, factory workers and retail folk this time of year.

Think of the very busy postal workers – with this in mind, I give you the prompt for this week.


Full rules here:

Focus on the fiction writing element of: emotion



Stories will be limited to 2000 characters* (about 300 words), including the title.

*(The field itself will allow for 2050 characters, but this extra 50 characters is only to be used as contingency and it won't be increased).

Use the comment field to post stories, include your story title. Use the reply button on a particular story to provide positive feedback. Press the ‘like’ icon if you like a story.



58 Replies to “FlashFeeD 1.9”

  1. Rusted
    She was an enigma, a steel-clad soul battling against the world. In her youth, she had shone, dazzling in her radiance and he could only watch from a distance as others became to her what he felt he could never be. She spoke on the world stage, words pouring out of her, letters filling pages, the darling of the literary set. He devoured her work, allowed it to feed his hunger as he waited for the right moment to declare himself. One day, he knew, one day she would be his. It was just a matter of time.
    The years passed and her armour thinned and faded, at last allowing him to get closer; his love still pure and unsullied. She turned to look at him, finally saw him but he found he could not speak. She no longer shone, was instead a shadow of her former self. He saw her rusted spirit, its corruption, the black hole within and shrank from her. The love he had nursed for so long turned to dust. Empty, he walked away and pondered his wasted life … wasted? … no, he knew everything about her, the scandals, her innermost thoughts. He could write a book …


  2. —————– untitled

    Dear S.

    I have been sifting through the ashes searching for the remains of my former self. Found remnants. Gave mouth-to-mouth so I can breathe some life into this letter.

    I drink my morning coffee in the silence of despair, buried in an avalanche of pain. A salt mine of crumpled paper typed in 12 point Times New Roman.

    Where do I begin? Oh — to peel back the skin of time to when those underground streams ran fresh and clear. To travel back over those burnt bridges, visit old ghost towns of my childhood. Rescue crushed dreams from the scrap yard. Cradle those babies in my arms.

    Those ancient ghosts linger. I choke on their mute cries. Black silence shrouds apocalyptic dreams full of judgment and condemnation. My life has been sex and cyanide. Hair in my soup. Lies that crumble like ancient parapets. Waiting for the hangman, the executioner’s axe.

    Hoping some kind soul will put flowers on the stones piled atop my bones.

    My breath mingles with the aroma of coffee. Snow sifts against the windows, sifting memories.

    I smell Christmas oranges, cinnamon, sage, peppermint. I hear children’s laughter. Their eyes shining in the lights of the Christmas tree. Warmth of a crackling fire, rum and eggnog. Granny square blankets for snuggling. Me in my best church britches and bowtie. You in your red velvet, granting wishes like stars.

    Oh, to see the moon through a fish’s eye, to ride bareback through the stars! I said to you.

    Old age came on arthritic knees. Everything is just white noise now. The gravity of my time remaining here on Earth is a weight I cannot bear.

    Moon writes me love letters and I am pulled ever closer to her bosom.

    Dear Santa, please free my soul from this earthly husk. The stars are calling me home.

    Love and best regards to Mrs C.




      1. Thank you! I was going full stream of consciousness with a vague idea in my mind. I’m glad it worked because it doesn’t always. lol.


      1. Thank you so much! It’s a little dreary given the holiday season, but I hoped to portray both light and dark sides of life and death, how it must feel to live in constant pain and despair and to wish for relief.


  3. Please Think Of Us

    Right, look, I understand. Who could imagine things would be like this, at this time and age? But I don’t think it’s much to ask, is it?

    Please just think of us, the Postpeople. We work our asses off each day of the week, but these couple of months? It’s hell. Yes, nowadays most people exchange messages online; it’s fast and efficient. So the number of postcards has decreased. But presents and packages are always bought online, and who delivers them?


    It’s us.

    Can you understand the kind of pressure we live under? We have the commitment to deliver on time. Mind you, we always try to do it, but now? Now it’s essential that we do. I don’t need to explain you why.

    And please take this into consideration: the distances are not getting any shorter. Not in the last century, no. Not since the stargates were discovered.

    So, please, please. Could you just think of us and place your orders on time?



  4. Dear Max,

    It was your smile that I loved first that day in the lunch room, first day of our junior year. I think you knew you had me. It was either the way I smiled back, or the way I backed into a chair and nearly tipped my lunch tray over myself. You still asked me out.

    Then I loved that laugh. My stupid jokes. That stupid movie. Coach Taylor catching us behind the bike shed. Playful. Disarming.

    Remember Homecoming night? The back of your car? You laughed then, when I said “no.” You told me how patient you’d been up until now. I said I wanted to wait. I wasn’t ready. You laughed and smiled and said “You sound like my mom.” Disarmed, I let you. I even told you it was nice, though it hurt, and I felt used, and dirty. I went home and cried. Did you? No. You were smiling when you left.

    Remember when I told you I had applied to MIT? You laughed then, too. “What’s microbiology?” Gave me an application to the Community College. “If it’s good enough for me,” you said. I took it home. Tore it up. That felt good.

    Remember when I told you I was accepted? “They must be making up their POC quota,” you said. I graduated summa cum laude. Was offered a scholarship to Harvard, doing postgrad work on pathogens.

    Remember last week, I posted that “MeToo” video on my Facebook page? Your comment? “She was my girlfriend, so you know she wanted it!” With a smiley, of course.

    I hope you appreciate that I hand-wrote this letter to you Max. I hope that makes you smile. Even laugh. I’ve been developing methods to transport pathogens. Useful for counter-terrorism. Is that funny to you? I hope so. Because I designed the ink on this paper to transport a particularly virulent strain of anthrax. By now it’s in your bloodstream. Soon you’ll find it hard to breathe.

    Enjoy your last laugh, Max. I’ll be smiling.


  5. Alva Holland
    152 words

    Back to the Beginning

    Dear Adam,

    I don’t think you and Eve should have eaten the fruit from the forbidden tree. Look what you started.

    The world is falling apart. Your descendants followed your lead and disobeyed every rule that was created. More rules, more disobedience until chaos reigned.

    I don’t know why you weren’t satisfied to till the ground and eat freely from all the trees except that forbidden one. What was going through your mind?

    You ruined everything.

    I’ve been trying to reconstruct what might have happened had you not broken the rule, had Eve not given you the fruit, had you refused to join her in the blatant disregard of instructions.

    It’s impossible. Too much damage has been done.

    This is a futile letter because you’re dead and long gone now but Christ Almighty, Adam, the damage was nuclear.

    I despair.

    Yours not sincerely at all but with malice and threatening retribution.



  6. The Satchel Weighs Heavy

    It started on a single mailbox in small town Illinois. It had made the mailman smile when he’d first seen it, though for weeks after he thought nothing of it. Somebody posted a picture on the internet of it- oh the irony; the killer of the letter! Suddenly it went viral, exploding all over the net “Send Someone A Love Letter” was now being posted on billboards, on the sides of buildings, spray painted on the underground and well of course stencilled on the sides of post boxes from NY to LA, London and Paris, Beijing and all points in between. Ad campaigns for perfume and pizza had taken the slogan and someone in Milwaukee was trying to TradeMark it through the courts.

    The upshot of it was a fad for sending letters- in the post, not as an email attachment. And Billy thought it was wonderful. It was probably Billy who’d first seen the painted slogan when he’d been emptying that mailbox on a Monday evening. It made him feel proud now to be linked by association – at least in his head – to the love letter craze.

    Now when he was on his delivery route his satchel weighed heavy with possibilities. Each push of the envelope through the letter box could be changing lives. Not like a bill, a pizza offer or an eviction notice, love. He was carrying love around with him. He puffed out his chest and felt six inches taller with the responsibility. His job was now important and he could swear people actually began to wait for him to call around to see if they were getting deliveries from new or old loves.

    It was a small town and today he found a hand written letter addressed simply to ‘Billy the Mailman’ and SWALK had been scrawled on the back in red crayon – or lipstick. He delivered it to his house before continuing on his route. Maybe he’d read it later. But he’d probably just add it to the pile.


    1. This is my favourite story so far. It’s just lovely, wonderful, heart-warming. And a pity no-one has made the idea real.

      (I had to look up SWALK… Luckily the internet is good for that!)


  7. Dear John–

    This isn’t a Dear John letter. Do you even know what that is? Let me tell you. A Dear John letter is the way people broke up in the old days.

    It goes sort of like this–“We had a good time together, but I’ve met someone else. ” It’s kind of an old-fashioned thing.

    Well, I haven’t met someone, if that’s what you’re thinking. But you called me old-fashioned, and I suppose that’s true.

    Here’s how I’m old-fashioned, John. I like real letters and long conversations and honest kisses. I don’t need you to tell me I look kinda sad in my baggy thrift-shop jeans.

    I could never be like those trendy girls you admired on the street. You would always deny it, but I saw you looking. I knew..

    The Dear John letter usually ends with –“I wish you every happiness, and I hope we can always be friends. ”

    I wish I could say that to you.

    You’d probably send a text like that, or maybe you’ll just ghost me.


  8. –Dear Madeline: Today you turn sixteen, and I’ve been dead three years. Hope your sixteen isn’t as lousy as mine was. I dropped out of school for the man of my dreams but got stuck with your father, haha. You’d better not be dating any of Sunny’s brothers, or I swear I’ll crawl back up out of whatever cardboard box y’all buried me in and whup your scrawny behind. Happy birthday. Love, Mom

    –Dear Madeline: Today’s your 18th birthday. You can legally vote now, though if the way you do your homework is any indication, you probably never will. -Assuming your school principal gives you a pity pass like mine did, you’ll be graduating this year too. Hope you had a great four (who are we kidding, probably five) years of high school, because the fun’s all over now. Chisel off some of that makeup and go get a job. Love, Mom

    –Dear Madeline: Happy 21st birthday. Don’t bother asking how many of these creepy post-death emails you’re going to get. You’ll get as many as I feel like writing, which at the moment is NONE, disobedient brat, you just sneaked out of the house last night and I’m about to ground you til kingdom come. Love, Mom

    –Dear Madeline: Yay! You’re 30! Please start driving like a sane person. Love, Mom

    –Dear Madeline: Maybe they won’t have email when you’re 80, or maybe the world will have blown up by then. But if you get this, happy 80th birthday. EIGHTY. My baby’s a freaking OLD LADY! Trim your nose hairs, ok? Nobody thinks that’s cute. – What’s it like, being old? In my right now, you’re off sulking because I just told you I’m dying. But in your right now, you’re dying too. And here you always said we’d never have anything in common! Guess I was right after all. Love, Mom

    >> DRAFT FOLDER << Dear Madeline: I hope I don’t die without saying how much I love


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