GAME 7

Story 1

The mug was the last one left from the set they’d bought on their honeymoon in St Ives. A Cornish harbour was painted on the side, the glaze now crackled with age.

Every morning, for thirty years, David had made Ellen a tea in it. He did so now, the ritual outliving her by six months. He placed it on the table by her empty chair.

The new people next door were arguing again. Muffled shouts about money, a thud against the party wall. David stared at the harbour on the mug. He remembered Ellen complaining about the seagulls, how one had stolen a chip right from her hand. He smiled.

The shouting next door stopped. A car door slammed. An engine started and faded away.

Silence.

David looked at the mug. The steam had stopped rising. The tea was cold. He hadn’t seen it cool.

He picked it up. The ceramic was icy. He carried it to the sink, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn’t pour the tea away. Instead, he ran the hot tap, watching the steam billow around the cold mug, the harbour scene disappearing behind a wall of condensation.

He left it there, full of hot water, on the draining board. A temporary fix. A pointless warmth.

Then he sat down and waited for tomorrow, when he could make another one.

Story 2

The old man woke from a strange nightmare, sweating. As he did every morning, he went to the bathroom.

Daylight streamed in. He went to the window, opened it, and laughed at how ridiculous he was being.

He saw a young boy outside on a bike.

“Hey, boy!” he shouted. “What day is it?”

The boy shouted back, “It’s Christmas Day! Where have you been? The moon?”

“You’re a cheeky scamp, eh?” the man exclaimed. “Are the butchers on Main Street open?”

“Are you crazy?” said the boy. “It’s Christmas Day, I just told you. Nothing’s open. Now leave me alone.”

The boy rode away on his new bike.

The man closed the window and went back to bed.

Story 3

The old woman sat on the busy pier. She had kept her mum’s ashes in her house for over twenty-five years, but now it was time to let go. Recently widowed, she felt it was finally time to move on.

She started to cry. “What should I do?” she said quietly, to no one in particular.

A young woman approached at that very moment. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Can I help?”

The old woman was startled but happy for the interaction. She explained that this was her mum’s favourite spot and she wanted to scatter the ashes here.

The young lady suggested a small, quieter jetty within walking distance that had the same views.

The old woman knew the spot and agreed. The two women walked to the jetty. It was almost as if nobody noticed them. The old woman felt so comfortable with the young lady, as if they had known each other for years.

At the end of the jetty, the old woman was about to scatter the ashes, but stopped. She turned to ask a question that had been on her mind the entire walk.

The knife went through her neck so quickly she didn’t even see it.

The young woman robbed her of everything, then pushed her and the ashes into the water.

Story 4

Lucky Jonny had been playing darts for five years without ever hitting a 180. In practice, he could do it blindfolded. Put him in front of a crowd, and he fell apart.

He’d even won a few minor tournaments, which is how he got the name “Lucky.” The world knew the truth, of course. He was the unluckiest man alive.

His board was swept away in a flood just as he was on a 140. His best friend ran off with his wife in the very car meant to take him to the UK Amateur Championships, where he was the favourite.

But tonight felt different. He was playing well. The crowd was electric, the noise unbearable. He threw his first dart. Sixty. The wailing from the fans grew deafening.

He threw his second. BOOM. 140.
This was it. The moment.

Suddenly, the crowd fell silent. The emcee had even stepped out of his eyeline. Perfect, Jonny thought.

He threw his third dart. A perfect treble twenty.

As he walked to the board to collect his darts, he realised why it was so quiet. The hall was empty.

The wailing had been the fire alarm. The silence was his alone.

Lucky Jonny was unlucky once again.

Story 5

Archie drove the last screw into the cabinet. John handed him a beer, and the two men sat on the shed’s couch, admiring their work.

‘ARCHIE!’ The cry came from across the fence. His wife.

John looked awkward and began to stand. Archie gestured for him to stay put.

‘ARCHIE!’ The second shout was sharper, more shrill.

Archie took a long swallow of his beer. ‘John,’ he said, ‘I’d like to thank you for being a wonderful neighbour, and for the laughs we have had.’ Then he left the shed.

John went to clear up, then realised that Archie still had the screwdriver.

‘There you are, Archie?’ said his wife. ‘Archie?’

Reveal answer

Story 1 was ai, thanks for playing

https://ko-fi.com/flashfictions

If you’d rather swap a coffee for something you can actually keep, the FlashFictions book is there for you.
Same weird ideas, just bound together.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0G34YZ9B2