SAM SPARKS
Flash Fiction
The stories in this book are a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The “E” and print book versions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. They may not be resold or given away to others with the implied intent to profit.
Copyright © 2025 Sam Sparks. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book, in whole or in part, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
www.samsparks.net
Flash Fiction
SAM SPARKS
Flash Fiction
The stories in this book are a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The “E” and print book versions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. They may not be resold or given away to others with the implied intent to profit.
Copyright © 2025 Sam Sparks. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book, in whole or in part, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
www.samsparks.net
Flash Fiction
LAST ROLL OF THE DICE
PART ONE
In the early hours of the morning, the sound of a typewriter could be heard in the corridor of a South London Care Home.
Two care assistants on their nightly rounds stopped outside the door from which the sound of keys hitting the carriage emanated.
One looking at her watch said: What’s George thinking of? ‘
‘Well, Elspeth next door’s hearing isn’t the best, so it won’t bother her. He was a bit grumpy today.’
’True, let's leave it then. Cup of tea?’
‘Why not?’
They were talking about a resident of ten years standing, George Murray, an ex-Stock Exchange trader in his seventy-fifth year.
On the way back to their respective posts, one said to the other:
‘Joyce wanted to do something for George’s birthday.’
‘Do you think he’ll want any fuss? Let’s face it, he’s not exactly Mister Happy, is he?’
‘When Joyce walks into the room, he perks up a bit.’
‘That’s about it, though.’
‘True.’
George’s waking hours were unconventional. Old habits die hard. He was always awake before six in the morning, checking the Hang Seng index of Tokyo’s stock exchange. The staff were always trying to pull his leg, saying things like:
“Have you checked your dollar yen position this morning, George?” Which usually provoked the response "You know I don’t do currencies. Strictly a stocks and shares man”.
His hobby for the previous eighteen months had been the written word, tapped out on his old Olivetti typewriter.
A couple of years previously, George had been in a mental slump; he'd been frustrated that he felt he was just vegetating, became a little depressed and started online roulette gambling.
A fellow female resident had ( as he admitted later) given him a much-needed talking to and he’d stopped rolling the virtual dice and, at her suggestion, started by trying to write his biography with insights into the London Stock Exchange entitled :
“My Life on the Floor”, but had put it aside after realising the title had an unintended double meaning.
His late-life divorce and a spell of ill health had left him financially and physically in a lesser situation. Or, as he put it in his own professional-life vernacular, he had “shorted his own position”. From there, he’d moved on from that literary endeavour to short stories and won a couple of competitions. He then explored other written endeavours.
One day, after yet another early start watching the Far East market, he’d nodded off in the Resident’s lounge. He awoke to hear one of the care assistants say:
‘Post for you, George.’
He responded with the merest flicker of a smile. The letter rested on the arm of his chair before he moved to open it, and he promptly knocked it onto the floor. Another resident who was passing picked it up and put it on his knees.
He reached down for his glasses and perched them on the bridge of his nose and read the letter.
A minute later, he started to tear up. Noticed by a Care Assistant
One of the care assistants noticed and said to her colleague:
‘Oh dear, looks like bad news. He was worried about his son. I wonder if it's that. The assistant turned to her colleague:
‘Its about time for George’s meds, get them, would you? Whilst I have a chat.’
‘You ok, George?’
He smiled and nodded: ‘I’m going to be famous.’
‘That’s nice, George. Is that in an Andy Warhol fifteen minutes kind of way?‘
He smiled and gave a shrug.
PART TWO
In the office of “ Pitch City,” a film-industry script-commissioning agency off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, the CEO was addressing the weekly staff meeting.
‘I’ve secured the services of two high-profile scriptwriters. Get your three strongest scripts ready for next week. Anyone got anything recently that we don’t know about yet ?’
The latest hire at the agency, a lady called Julie from London, raised her hand.
‘I may have something, an ex-colleague in London sent me. Romance genre for TV, its low budget, could have strong branding. I’ve read the treatment thus far. I’ll ping it to you all now.’
‘They couldn’t use it and we can?’ one staffer said.
‘Kinda, have a look.’
A minute later, the same staffer said:
‘This guy has a website with his pic. It looks like he’s got one foot in the grave and the other isn’t too far behind. You're sure about this?’
PART THREE
Back in the Care Home, some two months later, George was in the Residents' lounge and looking very much smarter than usual. He wore a casual jacket with a bright red hanky peeking out of the breast pocket. He also sported a cravat. He was freshly shaven, and if the others in the Residents' Lounge weren’t mistaken, he was wearing aftershave.
‘George is looking very posh today, one of the two ladies sat together in the lounge commented to a Care Assistant putting a pot of tea down at their table.
‘Yes, I noticed that. You can almost see your face in the toe caps of his shoes. Must have spent ages polishing them, I’d say.
‘Wonder why he’s gone to all that trouble?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps he’s got a visitor.’
Star of stage and screen Lucien Dreyfus and renowned Film Director Hal Luckman stood outside the Care Home waiting for the door to be answered.
‘We’ll all end up somewhere like here one day, Hal.’
‘Thanks for coming, Lucien. It should give the old boy a bit of surprise.’
‘It’ll be fun, and its a role made for me, can’t wait to start work.
The two men could be seen from the reception area. The Receptionist said to her Manager:
‘That chap on the right, he looks the spitting image of what’s his name, the actor, who was in, no, can’t remember that either.’
‘Best go and let them in, Debs.’
In the lounge, George was in his usual spot by the bay window.
The Manager almost ran into the lounge and said rather excitedly:
‘George, you have two visitors.’
‘Oh, good, I was only expecting one.’
The two visitors were shown into the lounge and recognised George.
‘Hello George, I’m Hal and this is obviously Lucien.
They took seats and, having exchanged pleasantries, Hal said :
‘To business. Per our letter, we’d like to take an option on your screenplay unless you’re going to pull a Stallone on us and want to star in it?’
‘Funny you should mention that I had in mind more of a Hitchcock-like presence.’
‘We have a deal. Congratulations.
******
THE END
Candy the Cocker Spaniel’s wimpering woke her owners, Bert and Martha. It was minutes before daybreak.
Aware his wife was awake, Bert said: ‘I’ll go, she must be poorly.’
The dog was fine, Bert was slightly surprised not to find her in her Donut bed as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The whimpering was coming from the lounge facing the road. He found her in his armchair, looking out the window.
‘What’s the matter, girl?’
Usually, when he spoke to her, the tail would wag, but there was no movement. She jumped down from the chair and ran to the front door. The whimpering started again. Had she wanted a wee, she would have gone to the back door. She pawed at her lead hanging from the coat stand.
‘You can’t be serious, girl, you want a walk at this time? Its not even light.’ He offered her a dog treat, but she was not interested.’
Bert manoeuvred himself down to her level and stroked her. She kept pawing at her lead.
Martha heard Bert coming back up the stairs.
‘She wants to go for a walk, would you believe?’
’No, I wouldn’t believe that, seriously?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘Give her a biscuit.’
’Tried that. Not interested. I’ll get dressed, won’t be long, I hope.’When he returned, Candy was still pawing at her lead. He unhooked it, put it on her, and slipped into his dog-walking coat. When he opened the door, he realised it was raining or smurring as his Mum would have called it back in the day.
Any sign of precipitation was always a no-no for Candy; she would about-face and return to her much-loved bed. Not this time. Off they went down the garden path. When he reached the gate and looked across diagonally at the bungalow, the new people had moved in the previous week
The bungalow had two front gardens separated by a low wall. In the outer, smaller garden, it was immediately obvious that a pop-up tent was in situ.
Candy strained and pulled on her leash. In two minds about investigating the new addition that hadn’t been there when he’d returned the previous evening at ten o’clock, Candy lunged forward, almost unbalancing Bert. She never did this, but he crossed the road. As he neared, he saw there was a piece of card attached to the front of the zippered tent. He got his phone out, turned on the torch, and saw 'capitalised' in red handwriting.
It read:
“DO NOT OPEN. CALL THE POLICE ”
Candy was sniffing the tent and pulling on the lead. He pulled her away.
With no loss of time, he marched up the short driveway and up the two steps. As he reached for the bell, he noted the time on his wristwatch: five thirty-seven. It took some minutes for one of the new owners to answer the door via the intercom. A voice with no small amount of attitude called through: ‘What do you want?’
Bert spoke. ‘I live across the road, there is a tent pitched on your front garden with a note to call the Police.’
The door opened immediately. The man, Richard Lowe, appeared in his dressing gown. Bert and Candy turned away towards the tent. Richard followed. Arriving at the tent, he registered the handwriting and made to unzip it.
‘It says not to open but call the Police.’ Bert warned.
‘I am the Police,’ was the response.
‘Oh,’ Bert replied
‘I’ll deal with it. Thank you for what you did, you can go now.’ As Bert moved away a few yards, he heard Richard say, “Police, please.’
Bert took Candy up the road. When he returned ten minutes later and rounded the corner, he immediately saw Police and Ambulance vehicles, along with a screen around the tent. Bert hastened his pace and went back inside his house. His wife was waiting in the kitchen, sipping on a cup of tea.
‘I saw blue lights and then saw the tent, what’s happening?’
‘Don’t know anything good obviously.’
That evening, Bert, Martha and Candy were sitting in their back garden and heard the doorbell. Bert went to see who was there. Candy stayed put. She usually followed Bert wherever he went and was known as his “little shadow.”
Bert opened the door to a sombre-looking Richard
’Did you want to know the outcome of this morning’s events?’
‘Yes. Come in.’
‘Thanks, but I need to be somewhere. So there was a dead body inside with a letter pinned to his chest. Turns out he lived in the bungalow as a child and it was the only place he had ever been happy. That’s the shortened version. He apologised profusely for what he had done in the note, and well, that’s it.’
‘How awful. Are you ok?’
‘Yes, seen a lot of that kind of stuff. Must be off, I’m Richard by the way.’
‘Bert.’
‘You have a lovely dog, Bert.’
‘It was she who, for want of a better expression, flagged this up, I’m not in the habit of walking her quite that early.’
‘Interesting, she must have sensed something.’
‘Evidently.’
******
www.samsparks.net
samsparkswriter@ iCloud.com
Flash Fiction
The stories in this book are a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The “E” and print book versions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. They may not be resold or given away to others with the implied intent to profit.
Copyright © 2025 Sam Sparks. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book, in whole or in part, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
www.samsparks.net
Flash Fiction
- Last Roll of the Dice
- The Speed of Sadness.
- The End.
SAM SPARKS
Flash Fiction
The stories in this book are a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The “E” and print book versions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. They may not be resold or given away to others with the implied intent to profit.
Copyright © 2025 Sam Sparks. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book, in whole or in part, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
www.samsparks.net
Flash Fiction
- Last Roll of the Dice
- The End.
LAST ROLL OF THE DICE
PART ONE
In the early hours of the morning, the sound of a typewriter could be heard in the corridor of a South London Care Home.
Two care assistants on their nightly rounds stopped outside the door from which the sound of keys hitting the carriage emanated.
One looking at her watch said: What’s George thinking of? ‘
‘Well, Elspeth next door’s hearing isn’t the best, so it won’t bother her. He was a bit grumpy today.’
’True, let's leave it then. Cup of tea?’
‘Why not?’
They were talking about a resident of ten years standing, George Murray, an ex-Stock Exchange trader in his seventy-fifth year.
On the way back to their respective posts, one said to the other:
‘Joyce wanted to do something for George’s birthday.’
‘Do you think he’ll want any fuss? Let’s face it, he’s not exactly Mister Happy, is he?’
‘When Joyce walks into the room, he perks up a bit.’
‘That’s about it, though.’
‘True.’
George’s waking hours were unconventional. Old habits die hard. He was always awake before six in the morning, checking the Hang Seng index of Tokyo’s stock exchange. The staff were always trying to pull his leg, saying things like:
“Have you checked your dollar yen position this morning, George?” Which usually provoked the response "You know I don’t do currencies. Strictly a stocks and shares man”.
His hobby for the previous eighteen months had been the written word, tapped out on his old Olivetti typewriter.
A couple of years previously, George had been in a mental slump; he'd been frustrated that he felt he was just vegetating, became a little depressed and started online roulette gambling.
A fellow female resident had ( as he admitted later) given him a much-needed talking to and he’d stopped rolling the virtual dice and, at her suggestion, started by trying to write his biography with insights into the London Stock Exchange entitled :
“My Life on the Floor”, but had put it aside after realising the title had an unintended double meaning.
His late-life divorce and a spell of ill health had left him financially and physically in a lesser situation. Or, as he put it in his own professional-life vernacular, he had “shorted his own position”. From there, he’d moved on from that literary endeavour to short stories and won a couple of competitions. He then explored other written endeavours.
One day, after yet another early start watching the Far East market, he’d nodded off in the Resident’s lounge. He awoke to hear one of the care assistants say:
‘Post for you, George.’
He responded with the merest flicker of a smile. The letter rested on the arm of his chair before he moved to open it, and he promptly knocked it onto the floor. Another resident who was passing picked it up and put it on his knees.
He reached down for his glasses and perched them on the bridge of his nose and read the letter.
A minute later, he started to tear up. Noticed by a Care Assistant
One of the care assistants noticed and said to her colleague:
‘Oh dear, looks like bad news. He was worried about his son. I wonder if it's that. The assistant turned to her colleague:
‘Its about time for George’s meds, get them, would you? Whilst I have a chat.’
‘You ok, George?’
He smiled and nodded: ‘I’m going to be famous.’
‘That’s nice, George. Is that in an Andy Warhol fifteen minutes kind of way?‘
He smiled and gave a shrug.
PART TWO
In the office of “ Pitch City,” a film-industry script-commissioning agency off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, the CEO was addressing the weekly staff meeting.
‘I’ve secured the services of two high-profile scriptwriters. Get your three strongest scripts ready for next week. Anyone got anything recently that we don’t know about yet ?’
The latest hire at the agency, a lady called Julie from London, raised her hand.
‘I may have something, an ex-colleague in London sent me. Romance genre for TV, its low budget, could have strong branding. I’ve read the treatment thus far. I’ll ping it to you all now.’
‘They couldn’t use it and we can?’ one staffer said.
‘Kinda, have a look.’
A minute later, the same staffer said:
‘This guy has a website with his pic. It looks like he’s got one foot in the grave and the other isn’t too far behind. You're sure about this?’
PART THREE
Back in the Care Home, some two months later, George was in the Residents' lounge and looking very much smarter than usual. He wore a casual jacket with a bright red hanky peeking out of the breast pocket. He also sported a cravat. He was freshly shaven, and if the others in the Residents' Lounge weren’t mistaken, he was wearing aftershave.
‘George is looking very posh today, one of the two ladies sat together in the lounge commented to a Care Assistant putting a pot of tea down at their table.
‘Yes, I noticed that. You can almost see your face in the toe caps of his shoes. Must have spent ages polishing them, I’d say.
‘Wonder why he’s gone to all that trouble?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps he’s got a visitor.’
Star of stage and screen Lucien Dreyfus and renowned Film Director Hal Luckman stood outside the Care Home waiting for the door to be answered.
‘We’ll all end up somewhere like here one day, Hal.’
‘Thanks for coming, Lucien. It should give the old boy a bit of surprise.’
‘It’ll be fun, and its a role made for me, can’t wait to start work.
The two men could be seen from the reception area. The Receptionist said to her Manager:
‘That chap on the right, he looks the spitting image of what’s his name, the actor, who was in, no, can’t remember that either.’
‘Best go and let them in, Debs.’
In the lounge, George was in his usual spot by the bay window.
The Manager almost ran into the lounge and said rather excitedly:
‘George, you have two visitors.’
‘Oh, good, I was only expecting one.’
The two visitors were shown into the lounge and recognised George.
‘Hello George, I’m Hal and this is obviously Lucien.
They took seats and, having exchanged pleasantries, Hal said :
‘To business. Per our letter, we’d like to take an option on your screenplay unless you’re going to pull a Stallone on us and want to star in it?’
‘Funny you should mention that I had in mind more of a Hitchcock-like presence.’
‘We have a deal. Congratulations.
******
THE END
Candy the Cocker Spaniel’s wimpering woke her owners, Bert and Martha. It was minutes before daybreak.
Aware his wife was awake, Bert said: ‘I’ll go, she must be poorly.’
The dog was fine, Bert was slightly surprised not to find her in her Donut bed as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The whimpering was coming from the lounge facing the road. He found her in his armchair, looking out the window.
‘What’s the matter, girl?’
Usually, when he spoke to her, the tail would wag, but there was no movement. She jumped down from the chair and ran to the front door. The whimpering started again. Had she wanted a wee, she would have gone to the back door. She pawed at her lead hanging from the coat stand.
‘You can’t be serious, girl, you want a walk at this time? Its not even light.’ He offered her a dog treat, but she was not interested.’
Bert manoeuvred himself down to her level and stroked her. She kept pawing at her lead.
Martha heard Bert coming back up the stairs.
‘She wants to go for a walk, would you believe?’
’No, I wouldn’t believe that, seriously?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘Give her a biscuit.’
’Tried that. Not interested. I’ll get dressed, won’t be long, I hope.’When he returned, Candy was still pawing at her lead. He unhooked it, put it on her, and slipped into his dog-walking coat. When he opened the door, he realised it was raining or smurring as his Mum would have called it back in the day.
Any sign of precipitation was always a no-no for Candy; she would about-face and return to her much-loved bed. Not this time. Off they went down the garden path. When he reached the gate and looked across diagonally at the bungalow, the new people had moved in the previous week
The bungalow had two front gardens separated by a low wall. In the outer, smaller garden, it was immediately obvious that a pop-up tent was in situ.
Candy strained and pulled on her leash. In two minds about investigating the new addition that hadn’t been there when he’d returned the previous evening at ten o’clock, Candy lunged forward, almost unbalancing Bert. She never did this, but he crossed the road. As he neared, he saw there was a piece of card attached to the front of the zippered tent. He got his phone out, turned on the torch, and saw 'capitalised' in red handwriting.
It read:
“DO NOT OPEN. CALL THE POLICE ”
Candy was sniffing the tent and pulling on the lead. He pulled her away.
With no loss of time, he marched up the short driveway and up the two steps. As he reached for the bell, he noted the time on his wristwatch: five thirty-seven. It took some minutes for one of the new owners to answer the door via the intercom. A voice with no small amount of attitude called through: ‘What do you want?’
Bert spoke. ‘I live across the road, there is a tent pitched on your front garden with a note to call the Police.’
The door opened immediately. The man, Richard Lowe, appeared in his dressing gown. Bert and Candy turned away towards the tent. Richard followed. Arriving at the tent, he registered the handwriting and made to unzip it.
‘It says not to open but call the Police.’ Bert warned.
‘I am the Police,’ was the response.
‘Oh,’ Bert replied
‘I’ll deal with it. Thank you for what you did, you can go now.’ As Bert moved away a few yards, he heard Richard say, “Police, please.’
Bert took Candy up the road. When he returned ten minutes later and rounded the corner, he immediately saw Police and Ambulance vehicles, along with a screen around the tent. Bert hastened his pace and went back inside his house. His wife was waiting in the kitchen, sipping on a cup of tea.
‘I saw blue lights and then saw the tent, what’s happening?’
‘Don’t know anything good obviously.’
That evening, Bert, Martha and Candy were sitting in their back garden and heard the doorbell. Bert went to see who was there. Candy stayed put. She usually followed Bert wherever he went and was known as his “little shadow.”
Bert opened the door to a sombre-looking Richard
’Did you want to know the outcome of this morning’s events?’
‘Yes. Come in.’
‘Thanks, but I need to be somewhere. So there was a dead body inside with a letter pinned to his chest. Turns out he lived in the bungalow as a child and it was the only place he had ever been happy. That’s the shortened version. He apologised profusely for what he had done in the note, and well, that’s it.’
‘How awful. Are you ok?’
‘Yes, seen a lot of that kind of stuff. Must be off, I’m Richard by the way.’
‘Bert.’
‘You have a lovely dog, Bert.’
‘It was she who, for want of a better expression, flagged this up, I’m not in the habit of walking her quite that early.’
‘Interesting, she must have sensed something.’
‘Evidently.’
******
www.samsparks.net
samsparkswriter@ iCloud.com