Short Story and Flash Fiction Writer
Flash fiction for flash bastards. Or just for people who don’t have much time and wish to be entertained within the limits of their tight schedules. Flash fiction goes by a lot of supposed word limits, but I define mine as anything under 1,000 words. Usually, they’re around the 400-word mark, so you could probably read a fair few of them on your tea break.
“Sir? We’ve just received intel that suggests the enemy will be conducting a major strike at any moment.”
“What kind of strike?”
“Like nothing we’ve ever seen before. Sort of a… complete elimination, I suppose. The destruction of everything we’ve ever known.”
“Will you stop blabbering and get to the point. What are they planning?”
“They’re going to remove the carpets, sir.” Continue reading “War | Flash Fiction”
Every single soul who sampled it said that Fool’s Gold Cheddar was the best cheese they’d ever had. And Keith had created it all by himself, at home one rainy Sunday afternoon. He couldn’t be more proud of himself.
Now, it’s set to be stocked in delicatessens, farm shops and supermarkets right across the county. He takes in the audience that stands before him and beams. They’re looking at him like he’s a genius. He’s the hallowed cheese magician, creator of the smoothest, creamiest, tangiest cheddar that has ever passed their lips.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins. “Thank you so much for coming to our launch party this evening. This is a huge deal for me. I went from a bored and boring old banker, stuck in a 9-to-5 job that I despised. And now I’m my own boss doing something I absolutely love. I couldn’t be more grateful for all the support you’ve given me over the past year.
“Now, lots of people ask me, ‘What’s the secret to Fool’s Gold Cheddar? How do you make it so tangy? What is it that gives it that unique, sharp flavour?’ Well, I’m going to reveal my secret to you tonight, ladies and gents.”
I look in the mirror and grimace. Deep bags under my eyes. Pimples on my chin. Eyebrows in dire need of a pluck.
“Gross,” I whisper to myself.
“Who the hell are you calling gross?” I say back.
It’s me, talking back to me. My reflection is moving of its own accord and it’s talking to me. Continue reading “Pep Talk | Flash Fiction”
The fortune teller has been glaring at Polly for 10 minutes, and Polly hasn’t dared to look away. There’s something in the woman’s eyes that makes it impossible. Something almost threatening that tells her not to break the silence.
And yet, despite the hostile atmosphere, Polly’s feeling a little bored. She’s also more than a little peeved that she’s spent £45 just to be stared down by a woman with cold, hard eyes. She came here to be told of her future. She expected a crystal ball at the very least.
The fortune teller blinks, shakes her head, and finally looks away. “Gotcha,” she says. “Here. Take this.” She pulls a cardboard tube out from beneath the table and hands it over. “There’s a picture in here which depicts your future. Don’t peek until you get home. And don’t get too upset… we can’t all have the perfect life.”
Polly nods as she takes the package. “Thanks,” she says.
The fortune teller grunts. “My commiserations.”
“I can’t believe that dumb bitch put me in the washing machine.” Silk Shirt takes in the dark grey sky and her rage grows. “If it pisses it down on me now, I swear I’ll shrink on purpose just to teach her a lesson.”
“Give it a bloody rest, will you?” mutters Holey Old Band Tee. “There’s no wonder she treats you like crap when you’re so hoity toity and full of yourself. If you ever want to bag yourself Favourite Garment status, you have to relax. Roll with the punches. Pitch yourself as reliable. Comfortable. Cool. And make sure you age gracefully. That’s what I did. 20 years she’s been wearing me. My hem’s all raggedy and I have five holes and counting, but I still look fucking awesome. I’ve been through more wash cycles than I can count, andI’ve been left out in the rain at least six times a year since she first bought me. Do you catch me complaining? No. You’ll only ever catch me looking totally rock and roll. That’s why I’m her favourite.”
“It won’t last,” says Paint-Splattered Jeans glumly. “I was you, once. She never wanted to take me off. She wore me everywhere. We saw the world! Then one day, all of a sudden, I was relegated to DIY.”
Silk Shirt gasps. “What happened?”
The toilet stall read “Vacant” and yet the damn thing wouldn’t open. She hammered on the door desperately, wincing as her full bladder threatened to revolt if it wasn’t relieved soon.
“Anyone in there?” she called.
No reply. Continue reading “Don’t Trust the Toilets | Microfiction”
The shop across the road looks like it sells a load of old tat, but it sure looks more appealing than trying and failing to put pen to paper. I down the last frothy dregs of my cappuccino, tuck my notebook and pen in my bag, and head out to kill some time.
The door jangles to announce my presence, and in seconds the shop owner appears before me with a wide grin stretched across his face.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
I shake my head. “Just browsing.”
I look at the shelves and take in the junk. Twee wooden figurines. Cheap plastic flowers arranged in even cheaper plastic vases. Cutesy signs with naff statements like God Bless This Mess and Dust is a Country Accent. Dachshund draught excluders with blue plaid bellies and cartoonish eyes. Floral aprons and floral tea towels and floral oven mitts and floral cushion covers and…
“Perhaps I can point you in the right direction,” the shop owner says, his megawatt grin not faltering for even a moment.
He rolls over in bed to find her side empty and cold. There’s an envelope on the pillow with his name penned in her hand. Already he knows she’s gone.
He checks every room of the house, just to be sure. And then he pulls back the curtains in the living room and peers out at the creatures outside. They’re still there, dependable as ever. But she’s gone. Continue reading “You’re Right | Flash Fiction”
The mug sits unwashed on the kitchen table, a layer of white fuzz growing on the surface of the dregs of tea inside it. A smudge of lipstick is on the rim, and there’s a fingerprint made in chocolate on the handle.
The rest of the kitchen is pristine. Every single other mug, cup, glass, plate and bowl is dutifully washed, dried and put away immediately after use. But the mouldy mug remains on the table, as it has for three weeks now.
“I won’t take them off. I refuse to.” She folds her arms and glares at her husband. “And anyway, it was you who told me I should wear them all the time. ‘If you’re going to spend hundreds of pounds on shoes, you better wear them every single day and get your money’s worth,’ you said. So I did. And now you’re blaming me for this mess.”
“I didn’t mean literally every day.”
“But that’s what you said!” Continue reading “Get Your Money’s Worth | Flash Fiction”
