Mack had a hankering for a stir-fry. He had all the ingredients at home except for beansprouts, and he couldn’t possibly get the full satisfaction from a stir-fry that wasn’t loaded with beansprouts.
He nipped out to the local supermarket and picked up his beloved ingredient. It wasn’t until he reached the till and the cashier asked him for money that he realised he’d left his wallet at home.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’ll have to come back for them.”
The cashier smiled at him. “What else have you got?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I can trade them with you. What else have you got? Check your pockets.” Continue reading “Mack and the Beansprouts | Flash Fiction”
It started when my boss asked for a strong black coffee. My mind catapulted to those cool Sunday mornings when I’d wake you up with a freshly made cup. The house would be tinged in the pale yellow of the early spring sun, and you’d smile at me, eyes still closed, as soon as the aroma of coffee roused you from sleep.
At lunch, it was a dress that did it. Dark blue and covered in little white spots, worn by the woman who stood in front of me in the queue at the supermarket. You had a dress just like it. At least, I think you did; it looked like something you would wear. But I suppose I never paid enough attention. Your wardrobe now is a hazy memory – a blur of blues and whites and greys and every now and again, when I insisted it suited you, a splash of red. Continue reading “I Remember | Flash Fiction”
Every day at 12.45pm sharp, a middle-aged woman drops into the supermarket to purchase 18 bananas.
She’s done the same for five years. Monday through Sunday, she carefully chooses 18 perfectly ripe bananas, takes them to the checkout, packs them into her reusable carrier bag, pays, and leaves. There’s never anything else on her shopping list, it seems. It’s all about the bananas. Continue reading “Bananas | Flash Fiction”
Why won’t he text? Is he dead?
No, don’t be so stupid. He’ll have just forgotten.
That’s nice, isn’t it? Forgotten the love of his life. I must mean an awful lot to him if he can’t even be bothered to spend 3 seconds texting me.
Seriously, though, why would he forget me? Shouldn’t I be on his mind every second of every day like he is on mine? Continue reading “Is He Dead? | Flash Fiction”
The queue for Shy Styles snakes right around the block. The men and women patiently waiting in line are all completely silent. Some listen to music through ear buds or headphones. Others tap idly at phone screens and tablets. A few are reading books, while more still simply gaze about them, taking in the cars and people that pass them by.
The same goes for the lucky customers who are at the very front of the queue and able to find seats inside the salon’s foyer. None of them say a word. The only sound is that of a lone hairdryer, which the hairstylist wields expertly as she finishes off a sleek cut and blow dry. Continue reading “Shy Styles | Flash Fiction”
The groom pours stale coffee into a cup, leaving a half an inch of the black liquid in the bottom of the percolator. He brings the cup to his dry lips and takes a long swig to relieve the cotton wool sensation that plagues his tongue.
He needs distraction. He retrieves his phone from his trouser pocket and taps at the screen to access his documents. He skims over the latest draft of an article he’s been battling with for weeks. It’s good. It’s almost perfect. He just can’t seem to find the right words to conclude it.
And he probably won’t be able to find them now as the nerves swirl in his stomach. He takes another sip of coffee and reaches into the inside pocket of his suit, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter.
She’ll turn up her nose when she catches the whiff of stale fag on his breath. He told her he’d quit. She doesn’t know that he never managed to kick that first and only smoke of the day.
When the nicotine has delivered a surge of faux confidence, he tosses the cigarette — only two-thirds smoked — onto the ground and grinds it beneath his shoe. He can probably go through with it, he thinks. It won’t kill him. He’s managed three years already; a lifetime won’t be all that bad…
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‘I know he’s right for the job. I know he has all the experience. I know he’ll make this department the best it’s ever been. The trouble is, he knows it, too. He’s got an ego on him. If we give him this promotion, his big head’ll only get even more obnoxious.’ Continue reading “Ego | Flash Fiction”
Bang, bang, fucking bang, every single day since they moved in.
It’s not always loud. I mean, sometimes it is; sometimes it’s so loud it makes me jump out of my skin. But a lot of the time, it’s a dull thud, thud, thud, or a swift rat-a-tat-tat. It’s almost like somebody’s knocking on the wall that divides our properties, trying to get my attention. But that’s probably my mind playing tricks on me. Continue reading “Neighbours | Flash Fiction”
There was a new girl in the office and everyone felt a bit weird about it.
The equilibrium of the workplace was askew as everyone tried to figure out what she was like and how she’d fit in. It wasn’t that they didn’t like her, but more that they didn’t know her; it simply wasn’t clear if she was going to be likeable.
The staff room was unusually quiet for a Friday lunchtime; the only noise that filled the air was the icky sound of chewing and chomping, slurping and munching. Everyone wanted to chat, like usual, but they didn’t know what to say. Continue reading “Weekend Plans | Flash Fiction”
“The assumption was that we would meet at 7.30pm, having already purchased our sweet treats and stashed them on our persons, ready to buy our tickets and find the best seats in the cinema.”
“That was your assumption, actually.”
“Instead, you met me at 7.30pm not only without your sweet treats, but without any idea of what sweet treats you wanted.”
“This was a cinema trip, not a military operation.” Continue reading “Assumptions | Flash Fiction”