8 p.m. is creeping near and I’m restless. I don’t know what to do with myself. I want to pace the room and at the same time lounge on my sofa and focus really hard on not moving a muscle.
I put the telly on and flick through the channels. Boring. Boring. Depressing. Too happy. Naff. Repeat. Repeat. Another repeat. It’s all crap. Hundreds of channels and nothing to watch. Continue reading “Restless | Flash Fiction”
There was this trend kicking off all over the internet where people shared videos and photos of drivers doing the dumbest, strangest and most dangerous stuff possible while bombing full-speed down the motorway. Continue reading “Trending | Flash Fiction”
It was only when I was stark bollock naked with my wrists tethered to a giant hook that I began to have doubts.
Not that there was any going back. There wasn’t time. Someone gave the go-ahead and I was raised into the air, feet flailing wildly, arms aching, fear setting in. I swayed side to side and back and forth as the crane slid me to the left and dangled me over the top of the vat of liquid skin. Continue reading “Dunk | Flash Fiction”
The Prime Minister rubs at tired eyes and checks her watch. “Right. Give me an update on Kitten Café.”
The CEO of Kitten Café smiles and nods. “All is going well, Prime Minister. This month we’ve adopted out 244 cats within our London branches alone. I’ve yet to gt figures confirmed from other regions but -”
“I couldn’t care less about the cats,” the Prime Minister snaps. “Tell me how it’s really going.” Continue reading “Kitten Café | Flash Fiction”
‘One hundred words to go, that’s all, bobblehead! One hundred little words to write until I meet my target and I can rest easy. And it’s only 4 a.m.! I’ve done well, haven’t I?’
The writer’s bobblehead mascot nods frantically in agreement as she taps out a manic rhythm on the desk with her fingers. Continue reading “Missed Targets | Flash Fiction”
‘Make jam,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said. ‘You’ll be so relaxed!’
They were wrong.
It was nice at first, I’ll admit. Handing in my notice was liberating. Telling people I was starting my own business was thrilling. And there was something soothing about knowing that, every morning without fail, I would wake up with the sole purpose of making and selling jam out of my own kitchen. No ghastly 7 a.m. commute. No soulless office block and squint-inducing computer screen glare. No staff room politics or having to eat dried-up sandwiches out of a Tupperware. Instead, it was just me and the jam and the radio.
Me and the jam and the radio. Me and the radio and the jam. The jam and the radio and me. That’s it.
That, and a house that smells like stewed fruit 24 hours a day. And throbbing little burns all over my hands and arms where my skin has been bitten by bubbling fruit and sugar. A garage packed to the rafters with empty jars because it was cheaper to buy them in bulk and I was oh-so enthusiastic when this whole shit show kicked off. And all the measuring and the pouring and the stirring and the sterilising and the jarring and the labelling, day after day after day until my mind is so deadened that I could happily jump into a scorching hot vat of summer fruits and sugar and end it all…
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“Congratulations on your new home!”
“Thanks, Lindsey. Come on in, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Lindsey gazes around her as she enters Julie’s house, taking everything in. “May you create countless memories in your beautiful new abode,” she says with a smile.
Julie laughs, “I’m sure I will. Follow me!” Continue reading “Introductions | Flash Fiction”
Don wakes up with a taste in his mouth that is reminiscent of the arse end of a badger. His head throbs and his stomach feels raw and empty. He’s slumped against the locked door of his local pub, and all around him is chaos.
People are running up and down the street, some carrying baseball bats, others lugging cardboard boxes, more still swigging from beer cans and bottles of liquor. Most of them have hoods pulled low over their faces and they’re shouting and screaming, whooping and laughing. Continue reading “If You Can’t Beat ‘Em | Flash Fiction”
“Just through here, mate,” I say, gesturing to the bedroom. “Good job I live in a bungalow – you’d have had a hard time getting it upstairs.”
The delivery guy nods as he wheels the bulky package down the corridor. “Aye, my back’s done in. I had to get a washing machine up to a third floor flat this morning. No lift, either. Would have been no problem for me ten years ago but my age is catching up with me.” Continue reading “Delivery | Microfiction”
Emily swings the metal detector from side to side, ignoring her brother’s pleading tones behind her.
“Come on, Em, please! I need to pee so bad. And I’m bored and my legs are tired and we haven’t found anything all day.”
“Shut up, Isaac! It’s beeping. There’s something here.” She drops to the ground and begins to scrabble at the soil with her hands. Continue reading “Loot | Flash Fiction”