The green tinge started in her toes. She was convinced it was a fungal infection, but her Google searches insisted that a fungal infection couldn’t spread all the way up her foot and to her ankles, and certainly not within 24 hours. Continue reading “Green | Flash Fiction”
‘I can’t do this,’ she whispers.
She retrieves a pair of smart black trousers from the wardrobe and lays them out on the bed. Shirt next. She has one in mind. It’s newish. Plainish. Smartish. First day material. It will help her blend in. But it isn’t where it’s supposed to be.
Hangers screech as she slides them left to right and right to left on their rail. It has to be there. It has to be hiding. It has to be.
She lunges for the wash basket, flips back the lid, and rifles through stale garments. It’s there, right at the bottom, crumpled into a ball.
Tears want to spill but she breathes and assesses the damage. She shakes the shirt out and examines it, front and back. Lots of creases. No stains, at least. A tentative sniff decides it; quick iron, spritz of Febreze, splash of perfume, and it’ll do the job.
She stubs her toe on the bed frame as she gathers up her outfit.
She traps a finger in the stiff hinge of the ironing board as she erects it.
She scatters bottles of cleaning products across the kitchen floor as she retrieves the iron from under the sink.
The iron is dead. The little light won’t turn on. It doesn’t get hot. Something inside it rattles when she shakes it.
She clenches her jaw. ‘I can’t do this.’
All aboard! Please have your tickets ready to show the inspector. Failure to produce a valid ticket could result in fine. Enjoy your journey with us today.
The shot knocked him straight to the floor and for a split second he thought he was dead. But he wasn’t. He touched his fingers to the back of his head. Wet. Blood. And when he realised there was blood, the pain kicked in – searing, burning, debilitating pain. The pain was so bad that he almost wished he had died. And then he passed out. Continue reading “Bullet | Flash Fiction”
“Delicious stew. What’s that lovely flavour?”
“Nice. Fresh or dried?”
“She was pretty fresh. Got a lot left over though, so I might dry her out – make some jerky.” Continue reading “Rosemary | Microfiction”
“…so the pig offered a piece of his meat for the bloke to use as a muscle in his leg. That’s why they call it a hamstring.”
“Cool! Thanks, Dad.”
Kids are inquisitive. Too inquisitive, for Jez’s liking. They ask a lot of questions to which nobody really knows the answers, but if you try to fob them off with an “I don’t know, pet,” they’ll witter on and on and on until you’re about ready to lose your mind.
Jez came up with a solution to this problem. Just make shit up. Easy…
“Ally is quieter than Annie, wouldn’t you say? Annie’s got a touch more confidence. She’s a smidge taller, too. Other than that, they’re exactly the same.”
Ally and Annie’s mother glowered at her friend. “They’re completely different. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. They’re each totally unique.”
Her friend laughed. “They’re identical twins.”
“And they have some similarities, of course. But they’re each unique in their own ways. I don’t want my daughters’ identities to be dismissed as one and the same.”
“Fair enough. Sorry I spoke.”
Ally and Annie pulled their ears away from the wall of the next room.
“That bitch,” Annie said.
Ally nodded. “Yeah. Absolute bitch.”
“We’re identical twins. Of course we’re identical in every way. How could she say we’re not?”
Ally’s eyebrows twitched. “Yeah. How could she?”
“And I’m not taller than you. We’re exactly the same height. You just have a habit of slouching. Stand up straight, raise your shoulders.”
“I’m sick of that old cow always insisting we’re different. Being twins is our thing. It’s our novelty factor. It’s our… our…”
“Right, exactly. But we’ll put a stop to it. Won’t we?”
Ally mimicked her sister’s vicious smile and crossed her fingers behind her back .“We’ll put a stop to it…”
“Ten quid’s a real bargain for a treadmill. There something wrong with it?”
“We just want rid of it really — not bothered about the money. I mean, it’s a bit temperamental, but it works on the whole.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes the speed setting gets stuck. You have to have someone switch it off at the plug, or just jump off it. No big deal. You could probably get someone to have a look at it, get it fixed.”
“Right. I dunno, mate.”
“Go on. You drove all this way to look at it. Tell you what, I’ll let it go for a fiver. How about it?”
At home he donned his tracksuit bottoms and his trainers and he psyched himself up for his January journey to fitness.
He began with a stroll, speed set to minimum, and it wasn’t long until his heart was pounding and sweat was beading on his forehead.
“Power through,” he told himself, and he mashed at the control pad to increase the speed.
He made it up to a jog. His throat grew dry and his legs burned. He thought about the ice cold beers in his fridge and the pizza place menu on the kitchen counter.
“Power through,” he told himself, and he hiked up the speed once more, just to prove to himself that he could do it.
He hadn’t run anywhere in years. He couldn’t even remember the last time his legs had moved so fast. His heart hammered and his lungs wheezed and the sweat began to pour from every inch of his skin.
“Can’t power through. Don’t want a heart attack,” he told himself, as his tacky fingers pressed desperately at the control pad.
Nothing happened. The speed wouldn’t drop…
“Oh, shit. Dreary January is here. Prepare yourselves for misery.”
“Hi,” says January, face blank, dead behind the eyes.
“Hello, mate!” says February. “How are you doing?”
“Well, I’m skint. I’ve got nothing to look forward to. I’m freezing fucking cold and I hate everything.”
February grins. “Least you’ve got your health, eh?”
January gives a pointed cough. “Nope. Just getting over the flu.”
“Stop whinging, January. You really are a buzzkill,” December slurs. “Have a drink with me, won’t you?” Continue reading “Here Comes Dreary January | Flash Fiction”
Buttons from a yellow jacket – check.
Feather from a buzzard – check.
Blood from a bounty hunter – check. And that shit wasn’t easy to get hold of. I hope that dude doesn’t have any vengeful friends. Continue reading “Premium Tears | Microfiction”
“You broke it. I’m telling Mummy.”
“You always go crying to Mum. Baby.”
“I am not. You’re a baby.”
“I’m 10. You’re a baby.”
“Am not! I’m almost eight.”
“But you’re not eight yet. Baby!”
Finn threw a weak punch at his big sister.
Amy shoved him right back. “Don’t hit!” Continue reading “Believing is Key | Flash Fiction”