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”
“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?”
Continue reading on Medium >
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”
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…
CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >
“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”
“Before we go to Buckingham Palace, we have to get some of those mince pies.”
“Ugh, do we have to?”
“Yes! We’re in London at Christmas. It’s, like, compulsory to try traditional British mince pies when you’re in London at this time of year.”
“Fine. But they sound gross. Who puts meat in sweet pies? Only the Brits.”
“They don’t have meat in them. The mincemeat is just fruit and stuff.”
“Really? So why do they call it mincemeat?”
“Beats me. They’re kind of weird over here. Look at that — ‘Freshly Baked Mince Pies’ — it’s, literally, a sign! I guess we’ll head into that café to try some.”
The café is dim and grimy and void of customers, but that doesn’t stop the American tourists. It’s all part of the authentic London experience, or so they think.
CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >
The house seemed to have crumbled from the foundations up. If there were bodies buried within the rubble, they weren’t going to be easy to find.
The detectives were totally perplexed. It was the only house for miles around, and there’d been no witnesses to give clues as to what had brought the structure tumbling down. Continue reading “Hungry | Flash Fiction”