2019 Will Be My Year | Microfiction

31st December, 2018

Dear Diary,

2019 will be my year.

I’m keeping myself accountable. I’m making every single day count. Every resolution will be achieved this year. It has to. I need to move on.

1. Lose 10 lbs. I need to be healthier and there’s no harm in looking hotter. That’ll show him.

2. Eat right. Plenty of protein. Healthy fats. Limited sugar. More water, less coffee. I need this body in good nick if I’m gonna do this right.

3. Exercise, exercise, exercise. EVERY DAY. Cardio. Kick-boxing classes. Weight-lifting. I have to be able to lift 200 lbs. Nothing less. If I can’t do that, the whole plan is fucked…

CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >

Premium Tears | Microfiction

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”

Goat | Microfiction

“I’m telling you – it’s Dad.”

“It’s a bloody goat, Sarah.”

“He’s in the goat’s body.”

“He’s possessed it?”

“He’s been reincarnated.” Continue reading “Goat | Microfiction”

Peace and Quiet | Microfiction

“Ready for Boxing Day, kids?”

Amy and Finn are glum. They hate Boxing Day.

“Do we have to, Dad?” Amy says with a sigh.

“It’s tradition,” Dad insists. Continue reading “Peace and Quiet | Microfiction”

Believing is Key | Flash Fiction

“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”

A Swim in the Nuddy | Flash Fiction

“Come on, pal — get your kit off.”

Dale shivered and looked up at the night sky from which the first flakes of snow were beginning to fall. “I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

Ryan clapped him on the back. “A swim in the sea in the nuddy — it’s a tradition. You’ve had ten pints, you shouldn’t be able to feel the cold.”

“You really do it every year?”

Gareth laughed. “Every year, just past midnight on Christmas Eve. So get your bloody kit off.”

Dale eyed the black waves. It wasn’t a choppy night out at sea, but it wasn’t as calm as he’d like. He wasn’t the strongest of swimmers, and he wondered if the ten pints would improve on his doggy-paddling or make it worse. “Why do I have to go first?”

“New guy always goes first,” Ryan said. “Them’s the rules.”

CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >

Take a Hike | Microfiction

She rubbed at eyes crusted with sleep as she flopped down the stairs and grimaced. Four pairs of walking boots were set out before the front door.

“Ten minutes for breakfast,” her father said. “I’ve mapped a six-mile route. We should be back before the rain sets in.” Continue reading “Take a Hike | Microfiction”

Day 358 | Flash Fiction

By day 358 on the island I was shitting through the eye of a needle.

I didn’t know if the coconuts were rancid or I’d simply eaten so many that my body was finally starting to reject them. But what choice did I have? I could shit myself silly or I could starve to death. I was seriously considering the latter.

And then I saw the boat on the horizon. I thought it was coconut-induced delirium at first, but I blinked and I blinked and it wouldn’t go away. I stoked the fire and piled it high with every flammable thing I could find until thick plumes of grey smoke rose high up into the azure sky.

CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >

Village Secrets | Flash Fiction

“Delicious casserole, Paula. You must give me the recipe.”

“Absolutely. I’ll email it to you.”

***

“Beautiful casserole! You never did send me the recipe.”

“Didn’t I? I’ll send it over tomorrow.”

***

“Your famous casserole again! Are you ever going to send me the recipe or will you take it to the grave with you?”

“I could have sworn I sent it, Denise. Did you check your junk folder?” Continue reading “Village Secrets | Flash Fiction”

Cockerels Are From The Fiery Pits of Hell | Short Story

It’s a sure sign that your owner is having problems when they bring home a cockerel.

“Look at this handsome guy, Bruno,” he said to me, all smiles and with just a flicker of madness behind his eyes as he stroked at the cockerel’s rubbery head. “He’s gonna get me up. He’s gonna change my life.”

I wagged my tail at him because that’s my job, but I wanted to do was give him a slap round the back of the head and tell him to pull himself together.

He already has three alarm clocks, all of them set at staggered times in an attempt to rouse him from sleep. But they don’t do the job. They go off, alright. They sure as hell wake me up from my beauty sleep. They just don’t manage to sift through into the murky, sleeping subconscious of my incompetent owner.

It’s not like I let him sleep, either. I’m desperate for him to wake up so that he can take me out for my morning ablutions and give me the almighty meal known as Breakfast. I nuzzle him. I lick his face. I paw at his head. I scrabble at his chest. Once I trampled all over the area he’s most precious about, and even that didn’t wake him. When that man falls asleep, he’s dead to the world. Only his own body clock can wake him, and that seems to be set to permanent snooze mode.

His life is falling apart. He’s had a million warnings from work about his tardiness. He lost his girlfriend when she got sick of waiting for him to wake every day. His family think he’s a lazy oaf and will have nothing to do with him. And even though I’m obligated to provide him with unconditional love, he’s really starting to go down in my estimation. The only reason he’s remained in my good books for so long is because he buys the fancy treats with the bacon wrapped around them.

So he brought in this cockerel and I’m all freaked out because, let’s be real, those things look like something out of the Jurassic Park animatronic reject bin. Its face was too small for its body, its feet were too big for its legs, and it had what looked to be the off-cuts of a ballsack attached to its head.

But I’m a dog. So I played nice…

CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >