Down the Hatch | Flash Fiction

“Take a seat, Miles. Drink?”

“No, no thank you. Better not.”

“Oh, go on. It’s Friday, after all.”

Miles wipes his brow and sits down at his boss’s desk, while Mr Cooke pours two generous tots of whiskey.

“It’s been a tough week, Miles.”

Miles nods.

“Have you not found it a tough week?”

“Oh, yes sir. Very tough week. Yes. I nodded.”

“You what?”

“No, I… I agreed. Tough week.”

“Let’s talk about it.” Mr Cooke pushes a glass towards Miles. “Tell me about your week.”

“Well. I had… a few problems.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Exactly how much money did you lose the company, Miles?”

Miles swallows hard. “It was, um, a little over… seven, I think. Yes, seven million.”

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Green Pen | Short Story

It was the same grizzly scene he’d seen eight times before. A pale corpse, its face stricken with fear and its neck punctured with a green ballpoint pen. Blood sprayed about the room and pooled around the body. And a note, written in green ink on yellow paper, which read:

You won’t catch me. If you do, you’ll come to regret it.

Never any prints. Never any clues. Never a single thing to go on.

Investigations on the pen and paper had drawn a blank. Both were popular brands which had been sold in supermarkets and stationary stores up and down the country for years. Tracing potential suspects was impossible; too many people bought the damn things to isolate any decent leads.

There were never any witnesses. Neighbours never heard signs of break-in or struggle or even the murders themselves. There was never any nearby CCTV to hint as to who had been in the area before and after the crime took place.

The victims weren’t linked. They didn’t know each other or share mutual friends or acquaintances. There was no evidence of them having enemies. They weren’t even alike in appearance or nature. All of them were from completely different walks of life, killed for the sake of killing, it seemed.

And it all left the detective completely and utterly stumped. Victim number nine gave him no more clues as to the murderer than victim number one.

He nurses a glass of brandy while staring at the four walls of his living room.

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We Get It, You Vape | Microfiction

“You damn hipster,” Olrug said with a sneer.

Xalmun took a long toke on his electronic cigarette and blew plumes of vapour straight into his friend’s face. “It’s better for you.”

“Is it now?”

“Yup. Filters out all those filthy toxins. The dark thoughts. The sins. The impure fantasies.”

Olrug sighed. “But they’re the best parts. They give that nice, bitter burn at the back of your throat. It’s not the same without that kick, y’know?”

Xalmun rolled his eyes. “You gonna put this one out of its misery?”…

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Hungry | Flash Fiction

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”

Jammed | 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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What Hunger Does | Microfiction

The noodles writhe in the bowl like worms. Jeb blinks at them repeatedly, wondering if it’s his eyes playing tricks on him.

“Hunger does funny things to our brains,” mutters the old woman from her armchair. “Eat up, lad. It’s delicious.”

It was hunger that had driven him towards the cottage. Hunger which had forced his knuckles to rap on the front door. Hunger which had made him ask for some scraps. Hunger had which pushed him into the home of a stranger despite his gut squeezing and churning in objection.

Jeb smiles at the old woman, who eagerly shovels noodles from her own bowl into her mouth.

Hunger had already done some daft things. Not much of a surprise, then, that it could make a benign bowl of noodles wriggle like a mound of worms…

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Be Transformed with DNA Body Rejuvenation Therapy™

Are you tired of the signs of aging? Are wrinkles, sagging skin, and sun spots getting you down? Is your figure not what it once was? Has your figure never been up to scratch? Do you have stubborn fat lurking around your middle? Is your hair turning grey and losing volume? Do you hate looking in the mirror?

Age Reversal Laboratories has the solution: DNA Body Rejuvenation Therapy™.

This all-new cosmetic procedure is perfect for individuals who desire a full body makeover with a single, simple procedure. We can turn back the years in a matter of months. You’ll look younger and feel more confident than ever before. It all begins with your DNA.

What is DNA Body Rejuvenation Therapy™?

You’ve all heard of Dolly the Sheep, right? Well, our technology is the very same as that used to create the famous Dolly, only more advanced, more reliable, and more versatile.

Here’s how it works:

First, you’ll have a consultation with one of expert physicians to discuss the age-related issues you’re dealing with. Then, you’ll talk results. Let us know exactly how you’d like to look, and we’ll make your dreams come true. Stronger cheekbones, perkier buttocks, glossier hair — whatever your vision of your perfect self, we can make it a reality.

Next, we’ll take a small vial of your blood. This the vital elixir which acts as the basis for your brand new body! We’ll retrieve your DNA and use our patented Gene Rejuvenation Technology™ to tweak it, giving you the perfect features you’ve always desired. It’s still your DNA, only better.

Once we’ve tailored your DNA to perfection, the talented technicians in our Growth Lab will quickly get to work on growing a brand new you. Our Advanced Body Growth Tonic™ allows us to mature your cloned body within just three months, rather than years. Think of it like the fertiliser you use in your garden, only for human bodies instead of plants — simple!

The Procedure

Now comes the exciting part.

When your new body has reached maturity, it is humanely slaughtered and prepared for transplant.* The surgery is incredibly simple; we just move your brain from your old body right into your new one…

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Where Monsters Lurk | Short Story

The monster leers at me with dull, sunken eyes, its mouth agape and spittle smeared across its chin.

Its grey skin is plagued with more yellowing warts than unusual. Its long hair is lanker, greasier, and more dishevelled. I’m sure its hooked nose is more crooked than I’ve ever seen it before.

It’s the last thing I want to look at first thing in a morning, but it can’t be avoided. It took up residence in my bedroom years ago; it’s almost part of the furniture.

I turn away, sick to my stomach, and retrieve my day’s outfit from the wardrobe. Black trousers. Loose grey t-shirt. Black, fine-knit cardigan. Black ankle boots. As close as I can get to an invisibility cloak.

I run a brush through my hair and that’s that — I’m ready. I don’t bother with makeup. Couldn’t bear it.

In the bathroom, I brush my teeth while avoiding eye contact with the monster that lurks in there. It’s a little smaller than the one in the bedroom and easier to ignore if I concentrate hard enough.

There have been times when curiosity has got the better of me and I’ve snatched a glance at it. The shortest of glimpses of its repulsive flesh under the harsh bathroom spotlights — its skin pale and thin enough that I can see the blood pulsing through the veins beneath it — is enough to make me retch…

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4 Rules for Writing Fiction You Can Ignore

You think you know how to write fiction? You probably don’t. Not unless you follow these four cardinal writing rules.

Remember: some highly successful writers break these rules and still write great stuff. But you are not one of them. It is not possible to break these rules and write great stuff unless you are already a successful writer. Got it? Good.

1. Show, don’t tell

You’re telling me a story, right? Wrong. You need to show me the story. You don’t need a pen and paper or a keyboard — you need a stage. Perform for me, monkey.

You could act out the story, mime it, or come up with a contemporary dance routine. Whatever you do, don’t you dare tell me what happens, because that’s bad writing. It’s boring. What readers really want is a series of ideas which they can interpret in a million and one different ways without fully understanding what your story is all about. Do you understand? Of course you don’t. That’s exactly my point.

Now, there is a very subtle difference between showing and telling when writing fiction, and I’m afraid I can’t share with you what that difference is. Why? Because I have no idea myself. Nobody does. All I know is that “show, don’t tell” is the most repeated mantra known to fiction writers the world over, and we must abide.

2. Never carry dialogue with anything other than “said”

You don’t want your writing to become too pretentious, right? In that case, don’t even think about using anything other than “said” when you’re telling — sorry, showing — us how your characters interact.

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The Man Who Could Never Finish | 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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