Lily had never felt less notable in her life. But that’s exactly what she was going for.
Her usual attire of black skinny jeans, metal band tee, leather jacket, and shiny, silver Chelsea boots was gone in exchange for tracksuit bottoms, an oversized hoodie, and plain, white trainers. Even her purple hair had been pulled back into a bun and hidden beneath a black beany hat. Continue reading “Undercover | Microfiction”
Amber scanned the tower of books in front of her, but she couldn’t find the right one.
Her friend had wittered on about the book for hours, insisting that it was the best work of literature that the world had ever known. Amber was chuffed with herself because she’d predicted it would be the best work of literature the world would ever know as soon as she’d seen it in the bookstore eighteen months ago. Trouble was, she hadn’t got around to reading it yet. And now, she was out of the loop. Continue reading “Addiction | Flash Fiction”
George sank his sword into the dragon’s chest, and the beast’s furious bellows rang out across the land.
Blood poured from the wound and began to soak George’s sleeve. He grimaced and backed away, watching as the creature writhed in agony and tried desperately to remove the weapon which was lodged in its flesh. Continue reading “George’s Big Day | Flash Fiction”
Bonnie and her mother both gasped as they entered Ragz N Bonez Clothing, but for very different reasons. Bonnie was overjoyed. Her mother was repulsed.
Bonnie threw her mother a warning glance – a look that said, “Don’t show me up” – before prancing to the nearest rail of clothes. She trailed her hand over the garments as though they had been spun from threads of gold. Continue reading “Distressed | Flash Fiction”
“Look,” said Stef, as she held up a small bronze lamp. “It’s a genie lamp!”
Paul looked at it briefly and gave a non-committal “Mm.”
“Come on, show a little enthusiasm.”
“Stef, we’ve been clearing out your old man’s junk for 3 days straight, now. The novelty has worn off. All of it is shite, alright? Pure shite.” Continue reading “Lamp | Short Story”
A man wakes with a start and finds himself wet from the waist down. He tries to take in his surroundings. He’s half submerged in a white, milky liquid, and all he can see around him is metal.
He tries to move his arms, but he can’t. He looks down and realises he’s been tethered with rope. He’s attached to a metal pole which is digging uncomfortably into his back.
“You’ll pay. We tried to warn you.” He hears the voice, but he doesn’t know where it comes from. Continue reading “Biting Back”
Glass after glass was filled haphazardly with champagne and passed around the eager party. Everyone had scrubbed up well for the occasion; new dresses had been purchased and best suits dug out of the back of the wardrobe and dusted off. Only the very best would do for Mr and Mrs Acton’s golden wedding anniversary.
A microphone squeaked into life and cheers went up as the room prepared for the speech. Soon enough all eyes were on Mr Acton, who swayed gently from side to side. He held his sixth glass of champagne in his hand. Continue reading “A Toast”
“How’s the missus?”
Matt frowns. “What missus?”
His colleague frowns right back. “Alisha, isn’t it? How is she?”
“No idea what you’re on about, Marie.”
Marie snorts. “Oh no, you haven’t had a falling out have you?”
Matt maintains his look of puzzlement. “What you on about? I don’t have a girlfriend. Been single for months.” Continue reading “Gossips”
I saw a Twitter thread at the start of the year in which people were discussing the Ray Bradbury Challenge (I’m not gonna share it ‘cos I can’t find it… bad blogger alert, sorry), and it got me thinking. So naturally, I’m going to ramble on about it for a few hundred words or so.
The idea behind the challenge is that you write a short story ever single week for a full year, because it’s not possible to write 52 bad stories in a row. At some point, you’re bound to come up with a gem, right? Continue reading “Quantity or Quality in Fiction Writing?”
Mr and Mrs Showers cling onto each other’s hands and look up at the ceiling. They’re in the living room, directly below the bedroom of their young daughter, waiting for midnight and hoping it won’t come.
It’s a yearly ritual, this waiting malarkey. It occurs on the evening of the 31st of March, and it’s an opportunity to reflect upon past mistakes. They watch the clock and curse themselves for ever being stupid enough to name their daughter April. Continue reading “April Showers”