Teresa Grabs is known here on WordPress as The Haunted Wordsmith, and I’m a big fan of her work. She has a knack for writing witty shorts, unexpected twists, and dark tales that make you think. Her short story collection is more of the same fabulousness – smart, funny, uplifting, and wholly entertaining. Continue reading “Tales from the Haunted Wordsmith by Teresa Grabs | Book Review”
Mack had a hankering for a stir-fry. He had all the ingredients at home except for beansprouts, and he couldn’t possibly get the full satisfaction from a stir-fry that wasn’t loaded with beansprouts.
He nipped out to the local supermarket and picked up his beloved ingredient. It wasn’t until he reached the till and the cashier asked him for money that he realised he’d left his wallet at home.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’ll have to come back for them.”
The cashier smiled at him. “What else have you got?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I can trade them with you. What else have you got? Check your pockets.” Continue reading “Mack and the Beansprouts | Flash Fiction”
It started when my boss asked for a strong black coffee. My mind catapulted to those cool Sunday mornings when I’d wake you up with a freshly made cup. The house would be tinged in the pale yellow of the early spring sun, and you’d smile at me, eyes still closed, as soon as the aroma of coffee roused you from sleep.
At lunch, it was a dress that did it. Dark blue and covered in little white spots, worn by the woman who stood in front of me in the queue at the supermarket. You had a dress just like it. At least, I think you did; it looked like something you would wear. But I suppose I never paid enough attention. Your wardrobe now is a hazy memory – a blur of blues and whites and greys and every now and again, when I insisted it suited you, a splash of red. Continue reading “I Remember | Flash Fiction”
The Lost Property office was manned by a bloke that some called “a character.” The less polite simply referred to him as “an arsehole.”
‘Not seen any legs round here,’ he said with a shrug to the worried face in front of him. ‘Sorry.’ Continue reading “A Character | Microfiction”
“Let’s see them, then,” Simon demanded with a grin as he took up his seat at his desk.
Isla turned to look at him with tears in her eyes.
It was the same old Monday morning ritual, and it was the one thing that made Simon’s Mondays just a little bit more cheerful. Continue reading “The Nail Reader | Microfiction”
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…Follow Ellie Scott on WordPress.com
Every day at 12.45pm sharp, a middle-aged woman drops into the supermarket to purchase 18 bananas.
She’s done the same for five years. Monday through Sunday, she carefully chooses 18 perfectly ripe bananas, takes them to the checkout, packs them into her reusable carrier bag, pays, and leaves. There’s never anything else on her shopping list, it seems. It’s all about the bananas. Continue reading “Bananas | Flash Fiction”
Why won’t he text? Is he dead?
No, don’t be so stupid. He’ll have just forgotten.
That’s nice, isn’t it? Forgotten the love of his life. I must mean an awful lot to him if he can’t even be bothered to spend 3 seconds texting me.
Seriously, though, why would he forget me? Shouldn’t I be on his mind every second of every day like he is on mine? Continue reading “Is He Dead? | Flash Fiction”
“I didn’t know you played piano,” she said, eyeing the ramshackle home music studio.
He shrugged. “I dabble.”
“Play something?” Continue reading “Sound Investment | Microfiction”
The heat wave wafted across Great Britain and melted everything in its path.
Buildings sagged. Trees wilted. Cats puddled. Humans grew sticky and stretchy like warm gum. Tarmac and asphalt grew soft enough that cars sank and became stranded in the middle of the motorway. Continue reading “The Heat Wave | Microfiction”