Chitchat | Microfiction

She despises these events. Free tea and coffee is fine, but it comes with the pressure of idle chitchat and ‘making connections’ for the company she hates working for.

She pours a mound of sugar into her coffee and catches the eye of a man opposite her. Continue reading “Chitchat | Microfiction”

The Ultimate Mood Ring | Microfiction

Have you ever wanted to match your accessories to your mood? Why not go one step further and let your accessories transform your mood!

With the Ultimate Mood Ring, you can switch up your mood in a matter of minutes by simply switching out the stylish stone. Continue reading “The Ultimate Mood Ring | Microfiction”

The Kids Are The Future | Microfiction

The Vice President of Future Visionary takes in the stony faces of the young people who stand before her. Hundreds of 18-year-olds, all set to take on the biggest challenge of their lives. She tries her best to look hopeful. Continue reading “The Kids Are The Future | Microfiction”

The Pioneer | Microfiction

It was certainly the weirdest surgery the doctor had ever performed, but it marked her as a pioneer in her industry. Plus, her fee was enough for a down payment on a sprawling mansion in the Hollywood Hills. For that kind of money, she wouldn’t ask questions – she’d just do her job.

But as she completed the patient’s final check-up before discharge, curiosity got the better of her. Continue reading “The Pioneer | Microfiction”

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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