‘One hundred words to go, that’s all, bobblehead! One hundred little words to write until I meet my target and I can rest easy. And it’s only 4 a.m.! I’ve done well, haven’t I?’
The writer’s bobblehead mascot nods frantically in agreement as she taps out a manic rhythm on the desk with her fingers. Continue reading “Missed Targets | Flash Fiction”
‘Engage all switches when I countdown to one, okay?’
The crew barks its agreement.
The captain wipes the sweat from his brow. They’re under a lot of pressure. They crashed on this deserted planet 15 months ago due to an engine failure. Every waking minute had been dedicated to getting the ship back up and running. Now, they’re ready.
At least, he thinks they are. Turning the system back on is the first step, but security protocols demand that each control panel be rebooted in perfect unison. If they fail… well, they’re fucked. Continue reading “Kablamo | 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”
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”
‘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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A husky rattle creaked from his voicebox every time he took a breath, and each time she heard it, she thought it would be his last.
“I’ve been lying to you,” he wheezed. “For years.”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter now.” And she meant it.
“It does. You have to know.” Continue reading “One Final Confession | Microfiction”
“Listen up, soldiers! We’ll have to abseil down. But that’s the easy part. Getting across the canyon with so many obstacles won’t be simple. You’ll need to keep your wits about you. Threats are everywhere. Death could –”
“Watch out!” Continue reading “The Mission | Microfiction”
“Congratulations on your new home!”
“Thanks, Lindsey. Come on in, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Lindsey gazes around her as she enters Julie’s house, taking everything in. “May you create countless memories in your beautiful new abode,” she says with a smile.
Julie laughs, “I’m sure I will. Follow me!” Continue reading “Introductions | Flash Fiction”
Mama Wolf watches her pups as they roll around in the grass, nipping at one another’s ears and paws in giddy play. All but the runt, at least, who sits quietly away from his siblings.
“See?” whispers Mama Wolf. “He always separates himself. Wants to be closer to me. He’s too weak to keep up with the rest.” Continue reading “The Runt | Microfiction”