Kablamo | Microfiction

Space shuttle illustration - "Everything Is On The One" microfiction

‘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”

The Pioneer | Microfiction

Surgeons illustration - "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

Jam and crackers illustration - "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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