Day 358 | Flash Fiction

By day 358 on the island I was shitting through the eye of a needle.

I didn’t know if the coconuts were rancid or I’d simply eaten so many that my body was finally starting to reject them. But what choice did I have? I could shit myself silly or I could starve to death. I was seriously considering the latter.

And then I saw the boat on the horizon. I thought it was coconut-induced delirium at first, but I blinked and I blinked and it wouldn’t go away. I stoked the fire and piled it high with every flammable thing I could find until thick plumes of grey smoke rose high up into the azure sky.

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Village Secrets | Flash Fiction

“Delicious casserole, Paula. You must give me the recipe.”

“Absolutely. I’ll email it to you.”

***

“Beautiful casserole! You never did send me the recipe.”

“Didn’t I? I’ll send it over tomorrow.”

***

“Your famous casserole again! Are you ever going to send me the recipe or will you take it to the grave with you?”

“I could have sworn I sent it, Denise. Did you check your junk folder?” Continue reading “Village Secrets | Flash Fiction”

Cockerels Are From The Fiery Pits of Hell | Short Story

It’s a sure sign that your owner is having problems when they bring home a cockerel.

“Look at this handsome guy, Bruno,” he said to me, all smiles and with just a flicker of madness behind his eyes as he stroked at the cockerel’s rubbery head. “He’s gonna get me up. He’s gonna change my life.”

I wagged my tail at him because that’s my job, but I wanted to do was give him a slap round the back of the head and tell him to pull himself together.

He already has three alarm clocks, all of them set at staggered times in an attempt to rouse him from sleep. But they don’t do the job. They go off, alright. They sure as hell wake me up from my beauty sleep. They just don’t manage to sift through into the murky, sleeping subconscious of my incompetent owner.

It’s not like I let him sleep, either. I’m desperate for him to wake up so that he can take me out for my morning ablutions and give me the almighty meal known as Breakfast. I nuzzle him. I lick his face. I paw at his head. I scrabble at his chest. Once I trampled all over the area he’s most precious about, and even that didn’t wake him. When that man falls asleep, he’s dead to the world. Only his own body clock can wake him, and that seems to be set to permanent snooze mode.

His life is falling apart. He’s had a million warnings from work about his tardiness. He lost his girlfriend when she got sick of waiting for him to wake every day. His family think he’s a lazy oaf and will have nothing to do with him. And even though I’m obligated to provide him with unconditional love, he’s really starting to go down in my estimation. The only reason he’s remained in my good books for so long is because he buys the fancy treats with the bacon wrapped around them.

So he brought in this cockerel and I’m all freaked out because, let’s be real, those things look like something out of the Jurassic Park animatronic reject bin. Its face was too small for its body, its feet were too big for its legs, and it had what looked to be the off-cuts of a ballsack attached to its head.

But I’m a dog. So I played nice…

CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >

Bickering | Flash Fiction

“Do you hear what I hear?”

Cow chews on her cud and shakes her head at Sheep.

“Dog and Cat at it again,” Sheep whispers. “Listen.”

Cow stops chewing and strains her ears. Faint growls and yowls can be heard from the other side of the barn. She sighs and begins to chomp once again.

Sheep chuckles. “What do you think it’s about this time?”

“I want nothing to do with this gossip,” mutters Cow. “It’s none of my business and it’s certainly none of yours.”

“Oh, but it is. I answer to that bloody sheepdog, see. The more dirt I can get on her, the better.” Continue reading “Bickering | Flash Fiction”

The Authentic London Experience | Flash Fiction

“Before we go to Buckingham Palace, we have to get some of those mince pies.”

“Ugh, do we have to?”

“Yes! We’re in London at Christmas. It’s, like, compulsory to try traditional British mince pies when you’re in London at this time of year.”

“Fine. But they sound gross. Who puts meat in sweet pies? Only the Brits.”

“They don’t have meat in them. The mincemeat is just fruit and stuff.”

“Really? So why do they call it mincemeat?”

“Beats me. They’re kind of weird over here. Look at that — ‘Freshly Baked Mince Pies’ — it’s, literally, a sign! I guess we’ll head into that café to try some.”

The café is dim and grimy and void of customers, but that doesn’t stop the American tourists. It’s all part of the authentic London experience, or so they think.

CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >

I Gave Her My Glock | Flash Fiction

It was a simple little wallet; plain black faux leather, worn and tatty. She saw it fall out of his coat pocket and land on the pavement as he walked down the street. He didn’t notice; his hands were full. She lurched after him, grabbed the wallet, and babbled at him until he turned around.

“Excuse me! Your wallet. You dropped… I’ve got… wallet… Excuse me!”

When he turned and looked at her, she lost her breath and flushed bright pink. She thrust the wallet at him. “You dropped it.” Continue reading “I Gave Her My Glock | Flash Fiction”

Down the Hatch | Flash Fiction

“Take a seat, Miles. Drink?”

“No, no thank you. Better not.”

“Oh, go on. It’s Friday, after all.”

Miles wipes his brow and sits down at his boss’s desk, while Mr Cooke pours two generous tots of whiskey.

“It’s been a tough week, Miles.”

Miles nods.

“Have you not found it a tough week?”

“Oh, yes sir. Very tough week. Yes. I nodded.”

“You what?”

“No, I… I agreed. Tough week.”

“Let’s talk about it.” Mr Cooke pushes a glass towards Miles. “Tell me about your week.”

“Well. I had… a few problems.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Exactly how much money did you lose the company, Miles?”

Miles swallows hard. “It was, um, a little over… seven, I think. Yes, seven million.”

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Secret Santa | Short Story

“Lacy knickers?” Leslie’s face is crinkled with confusion. “Is this a joke?”

“They’re not for you,” Gerald grumbles. “They’re supposed to be for Lesley.”

“I am Leslie,” says Leslie.

“The other Lesley.”

“But I picked the other Lesley out of the hat – I bought for her.”

“Hang on. How do you spell your names?” Continue reading “Secret Santa | Short Story”

We Get It, You Vape | Microfiction

“You damn hipster,” Olrug said with a sneer.

Xalmun took a long toke on his electronic cigarette and blew plumes of vapour straight into his friend’s face. “It’s better for you.”

“Is it now?”

“Yup. Filters out all those filthy toxins. The dark thoughts. The sins. The impure fantasies.”

Olrug sighed. “But they’re the best parts. They give that nice, bitter burn at the back of your throat. It’s not the same without that kick, y’know?”

Xalmun rolled his eyes. “You gonna put this one out of its misery?”…

CONTINUE READING ON MEDIUM >