The Runt | Microfiction

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”

Delivery | Microfiction

“Just through here, mate,” I say, gesturing to the bedroom. “Good job I live in a bungalow – you’d have had a hard time getting it upstairs.”

The delivery guy nods as he wheels the bulky package down the corridor. “Aye, my back’s done in. I had to get a washing machine up to a third floor flat this morning. No lift, either. Would have been no problem for me ten years ago but my age is catching up with me.” Continue reading “Delivery | Microfiction”

To-Do | Microfiction

The to-do list beckons every day, waiting for its bullet points to be transformed into to-dones. Hours tick by and the to-dos remain, unsatisfactorily unmarked my big ticks or bold strikethroughs. Continue reading “To-Do | Microfiction”

Adrenaline Junkie | Microfiction

The view up here is just spectacular. I can see for miles. Keep an eye on my kingdom. Look out for trespassers and make a note of their appearance so that I can give them a good slap later. It’s perfect. Continue reading “Adrenaline Junkie | Microfiction”

Wedding Music | Microfiction

“Everything looks gorgeous,” says the bride, as she gazes around a dining hall adorned with opulent silk drapes, beautiful displays of red roses, and strings upon strings of sparkling white lights. “You’ve brought all our visions to life!”

The wedding planner beams at her. “I’m so pleased you’re happy with it all. I’ll show you through to the private bar so that you can have a quiet drink together before your guests pile in. It’s nice to have some breathing space after the ceremony.”

“Hang on,” says the groom. “What about the brass band?” Continue reading “Wedding Music | Microfiction”

Making Friends | Microfiction

“Go on then, Jim. Go and play.”

Jim glares at Flossie.

“Don’t look at me like that. Go on! Go run off some of that excess podge. And make some friends while you’re at it.”

Jim wanders off towards a group of potential friends nearby and loiters at the edges, waiting for someone to invite him into their fold.

Flossie approaches her own pack.

“He’s not very sociable, your Jim, is he?” says a fluffy Pomeranian. Continue reading “Making Friends | Microfiction”

Decisions | Microfiction

Polly scans the menu with her brow furrowed.

“Are you ready to order, madam?” asks the server.

“Almost. I’m having a little trouble choosing,” she says with an apologetic smile.

“No problem. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but you can pay extra for each additional trait on top of the 10 included in the base price.” Continue reading “Decisions | Microfiction”

What Hunger Does | Microfiction

The noodles writhe in the bowl like worms. Jeb blinks at them repeatedly, wondering if it’s his eyes playing tricks on him.

“Hunger does funny things to our brains,” mutters the old woman from her armchair. “Eat up, lad. It’s delicious.”

It was hunger that had driven him towards the cottage. Hunger which had forced his knuckles to rap on the front door. Hunger which had made him ask for some scraps. Hunger had which pushed him into the home of a stranger despite his gut squeezing and churning in objection.

Jeb smiles at the old woman, who eagerly shovels noodles from her own bowl into her mouth.

Hunger had already done some daft things. Not much of a surprise, then, that it could make a benign bowl of noodles wriggle like a mound of worms…

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Mistaken Identity | Flash Fiction

They tell me I’m a penguin just like them. But I know I’m different.

For a start, I hate the cold. And I despise fish, which is about the only sustenance one can get around these parts. I’m a useless swimmer, too, which isn’t exactly ideal when, like I say, it’s fish, fish, fish on the menu. Continue reading “Mistaken Identity | Flash Fiction”

A Character | Microfiction

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”