“8-day walk weeks. Living kibble portions for all. Nationalisation of every squirrel-infested woodland in the UK.
“Free obedience classes for all ages – pups to seniors. Hundreds of thousands of new, affordable kennels.
Continue reading “Vote Dog | Microfiction”
Dear diary,
The search for life on Mars is finally over! We did it! We found it! Can you believe it?
All that time, all that money, all that high-tech equipment has finally paid off. And it’s such a big deal for me on a personal level. Finally, I know the truth… Continue reading “There Is Life On Mars | Microfiction”
I only open my curtains when the sun’s gone down. It’s so I don’t have to see the people in the garden. They freak me out with their wide, dead-eyed stares. Continue reading “My Evening Routine | Microfiction”
“Help. Help us! My friend’s been knifed. He’s bleeding out.”
The little girl eyes the panicked lime that stands before her, along with his injured lemon friend who is oozing juice fast. “Oh. I don’t know what to do.” Continue reading “Bleeding Out | Microfiction”
Hey, how do you do?
Do you see all this poo
that’s smeared in my lovely hair?
It’s a statement, you see,
for the silly lady
who is in charge of my care. Continue reading “Eau de Poo (A Poem by My Dog) | Microfiction”
She had to stand on tiptoes — on top of a stack of books, on top of a dining chair — to reach the forbidden cupboard. What might lay inside, she wondered. Chocolate? Sweeties? Chocolate-covered sweeties?
She pulled open the door and yelped. Continue reading “Behind the Cupboard Door | Microfiction”
“Come down. Please.”
“No.”
“But it’s been days.”
“I’m protesting.”
“You can’t stay in the tree forever.”
“I can if I want.”
“I said sorry.”
“Your apology is futile.”
“How can I make it up to you?”
The corpse, stretched out on its back on the kitchen floor, twitched.
“Seeing things,” said the detective, rubbing at weary eyes. She turned away to examine the pattern of blood spatters on the tiled walls.
When she turned back the corpse was sitting upright.
I look in the mirror and grimace. Deep bags under my eyes. Pimples on my chin. Eyebrows in dire need of a pluck.
“Gross,” I whisper to myself.
“Who the hell are you calling gross?” I say back.
It’s me, talking back to me. My reflection is moving of its own accord and it’s talking to me. Continue reading “Pep Talk | Flash Fiction”
