All Fixed | Short Story

smashed ceramic plate

Constellate Literary Journal recently published my short story, All Fixed. Read it here.


The pub smelled of stale lager and pork scratchings, but that’s just the way Dad liked it. One of the last good, proper pubs left, so he used to say. A shithole, in other words. But at least it was friendly. I watched Mum as she wandered across the dingy maroon carpet. Her nose crinkled as she noted the soles of her shoes clinging to the sticky pile with each step. I sipped my large white wine and hoped its effects would wash over me quickly.

Gavin nudged me. ‘One drink and we’ll be off.’

I took in the clusters of mourners which filled the room. ‘I haven’t spoken to anyone yet.’

Continue reading “All Fixed | Short Story”

The World’s Most Accurate Fortune Cookies | Microfiction

Maneki-neko illustration - "The Worlds Most Accurate Fortune Cookies" microfiction

The waiter approaches the couple’s table and lays a plate between them with a flourish.

“Sir and madam, may I present to you the World’s Most Accurate Fortune Cookies. These cookies are handmade by a renowned oracle. The cookies which you select from this plate are destined for you, and you alone. Inside, you will learn of your fate.” Continue reading “The World’s Most Accurate Fortune Cookies | Microfiction”

The Man Who Could Never Finish | Flash Fiction

Coffee cup illustration - "The Man Who Never Finished" flash fiction

The groom pours stale coffee into a cup, leaving a half an inch of the black liquid in the bottom of the percolator. He brings the cup to his dry lips and takes a long swig to relieve the cotton wool sensation that plagues his tongue.

He needs distraction. He retrieves his phone from his trouser pocket and taps at the screen to access his documents. He skims over the latest draft of an article he’s been battling with for weeks. It’s good. It’s almost perfect. He just can’t seem to find the right words to conclude it.

And he probably won’t be able to find them now as the nerves swirl in his stomach. He takes another sip of coffee and reaches into the inside pocket of his suit, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter.

She’ll turn up her nose when she catches the whiff of stale fag on his breath. He told her he’d quit. She doesn’t know that he never managed to kick that first and only smoke of the day.

When the nicotine has delivered a surge of faux confidence, he tosses the cigarette — only two-thirds smoked — onto the ground and grinds it beneath his shoe. He can probably go through with it, he thinks. It won’t kill him. He’s managed three years already; a lifetime won’t be all that bad…

Read the full story on Medium >

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A Toast

champagne bottle illustration

Glass after glass was filled haphazardly with champagne and passed around the eager party. Everyone had scrubbed up well for the occasion; new dresses had been purchased and best suits dug out of the back of the wardrobe and dusted off. Only the very best would do for Mr and Mrs Acton’s golden wedding anniversary.

A microphone squeaked into life and cheers went up as the room prepared for the speech. Soon enough all eyes were on Mr Acton, who swayed gently from side to side. He held his sixth glass of champagne in his hand. Continue reading “A Toast”