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Tag Archives: Short Fiction
I switched off the phone to avoid the wife’s, “HowyouhavethenervetoabandonyourfamilyatChristmastimealmostIdon’tknowbutyou’dbetternotcomebackstinkingofwhiskyandwomenasusualandmaybeyoushouldnotbothercomingbackatallthistime,”and my brat-pack teenage duo’s non-stop harping for expensive gadgets or the money to buy them and probably enough spliff to kill a small herd of highland cattle.
Friday Fictioneers 100 Word Flash Fiction Story: The Dress with the Tennis Racquets Stamped All Over It
The Dress with the Tennis Racquets Stamped All Over It
“Takes you back, don’t it, ol’ bandstand.”
She laughed. “Remember the night we crawled under and it was already occupied?”
“Billy and Lorraine.”
“Lorraine anyway, could have been any of the boys. She broke ‘em in like wild horses.”
“Except you.” Continue reading
The Elfin Ladder
“Look, fairy tables!”
“Agaricus arvensis, darling – horse mushrooms.”
“Safe to eat?”
“If they smell of aniseed.”
“Look, an elfin ladder!” Continue reading
Every Friday writers worldwide gather round the virtual fireside of Rochelle Wisoff and share stories of 100 words, prompted by a common photograph, and exchange constructive criticism. You don’t have to write to read. Click on the blue frog at … Continue reading
I looked back, sin
safer than flight.
I should have soared away.
Zoar was not far
but sin was nearer.
I was cosy with sin –
a warm nest. Continue reading
I went travelling. The Grand Tour, they called it. All the rich young men went and marvelled at ruins, as fashion dictated. Continue reading
A goat took up residence in a corner.
“He can’t live here.”
“His belly’ll tell him.”
Press came; religious groups offering garlands, money. Animal militants smashed windows. Continue reading
In the Moment
“The soul of man is like to music;
From Heaven it cometh
To Heaven it riseth
And then returneth to earth,
“Goethe,” he returned, in an undertone. But I think it’s water, not music?” Continue reading
The sun-bleached bunting rustles, brittle
as the bell of the abandoned village church.
Then, it recoiled rustling from the black-frocked
village tongues congregated to snip and snipe,
hang the flayed red tongues in honour
of the day of the saint. Continue reading