Tag Archives: fiction

Ostrification…

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Back when the world was young a selfish seed was sown. It plunged its roots deep, taking in more nutrients than it should and depriving the flora amongst which it flourished, till finally, tall and proud, it experienced a new sensation – thirst.

For generations to come, children played under its pale branches, never stopping to wonder why it was the only tree to stand petrified in a sea of green.

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

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Filed under Flash fiction

Saint Knick…

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Twelve months after absconding with the grotto fund Roger’s luck finally ran out. Across continents and through complex transactions his pursuers had doggedly followed the money to a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of a one-horse town.

Armed with plastic Christmas tree branches, poised like pitchforks at a witch burning, the angry parents advanced.

Woefully out of shape, with an unkempt beard and a booze-fueled glow, Roger resembled a dishevelled version of the jolly fellow he’d pretended to be. Confused and disoriented by the feral cries for blood he fell back on muscle-memory and pottered outside to separate the naughty from the nice.

‘Ho ho ho,’ he bleated.

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Filed under Flash fiction

Love For Sale

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The remaining tenant proved the hardest nut to crack. They went at him day and night – an assault of white noise and legal taunts.

Old before his time, he shuffled to the courthouse and made his last stand:

‘I proposed to my wife in this home, toiled for forty years to keep it, and found a widower’s solace here. Please…’

A quadrupled offer finally dislodged him.

He withdrew from the courthouse and disappeared into the crowd, re-emerging many thousands of miles away – a skip in his step.

His wife came to the chalet door. He showed her a cheque for an insane amount of money.

‘Suckers!”

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Filed under Flash fiction, short story

Twittering Tales: Pear-Shaped

Newton’s ex-wife never grew tired of cooking apple pies and dropping them on him from a great height, yelling Don’t blame me, blame gravity!

(140 Characters)

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Written for: Twittering Tales

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Friday Fictioneers: Revenge Runs Deep…

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It wasn’t enough that, after decades of cruelties and recriminations, he’d finally triumphed over his bitter enemy. The fertilised fruits of loss and shame required that his hatred rage on into victory.

And so, in the winter years of his life, he conceived of an idea that would keep the fires burning beyond any mortal tenure – A whispered rumour in the ear of his one remaining heir…

“…Carve an effigy of my nemesis, brought low in chains, and have it placed in a deep recess. Have children run to it on a dare, striking it with harmless cane so that, slowly and imperceptibly, through loss of both form and name, it no longer resembles a man…”

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Friday Fictioneers: Co-habitation

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Every Wednesday, regular as clockwise, she received a bouquet – always from a different vendor, always paid for in cash. The accompanying notes were invariably clipped and enigmatic: ‘Soon,’ ‘Barely contained,’ and ‘Bursting with love.’

The radiant glow of a secret admirer quickly ascended through alarm and then angst as the messages morphed into possessive missives: ‘Claim you,’ ‘No one else but me,’ and ‘Destiny will not be denied.’

Nothing tied her to the shabby apartment. She made the decision to move out of harm’s way.

A few days later her possessions were stacked neatly in labelled boxes.

She froze.

Next to the boxes – a bouquet and a note: ‘I took the liberty…’

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Henry’s Smoking Hot Octogenarian Wife #Writephoto

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Everyone knew she was naked inside that coffin – the mourners, the pall-bearers, the altar boys – everyone. She’d not exactly been backwards in coming forwards, and her final wishes had spread through the community like wildfire.

Henry’s eulogy was a masterclass in widower’s grief, but as he took to the pulpit he could tell that the congregation paid his words no mind. Either through lust or envy, they were all thinking about those big ole boobs.

‘Though we didn’t meet till later life…’

…He stole a glance at a man in the second row – Ron –  a Vietnam veteran whose thousand yard stare drifted towards a tree-line filled with an orgy of insurgents. He and Henry’s wife had been lovers during the 70’s and tales of their debauchery were the stuff of legend.

‘…We crammed an eternity into those few short months…’

Manny and Tony in the fourth row – the instigators of an epic menage-a-trois if stories were to be believed.

‘And though she had…a number of partners…before I was blessed to…’

At the back of the church an overly made up wreck in a leopard-print dress guffawed and warmed herself with the memories of a long distant kinky phase.

‘…I consider myself her soul mate.’

A conveyor belt whirred, the wooden tube penetrated a velvet curtain and the congregation stiffened somewhat.

Afterwards the priest solemnly presented Henry with an urn, turned to leave and, presumably thinking he was out of earshot, murmured: ‘What a piece of ash!’

 

Written for: #WritePhoto

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Filed under Flash fiction, short story