Tag Archives: Flash fiction

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

Immunity

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He took the role reluctantly and with a heavy heart. Events had sliced open a vacancy and duty required that he step to the plate, but such undertakings were not meant for family men. As the mantra bludgeoned:

They come for you via your children. 

So he gathered them together, his little ones, and told them of his quest, and then he kissed them goodbye.

The path was not straight and he become entrenched in subterfuge and recrimination.  Years passed, till one mundane morning he glimpsed his eldest daughter through armoured glass. He prayed she would see the number plate and recognise its significance; follow its clues and find what he had left for her…

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Twittering Tales: Manoeuvres Against Humanity…

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Greg was a fine father, a great cook and always made the guys on the bowling team howl with glee, but he was also hogging the middle lane, so he was ultimately an asshole!

 

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Written for: Twittering Tales

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Faraday Cage…

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It was a decade or more since the Faraday’s had sealed themselves away from the world, and the pathway that led through the trees to their ramshackle pile had long-since succumbed to the ravages of time.

Locals looked upon their solitude with derision. They had always been a strange family – naive and simple-minded – favouring books over apps, and community over networking. Their disinterest in all things technological morphed through time and gossip until it garnered cult status. The children who ran about in the fields with gay abandon were seen as unplugged epsilons – kept from their true potential by Luddite parents.

The very last sighting had been by a parish priest who witnessing the patriarch, Aldous Faraday, erecting a signpost on the boundary line that stated: ‘The ways of old fail to satisfy.’ With a weary smile the middle-aged man retreated over the brow, never to be seen again.

Their were rumours of course – kids venturing onto the grounds on a dare and disappearing, long finger-nailed savages, and claims of perpetual joyous laughter on the wind.

Away from prying eyes something truly terrible of fantastical was occurring…

Written for: Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers

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You most of all…

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The reading of the will gave Julian the final confirmation that his mother had hated him. His sister got the house and his brother inherited the business ‘…and to you, my first-born, I bequeath the shoes I was wearing when I met your father, my favourite tan satchel and two volumes on Mesopotamian art.’

He was incensed.

‘I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, she knew how much I hated that satchel, and what am I supposed to do with high heels?’

His siblings presented an alternative view. ‘Have you any idea how important these items were to her? She cherished them above all other possessions.’

Many embittered years later Julian rediscovered the items in his vast attic whilst searching for something of greater worth. A slip of paper slid from the between the two volumes.

‘My darling. Not everything can be expressed in monetary terms. I poured my love into these trinkets, just like I poured my love into you… ‘

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Filed under Flash fiction, short story

Wood I Lie To You?

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Lawrence described teaching as misinforming children for benevolent ends

The truth of the matter was that the cart had been left behind by Amish folk after their crops failed for a third consecutive year, but that seemed overly sad, and certainly not the kind of thing you explained to seven year olds. Alternative elucidations were called for..

‘At the end of an intergalactic war that stretched for aeons across the galaxy the robot warrioress was finally victorious, but her amorous husband wouldn’t let her rest, so she transformed herself into that rusty old thing where she hides to this day, waiting for his libido to subside.’

‘What’s a libido sir?’

‘It’s like an unreliable stick.’

‘What’s an aeon?’

‘It’s like the time it takes for Christmas to arrive.’

On another occasion he described the cart as a De-truancyfier.

‘You feed the naughty kids in at this end, and they come out the other side good.’

‘No way!’

‘Yes way. Just ask Stephen.’

‘Stephen moved to the coast when his folks split up.’

‘No,’ Lawrence shook his head and pointed into the haggard remains, ‘De-truancified.’

After many years of delighting children with his falsehoods one of the parents complained about Lawrence’s tall tales and he was encouraged to seek alternative employment. The cart was bought by a hipster who turned it into a boutique coffee stand.

Lawrence sold everything he owned and smuggled himself onto a slow-boat bound for Hong Kong. There he taught deliberately bad English and married a woman of high social standing…

At least that’s what everyone heard…

He may have made it all up…

 

Written for: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

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Mercy Killing…

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I eavesdrop on the couple sitting next to me. Two things become apparent:

…They are planning the ultimate holiday.

…They hate each other.

It is the hatred of familiarity – barbed leaping impatience that turns what should be joyous into something tense and spiteful.

Their plight is fascinating to me and I begin typing out their story – small and discrete at first, but then, possessed of a curious desire to reveal my voyeurism, I increase the font size so that they cannot fail to see.

‘Why are you always going off on pointless tangents? Don’t close the itinerary! I hadn’t finished…that man’s writing down what we say…Look…I want you to do something about it…Because it’s creepy…God you’re so weak!’

In even larger font I type:

‘…THINK THEY’RE ONTO ME.

THEY SEEM SO SAD.’

My phone rings which has the effect of shielding me from conflict

‘Hey…Nothing much…Sure, I’ll pop around.’

As I chat the couple leave separately.

I have been immeasurably cruel.

Or I have done them a great kindness.

Or both.

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