We Have One Chance... To Get Everything Right

A story for you.

Breathless with the excitement that only elevenses can create, Timothy opened the jar, expecting it to be filled with warm, golden peanut butter. It was, up to a point, but as he dug in his knife it hit something that was decidedly un-peanut-like.

Timothy frowned with his face and scooped with his knife (for to frown with his knife and scoop with his face would have been an altogether silly way to react), revealing what could only be described as a very tiny bird, covered in peanut butter.

This was unexpected, and so Timothy jumped, inadvertently dropping his knife on the worktop with a metallic ‘spang’.

The tiny bird coughed crossly, and got to its feet.

Timothy watched in awe as the tiny bird hopped clumsily across the counter, heading in the general direction of the sink. Once there, it hurled itself into the empty basin with a ‘plop’, and looked up at him expectantly.

“Oh,” said Timothy, somewhat slow on the uptake as was his wont, “you want a wash?”

The bird rolled its eyes as if to say, “duh,” which was quite impressive for a bird, and inclined its tiny head in affirmation.

Very gently, Timothy turned the tap to the 'on' position.

Extremely gingerly, he squeezed a drop of washing up liquid onto his thumb, rubbing the teeny tiny bird’s head to create a washing up liquid / peanut butter lather.

Utterly softly, he attempted to rinse the soapy mixture from the tiny, delicate wings.

“TIMOTHY!” bellowed a voice from the doorway, “HELP ME BRING THE SHOPPING IN FROM THE CAR!”

Seriously slowly, Timothy looked down to his hands, which he had involuntarily clenched into fists at the shock of the sudden noise.

All he could see was a mess of soap and peanut butter. One solitary feather was the only evidence of the un-peanut-like visitor. And poor young Timothy, never saw anything magical again.

The Vanishing, and Other Stories

She reached into her apron pocket with a supercilious smile and vanished without so much as a puff of smoke.

I waited four hours for her return, before realizing she probably wasn’t coming back. Sadly I left the flat and headed for town. It was chippy Tuesday, after all.

My sister was confused when I rang to tell her.

“Wasn’t Poppy your imaginary friend when you were about six?”

Two glum looking police officers called round the next day. Apparently they didn’t think Poppy was imaginary. They reckoned I did something with her. Locked me up.

Eight years ago, now.

* * *

Harold was a goldfish who thought he was a dog.

His owner, Betty-Lou, encouraged the fantasy because she would really rather have had a dog than a fish. So she used to tie a lead around his bowl, place it on a skateboard, and walk him up and down the road.

The neighbours came round on several occasions to express assorted fish-dog concerns. Betty-Lou’s parents explained that she wanted a puppy, but they couldn’t afford to feed one.

Mrs Harrison ‘accidentally’ ran Harold over one day.

Betty-Lou ran away.

Finally, her parents bought a dog. They named him Harold.

* * * *

“Hoot hoot,” said Eric the owl.

“Shut the hell up,” replied Barry the tramp, shooting him with an air rifle stolen from a ten year old.

Eric the owl fell from his branch in a crumpled heap. ‘Flump,’ he went.

“That’s better,” said Barry the tramp, swigging from his bottle of methylated spirits and readjusting the layers of newspaper in his trousers.

Barry dreamt that night of an enormous owl in a Viking helmet, coming to kill him. He hated that dream, it always came before bad news.

The next day, his favourite bin exploded.

That’s karma for you.

Flash Fiction Thoughts

Supposedly shorter fiction works much better in the first person. I'm not convinced, because I think it feels self important and gives a lot less room to play with language. This might just be because I'm crap at it - when I go first person I tend towards introspection and pretension. Here's a couple of examples.


Five years together and four weeks apart, he brings his replacement me to my beach and photographs her laughing and prancing across the sand. Blind to the possibility he might be on the rebound, I feel devalued – but from this moment sure I made the right choice. Except for a gin-fuelled relapse, over which a veil should and will be drawn. Still, I lack the confidence to try at love again for more than a year. When I do, I am rejected out of hand. I wonder briefly whether this would make him laugh.

I don’t think it would.

* * *

I look up suddenly from boxes of reduced-price mince, to see her gazing slyly through heavily mascaraed eyelashes. No sooner is eye contact made than she hurriedly breaks it, apparently transfixed by grubby markings on the floor. I think I see a trace of guilt beneath layers of foundation - perhaps a memory of books unreturned, or promises unkept. There were several of each. On the other hand, ever the martyr, it’s unlikely she'd acknowledge any sense of wrongdoing. People need to lighten up, in her honest opinion.

This grudge isn’t mine to bear, but I do it anyway.

100 Word Story On... Zombies!

Chomp. Crunch. Thhhrrrpppptt.

The undead monster cracks into the dizzy blonde's skull, as expected. The audience erupts into shrieks of laughter, applauding the dodgy FX.

At the back of the auditorium stands the director, arms folded, shaking her head and muttering.

Later at home she scans old notebooks, full of promising ideas - some even have artistic merit.

'Have I sold out,' she wonders, not for the first time.

Chck chck chck.

At the door, a zombie-costumed man. Another fan taking things too far.

Sharply:

"How did you get my address?"

He says nothing, at first.

Then merely:

Chomp. Crunch. Thhhrrrpppptt.

Yarn Thief

A fellow writer brought a short story competition to my attention via her blog, so now rather than writing Caligula's Blog for the 12 Books in 12 Months project (which you can now 'like' on facebook, by the way), I have turned my attention to idly bashing out nonsensical flash fiction. I've written three 100 word stories in the past half hour. Not the plan I had, but it might be good in terms of updating here...

“LOVE KNITTING?!” The Facebook sidebar silently screams. “SHOW IT OFF WITH T-SHIRTS, STICKERS AND MUGS!”

Surely the best way to showcase my passion is to be seen about town, needles and wool in hand?

I journey forth, lugging a bag of odds and ends I intend to fashion into a scarf. A ball of dusky orange falls from the pile and rolls slowly down the hill, stopping at the feet of an OAP. She picks it up, waves her thanks, and disappears.

Barely discernable from this distance, her t-shirt reads, “I HEART KNITTING.”

Can’t believe it. Bitch stole my yarn.

Dwell In Possibility?

Flash fiction competition here.

This is a piece over at the Dean which is also arguably an example of what flash fiction is. I have no evidence of that being the intention behind it though.