‘Just a Minute’

He tells himself it’s only for a minute.

Just a minute. A minute’s not long. That’s not breaking any rules.

Just one delicious minute.

To savour.

To chew over and enjoy and feel deep down in the hot, dark places he keeps secret.

Just a minute.


Creeped myself out a little writing this one – random word prompt was ‘minute’.



The chips are down kid. Have you got what it takes?

I didn’t think so. The very essence of you is damp. Limp. Flaccid and worthless. D’ya know that?

Of course you do. You look at it every day. I’d say it oozes out of you but even that is giving you too much credit. You understand? Oozing is too dynamic for you.

Am I surprised?

No. To reiterate it’s writ large on you. A sandwich board floating on the insipid sludge beneath.

Now get the fuck out of here.

Go. Now.


The crater was like the shell. The ground torn open to expose her amongst the misery, death and suffering. He found her there, a survivor some how against all the odds. Wrapped in white, innocent and ignorant of all the terrible crimes around her, like the pearl at its heart.


I asked my partner to suggest the word at random, she chose ‘pearl’ and I wrote this.

‘Jug’ and ‘Backpack’

Another double header of 50 word flash as I ride the twin waves of renewed creativity and free time. The random word generator threw up two everyday objects as subject matter today. Having had the first feature directly I decided that the second would be only be implied – and it’s been interesting to see how that has impacted on the tone. Things that are great about 50 word flash fiction no. 167 – experimentation!



‘What’s in the jug?’ The youngest says. He pulls it over to look inside. Dad is mid-bite, Mum is mid-sibling-fight. It spins about itself tempting anyone to stop it, as if it knows no one can. Then the table; a lake, orange. Sighs then laughter. Lunch over.



Ideology fades, fanaticism abates. He is left with nothing in that final moment. Only then does he wonder what, if anything, he will feel. A woman smiles at him from the opposite side of the bus. She strokes dark hair back from her child’s face.

He feels nothing.



‘Flamenco’ and ‘Like a Bomb’

Two for the price of one today as it’s been a while.

By way of explanation: my priorities at the moment are pregnant fiancé, already existing child, preparing for the arrival of the second, finding a new job, cat (he’s very persistent) AND THEN writing.

I have been writing (honest) but its been on a couple of (as yet) private longer form projects and with such limited time to write the blog side of things has been downgraded in priority.

Anyway I’m still here, alive and kicking (and writing and reading).

Until the next time.

(Both stories written from random word prompts).



She just dances. The guitar is staccato, her skirts undulate and flick, fingers snap. He tries to lose himself in the motions but for him each click is that of a clock bringing him closer to oblivion. There is no profit in this course of action. Yet he is stuck.


‘Like a Bomb’

Like a bomb. Incandescent with rage. Wrenching, tearing fury that twists and skitters away, uncontrollably, like the hot innards of a ruined machine, destroying all it touches, spreading flame and discord in its wake.


(A note on the above – I’m normally quite strict in 50 word shorts, in that it must be 50 words exactly, but I really liked this one as is and felt it said exactly what I wanted, so I left it.)



One long mile, there and back, all because of a moment’s forgetfulness in the shop the day before.

She falls through the door in a flurry of snow and bitter cold; her guests cheer their heroine. Morning cups of tea all round and hers the sweetest of all.


Random words – morning tea/mile.

Just a quick one today and finally a free day tomorrow, so hopefully some more to come and I’ll be catching up on other people’s stuff too.


It’s not rain falling; it’s the moisture being sucked up and away, taking all the vibrancy and colour with it.

They are standing here in the anti-rain, the leeching, sucking rain looking at one small slice of humanity’s clearly manifest right to not fucking be here. To not exist at all. This damns us all. That’s what she’s thinking.

The girl must be about ten. The mattress is old. The sort you’d get on some fold away camp bed. She’s been rolled in it and the whole thing has been secured with gaffer tape. One pale arm hangs out. She doesn’t believe its popped out of its makeshift cocoon. Rather it speaks of panic, of the frantic actions of someone who’s gone too far this time and finally succumb to a terrible urge.

She can see him now carrying it to their car or van, the pale arm flopping about, a give away to anyone who should happen upon them. The sweaty drive, every pair of headlights a potential police car waiting to find his illicit cargo. Then arriving here, rolling her into the mud and driving away. Mistake discarded. Tomorrow a new day.

For along time she just stares at that arm, the palm faced upwards to the clouds, like it’s imploring something, someone, anything.

Then her partner taps her on the shoulder, hands her coffee. Time to get to work.


Random word prompt: mattress. I always feel a need to apologise when I write something really grim, so apologies that’s not the cheeriest of tales. But then they can’t all be, can they?