Tag Archives: flash fiction
I Guess Where You’re From
At the railway station, a few metres in front of a café, I held up a piece of cardboard torn from a box, upon which I had written in black ink marker-pen:
“I BET I CAN GUESS WHERE YOU’RE FROM WITHOUT HEARING YOU SPEAK“
Claude looked like he had time to kill, waiting for a train connection. I watched, as he sauntered towards me, looking thoughtful. All in one motion, placing his briefcase onto the ground, clasped between his ankles, he pointed at the sign with his index finger, then pointed to himself.
I looked at him for a few seconds, with a blank expression on my face. “Belgian.” I said, forming an innocent smile.
Claude jerked backwards, as if a fairytale ogre had appeared behind him and given the collar of his coat a sharp tug.
Continue reading “I Guess Where You’re From”Support Network for Introverts and Over-Thinkers
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Seriously, after a big build-up at home, lots of self-coaxing, lying to myself in the mirror, and pumping myself up with outlandish self-talk, I garner enough courage to attend the inaugural meeting of the very first, official, Support Network for Introverts and Over-Thinkers. Or, “SNIOT”, for short.
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I’m bang-on a strategic ten minutes late and guess what? No one else is here aside from the Cleaner, head down, vacuuming the carpet in small figure-of-eight patterns.
1. Humanity
Soolking and Myriam, Kabyle people of Kabylia. As well as feeding me and preparing a bed for a night, Myriam taught me some words in the Berber language, in case you need it on your journey, she said.
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Continue reading “1. Humanity” You Are Not Ill
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Bryce stared out of his hospital single-bedroom’s window, feeling plenty of sorrow for himself. Sunday’s were boring to him. Up to this point, he’d not regularly attended church services, his parents were dead, he had no other family, no friends and in general, nothing interesting seemed to happen on the ward he’d been admitted to. Each day, the diligent sanitisation staff emptied bins and enthusiastically pushed and pulled on plastic brooms in practised patterns on their rounds, while remaining taciturn throughout. Over the last week, he’d developed a longing to get to know them. And yet, had he ever managed to catch their attention, the reveal would be that they held no desire to share any detail of their lives with him. Today, following yet another series of tests and measurements last Thursay, a final analysis was due. Upon waking up earlier, staring up at the ceiling, Bryce had fully expected to be discharged.
Continue reading “You Are Not Ill”A Discontent Dog Writes
During the great pandemic of 2020 – 2024, the home accommodation of cats and rabbits fell, while for the same period of time, the figure for dogs rose. Writing as a dog, I find the statistics both believable and understandable. After all, you won’t get very far down the road for your daily exercise expecting a rabbit to lead the way. However, this hasn’t been all good for the dog world, at least not in my part of town. First-off, the additional influx has brought with it pressure onto the ownership of territories, with new claims appearing every month. These new dogs, often they don’t even have English as their first bark, growl and whine language, making civil communication over a dispute near-on impossible.
Continue reading “A Discontent Dog Writes”Evolution Behind the Door
“I wonder what’s up there?” Phyllis said to Zelda over a background noise of the elevator counterweight system in motion. They studied the control panel showing floor levels marked with gallery names. The label for the top floor read PRIVATE NO PUBLIC ACCESS. A mutually-shared sense of curiosity dispensed with any need to exchange words, as her companion pressed the corresponding button.
Outside of the elevator, everything in view was a disorientating whiteness. A labyrinth of echoey corridors, soon found them lost and confused. “Wow,” said Zelda, “Are we in Heaven?” Aside from the floor, skirting boards, the walls, the ceiling and pendant lamps, there was nothing. Not a trace of decoration, no tropical plant displays, water-cooler or snack-bar vending machine, not even a fire-extinguisher canister, as one might expect.
“I don’t recall dying.” Said Phyllis sardonically, “This, is like some mad Minimalist’s fantasy! What is it about minimalism’s fascination with the colour white? Why not all this in mauve, for example?”
Continue reading “Evolution Behind the Door”Looking Dead
I’m snoozing on the sofa when the woman who chooses to spend time with me – innately highly perceptive – she walks in through the front door, home from work, and she says:
“You look like you’re dead, laid like that.”
I say, “What do you mean, laid like that. Laid like what, exactly?”
“Laid with your forearms crossed over your chest, it’s like you’re laying-in-state, ready for a viewing, waiting for the public to pay their respects.”
Continue reading “Looking Dead”In Paraguay
I came across this fragment online: An interview film featuring two characters living as husband and wife in a small, Paraguayan town. One that includes a large community of ethnic Germans, within its population.
While at no point in the clip is a date mentioned, the fashion, furniture, quality of the picture, sound and the historical references divulged, gives a feel of the late 1950s.
Most of the filming takes place in a spartan-furnished lounge, with the pair shown seated together on a charcoal-grey settee. A bland, greenish landscape painting hangs framed on the wall. To the left and smaller, a pictorial calendar displays August’s arrangement of a white teapot, cup, saucer and a pile of books. A ribbon-tied spray of pink carnations lay across the open pages of the topmost book. The wallpaper, floral and faded, completes the scene.
“Ja, nien.” The woman is wearing a sleeveless white blouson top and a black wrap-around skirt. Her make-up and hair are immaculate. Initially hesitant, she directs her answers to a man positioned off-camera, evidenced by the occasional plume of cigarette smoke drifting across the scene.
Continue reading “In Paraguay”The Only One
“And so it’s true, lo and behold I was the only one with a camera, the day Jesus was laid in his tomb.” Lottie holds the photo hardware up for the gallery crowd to scrutinise. A retro model, but containing more computerised technology packed into it, than available to the entire global effort for outer space travel, c.1954 – 1986. “So that’s my story and now I am ready to take some questions. You there, with the clown make-up, what would you like to ask?”
The beige-coloured painted walls of the gallery space, specially commissioned for the one-person, one-piece exhibition, has created a relaxed atmosphere. The critics from the press have been polite throughout Lottie’s monologue account, despite the only beverage available being tap water.
Continue reading “The Only One”
Brinkinfield 