#flash 500

[morgenbailey]

Last day to enter the yearly Flash 500 s/s comp (that I’m judging!) Yes, that's right. Further to my post earlier this year, this year's (1,000 to 3,000-word) short story competition is judged by yours truly and hosted by Lorraine Mace.

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Flash Fiction Friday – The 08:10 to Waterloo

Flash Fiction Friday – The 08:10 to Waterloo

My eyelids crack open and the cupboard on Millie’s side swims into view. She sweeps in wearing little more than a towel, grabs a hairbrush and sweeps out again. I call after her, I tell her that I love her, hoping that if I say it enough times then perhaps it will hold some meaning again. Indiana Jones crossed a chasm with sheer faith, but I think even he’d struggle to bridge the gap between my…

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Flash Fiction Friday – Together

I've been playing a lot of Fallout 4 recently and watched The Man In The High Castle this week, so maybe I've just got apocalyptic, dystopian nightmares on the brain. For some reason 'log fire' instantly delivered the image of a pair of lovers huddled together in some kind of refuge. New Flash Fiction Friday!

Writing prompt: ‘Log fire’

The flames in the enormous fireplace lapped hungrily at the fresh logs. Ravi was reminded of the tongues of stray dogs picking the corpses clean at the side of the streets. Wind and rain beat at the windows. The smoke and the light would certainly give them away, but Ravi didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore.

Sure enough, it wasn’t long before banging began at the…

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[envelopeofmemories]

Always Greener

From where I’m laying, the light green curtains seem to cast a leafy tint over everything. I switch the bottle from my left hand to my right, take another swig and watch the dancing elephants become drenched in olive hues. I don’t know why we chose elephants. We were drunk on happiness at the time; caught up in the excitement of validating our adulthood. Now, green curtains and frolicking elephants seem beyond ridiculous. There’s a figure across the room, in the same position as I am on the opposite wall. Knees embedded into chest, a bottle of straight vodka tipping carelessly from the hand that isn’t clutching her stomach. The girl looks ghostly, eyes so black and sunken they are lost amidst her face. Strings of midnight hair cling to her cheeks, salty and unwashed and I’m appalled as she stares back at me, because I can’t remember the color of her eyes. The girl across the room hasn’t let go of her stomach since she got the news. Abigail. Cursive, perfect. Written effortlessly in black paint and her handwriting above the crib. Looking at it used to cause rifts in the dam behind my eyes. But now, it brought forth nothing but self loathing.  I force myself from the floor; slowly stumble my way across the carpet, bottle in hand. Its hard to breathe, or see or feel or scream the way I want to. My entire body is shutting down as I attempt to persuade my heart into just one more beat, one more labored thump against my ribcage. Yet eventually I reach her, the girl on the other side of the room. She stares back at me with desperation and hatred, and I can see the tears that encompass her blackened eyes. And suddenly my soul grows dark. The fury and the alcohol combine into a dangerous cocktail that paralyzes my mind and envelopes my fists until they are beating against her, punishing her for what she has lost. I cannot stop and we scream together through the pain, physical and emotional, until we are both hollow. And then I allow myself to slide to the floor amidst the broken pieces of the mirror and begin to feel numb, sitting alone in this room where things are always greener.