One day, Andy was mugged in the street. With no mobile phone, credit cards or money, his only way home was a three-hour, ten-mile walk across the city. Several acquaintances passed by in their cars, but no one helped. They didn’t see the point.
Andy took everyone, and everything, for granted. Andy never tipped taxi drivers or in restaurants, or gave his cleaner or gardener a Christmas present. Andy saw no reason to pay someone extra ‘simply for doing their job’. He rarely even said ‘thanks’. Eventually, those who knew Andy came to regard him as someone not worth knowing.
One day, Andy was mugged in the street. With no mobile phone, credit cards or money, his only way home was a three-hour, ten-mile walk across the city. Several acquaintances passed by in their cars, but no one helped. They didn’t see the point. Written as Taylor Swift began the European leg of her ERAS tour only a mile from my home. The entire country went mad. Edinburgh – Scotland – the UK – all of Europe had gone mad.
Over 70,000 ‘Swifties’ had gathered in the city to welcome superstar Taylor Swift open the European leg of her Eras tour. Merchanside outlets, and burger, pizza and fish and chip stalls struggled to keep up with the queues, dressed in Swiftie-themed clothing to match their hero. Her three-hour set didn’t disappoint, containing many huge hits from across her varied catalogue. Predictably, the weather DID disappointed – torrential rain – but like a true professional Taylor was fully prepared. You had to be there to realise why she performs in swimsuits so often. A longer story this time. I think everyone has at least one neighbour like this. Howard and his two children emerged from home to find a giant delivery lorry parked across his entrance gateway. Howard had three cars parked in front of his driveway, and could move none of them.
The van’s driver Joe, a powerful man-monster, was struggling to handle a huge freezer intended for Howard’s next-door neighbour. Not that Howard cared. “Excuse me, I need to drive my children to school. Could you please move?” Howard’s words sounded polite, their tone wasn’t. “I’ll only be five minutes,” Joe grunted. “But we’re late.” “Should’ve left earlier then.” “Look,” Howard said, “every minute you hold us up is costing me in school fees.” By now, Joe had managed to manoeuvre the freezer onto the pavement and was trying to catch his breath. He turned to look at Howard. “Lucky you can afford to waste your money like that,” Joe said. “Do you think those kids of yours will grow any better because they go to a fancy school?” “They’ll grow up to be better than you. They’re better than you already. Look at you, reduced to a job like that.” Joe folded his arms and grinned. “And you want me to move my van? Well, after that, I think I need a bit more of a rest,” he said, leaning back against the freezer. It was the last straw for Howard. He walked up to the freezer and tried to push it out of the way. When he couldn’t because of Joe’s weight, he pushed Joe instead. It was a big mistake. After Joe ‘pushed back’ with his fist, Howard found himself on the ground, propped up against his own front gate. The police were called, by the very neighbour to whom the freezer had still not yet been delivered. He’d seen the entire exchange from an upstairs window, and his account was largely verified by the two children. The neighbour added that Howard had form in situations like these, particularly with anyone he saw as an inferior being. As next-door neighbours they exchanged ‘hellos’ in passing, but weren’t friends with each other. The attending police officers took some details, but suggested that it might be as well just to try and calm things down and avoid taking things further. Howard was incensed. “Are you going to let that beast off scot-free? He deserves to be charged.” The senior police officer, an experienced woman in her forties, sighed. “I think we decide who deserves what, sir, not you. And tell me – would you like to be him?” Howard looked bemused. “Like to be him? Someone like that? What do you think?” “Then it’s your lucky day. I think you should reflect on that, sir, don’t you?” As the police officers turned to go, leaving Howard fuming, the police woman muttered, “I don’t suppose the delivery guy would like to be him either.” There were three of them, dressed all in black, sauntering aimlessly around a hundred yards away. They shouldn’t have bothered me, but I committed the mistake of making eye contact.
Very gradually, they began to approach me. Their unblinking eyes never left mine. Silently, threateningly, they circled me, seemingly at random while drawing inexorably nearer. I was about to be robbed, but was powerless to do anything. The tension was unbearable. Sometimes, discretion is the better part of valour. Unable to stand it any longer, I fled, leaving my fish supper behind as the crows swept in for their swag. Orphaned, the little girl is being led down a crater-filled road towards safety. Her guide, and last remaining friend in the world, is a Catholic priest. All around, buildings are in ruins. And it’s noisy: explosions nearby, sirens blaring, rockets drones occasionally whiz low overhead.
She turns to the priest and says, “Father, if God is in His Heaven up there, why does he drop bombs on us?” The priest shakes his head. “It’s not like that, my dear. God and Heaven are all around us, not just up in the sky.” The he steps on a land mine. With money no object, Frank heard there was to be a total eclipse of the sun in Nova Scotia. After all, Carly had written a song about him (he kept telling everyone), and he had a reputation to live up to. It rained all day.
No worries. He could watch the Aurora Borealis while up there, but there was no solar activity. Nothing. Never mind, Frank thought, he could head for the Masters instead, then the Monaco Grand Prix. Just make sure to fly clear of Ukraine, Yemen or Gaza, and well over any poor people in the Third World. The physiotherapist flexed her muscles.
“You’ve allowed your body to get totally out of shape, Mr Smith. This will hurt, I’m afraid.” The patient nodded apprehensively. “Do what you must.” She began working gently on his arms and legs, but soon, as she moved on to apply vigorous power to his torso, he began to yell with pain. An hour later, it was over. Smith’s head and rear were now reversed, although his mouth remained in the latter as it protruded from his shirt collar. “That’s more like it, Mr Smith,” the physiotherapist said. “You’re like a proper politician again.” The interview panel members look stern. Facing them is the latest job candidate.
They start to ask the usual questions. “You have children, Mr Smith?” “Some. Not sure how many.” “You use prostitutes?” “Naturally.” “Have you ever swindled anyone out of everything they possess?” He chuckles. “Of course!” “Do you pay taxes?” “No. I’m no fool.” “Mr Smith, have you ever killed anyone?” “Not personally, but I’ve arranged it occasionally.” The panellists nod their heads approvingly. “Mr Smith, we have several vacancies to which you seem ideally suited: heads of state in the US, the UK, Russia, China, India, Brazil…” Somewhere in Dayton, Ohio, a telephone rings.
A receptionist answers, “USAF National Museum, how can I help?” “I’m phoning from Bellevue. I wondered... would your museum be interested in a nuclear missile that I have in my garage?” “Sorry, did you say ‘a nuclear missile’?” “It’s OK, it’s inert. I only really collect live ones.” The Museum has a simple protocol for such moments. Lights flash everywhere and panic ensues. But our receptionist remains calm. “Em… sir… where did you obtain this missile?” “From my friend Don. Lives near Cincinnati. He didn’t want it, though. He only collects Russian ones.” Candlemas is on the 2nd February each year. “Great weather,” the old man says to me in the café.
I assume he’s being sarcastic – the rain’s lashing down outside. But no, he means it. “It’s 2nd February, Candlemas,” he says. “If Candlemas brings cloud and rain, winter won’t come again. It’s an old saying.” I tell him that I don’t believe in old sayings. Next day, the weather’s even worse. When I visit the café again for my morning espresso, the old man’s there again. “What happened to your Candlemas theory?” I ask him. “I told you,” he insists, “this is the start of a typically bad summer.” On the day before the funeral, the old man’s coffin to the family home in accordance with ancient Scottish tradition. There, as the deceased lay on the dining room table, the family paid their respects by drinking his whisky and squabbling over how their inheritances should be spent.
Eventually, they all left and locked the door behind them. Then it was the old man’s turn. Rising from the coffin, he poured himself a generous measure of his beloved MacAllan, then left the drained glass on its side. They think they’re rid of me, he chuckled, but the fun’s just beginning… Crows circle above me; a couple have landed to inspect me more closely. Their time may yet come.
Lying here at the side of the road, I’m rotting from the inside; I’m helpless to prevent it. I’m know what’s happening, but two lead bullets inside my brain ended my ability to communicate. I can only wait to be found. No one has done so yet; it’s already been 36 hours. The police will catch the killer. Until then, I just become more toxic. Wait, there are flashing blue lights in the distance. The police are here after all. Sorry, crows. The cleaning lady tapped the table impatiently. “Come on, I’ve got work to do, so have you.”
The old man sat there, looking stumped. The sheet of paper before him lay blank. “Come on,” she repeated, “write down something.” Grumbling, the old man picked up his pencil and scribbled some words. “Let’s hear them, then!” The old man read slowly. “One: Don’t overfeed the animals. They’re not pets. “Two: Buy a new coat. “Three: Deal with the Christmas presents before Christmas Eve.” The cleaning lady shook her head. “Not again, Santa. You make those same resolutions every year. You’re hopeless…” Santa’s nine reindeer were an unreliable, grumbling bunch, generally exaccerbating Santa’s hypertension. Worse still, because they were an odd number, they only ever pulled the sleigh in circles.
Then, following COP28, Santa realised that climate change required a re-think of sleigh power – reindeer methane emissions were unacceptably high. It was time for renewable energy: windmills on the sleigh. Deer days were numbered. “But we’ll be redundant!” Rudolph wailed. “How will we live?? Who’ll look after the poor starving children who depend on us for presents?” Santa had the answer. On Christmas Day, the world’s poorest children were fed venison stew. Just a couple of evenings ago, we sat together in the window sharing a bottle of wine. Now, your chair is empty. For some, an earthquake, flood, or enemy fire deprives the departed and their loved ones of a last chance to say goodbye. Perhaps an aeroplane or traffic accident.
How I wish yours had even been like that. You didn’t know him. It was a random attack from behind by a madman. All I can hope is that you didn’t suffer, my love, but I can’t even be sure of that. All I know is that I miss you. I typeset books for other authors. Today, my friend Gary texts asking if I’ll fix his new manuscript. I’ve done his before; they’re a nightmare. “How much would you charge, Chuck?” He always calls me ‘Chuck’ for some reason. “It’s a mystery thriller.” “Sorry, can you give me more info?” I say. “80k words starting…” He’s a mathematician, I’m not; it’s gobbledegook. I ask if it’s all like this.
“Naturally,” Gary says, “that’s the mystery. Impressed?” “Thrilled,” I say, absently. “There you go, then, a mystery thriller.” I quote him £1.00 per word, £80,000. Gary says he’ll shop around, thanks. Disturbingly, this is based on a real case. Mummy asked me to collect you from school at lunchtime for your dentist appointment. She didn’t tell you about it? It’s all right, you don’t know me, but I live nearby and I’ll look after you until Mummy comes. Make yourself comfortable in the back of the car and fasten your seatbelt. Happy? We’re off.
OK, so this is my house. Your house isn’t very far away, you’re quite safe. Here’s a cheese sandwich and a drink. It tastes funny? It’s OK, drink up. You thought I was a woman? Yes, I was wearing my wig then, but it’s OK… Once upon a time there were morals.
Morals were conventions where people tried to be honest, treat one other nicely, and respect diverse opinions. When your neighbour needed assistance, you tried to help. Then everything changed. People were told that if your neighbour was down, it was a sign of strength to stamp on their throat and finish them off. The worst were businessmen and politicians, but some claimed to be “religious”. You called those with whom you disagreed “liars spreading fake news.” Some became rich; most became poorer. Morals ended. Nowadays you can’t even find the word in dictionaries. Once, I had a “writing buddy” – she and I traded advice about books we were writing. No subject was off limits, and I valued her advice. Perhaps you know her: she’s a well-known writer of ghost stories.
Then one day it ended. Out of nowhere, she announced that she wouldn’t be contacting me again. I’ve no idea why, she never said, and these days you can’t ask too persistently, for fear of being accused of harassment. So she and I became mere ghosts to each other. The other day, I think I caught a glimpse of her shadow, online. Maybe. Occasionally, a Ghost Tram could be seen running through the Edinburgh streets. The tram's passengers gazed vacantly from the carriage windows, seemingly unaware of the world outside. For the most part, the passengers seemed to be alone.
Although these Ghost Trams stopped at every station, no one ever seemed to get on or off; everyone waiting took the next tram instead. One day, as I was standing on a platform, a ticket inspector explained the mystery. “Ghost Trams take the souls of the departed to the terminus,” he explained. “You only make one journey.” Then he added, “Here’s your ticket.” Vladimir Goliathyevich Putin squinted down at the tiny figure facing him just five metres away across the judo mat. He’d been waiting for this opportunity for well over 2,000 years.
“Revenge at last, Davidenko. You’re a cheat,” he roared. “I won fair and square last time. You’re just a sore loser.” “Nonsense, you used tactical battlefield missiles. Wasn’t in the rules.” Davidenko shrugged. “If you like. OK, no missiles this time. I’ll win anyway.” “We’ll see, let’s fight!” said the giant bully, grabbing the smaller man’s judogi. Within seconds, he was flat on his back, exactly as the previous time. ![]() Sheltering in the hoped-for safety of the subway, the young woman and her sister huddled together as sirens sounded and bombs exploded in the distance. There was little point in worrying about a direct hit; what would be would be. Instead, they worked on their laptops, putting such dark thoughts away. Better to concentrate on their latest contract, to earn some money, and to pay taxes with pride towards the war effort. Suddenly, the lights went out. Yet another strike had knocked out the local power station. As usual, everyone simply lit candles and carried on. That way lay victory. Despite the best efforts of coastguards, thousands of desperate migrants arrived across the English Channel on the shores of South-East England. Far from being sympathetic, the Conservative UK Government was prepared to turn them back, send them to Rwanda, and genrally treat them like sub-humans. All the time, egged on ny the right-wing red-top press. The rats kept arriving. Each morning, thousands could be found in the coastline’s towns and villages. Overrun, the authorities took the drastic step of rounding them up, gassing them, then dumping the remains out at sea.
Then, as in most countries, loads of refugees began arriving, fleeing from warzones, drought-stricken areas and persecution. They kept coming. Each morning, more could be found on the coastline. “Ah,” the authorities said. “We know what to do. It worked last time.” There were protests. “But these… are people!” The protesters’ names were taken. They, too, were last seen leaving on the refugee boats. ![]() Harry died at the Somme on the 1st July, 1916. I wasn’t with him; I was too young. A fine footballer, his entire team volunteered together. Harry didn’t return. The team lost out on the championship as a result. Harry also died in the Battle of Britain. I was too young then as well. I wasn’t with Harry when he died in the Falklands, Northern Ireland and Afghanistan. I wasn’t too young this time. Harry did my dirty work. Our democratically elected politicians asked Harry to risk his life so that I didn’t have to. It’s just a pity that… My wife discovered a spider in the bathroom today. We are arachnophiles, and my wife is fluent in Spider, so a conversation ensued.
“Hello, spider,” she said. The spider grunted. My wife cut to the chase. “You eat aphids on my houseplants. Why don’t you eat up the clothes moths as well? My woolly hat is full of holes.” “Too hairy.” A spider of few words. My wife was incensed. “You’ll eat any moth you’re given.” “I don’t like your attitude,” said the spider. “It wasn’t your hat it chewed,” my wife said, tossing the spider out of the window.. |
Flash FictionFlash fiction is very, very short fiction indeed - short stories of any sort of length from a Haiku to ten minutes' reading. Good for when you're in a hurry. This series is a selection of contributions to Friday Flash Fiction, where there's a limit of 100 words. I try to make all mine exactly 100 words. Collections
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