This story isn't fiction, it's 100% true, which is my excuse for allowing it to be 126 words long. Hope your stamina is up to the extra length.


One evening a teacher received a cold tele-sales phonecall at home.

“Hello, Mr. Lawrie. My name’s Ewan from Simpson’s Conservatories. We’re working in your area at the moment. Would you like a quote for a conservatory?”

Mr. Lawrie thought he recognised the voice. “Did you say your name was Ewan?”

“Yes.”

“And you say you can fit conservatories anywhere?””

“Yes.”

“Including top flats like mine?”

The young man hesitated, then said, “Oh no, are you THAT Mr Lawrie?”

“I am indeed, Ewan. Why weren’t you in my class this afternoon?”

Ewan gulped, then confessed. “I’m sorry. I bunked off to work in this call centre. I only started on Monday.”

“Hmm,” said the teacher.

The student gave up the job at the end of the week.

They stood to attention, in massed serried ranks. They were perhaps a little green, but there was unity in strength and they were developing fast. Already, it felt as though they had a good hold on their position.

They hadn’t counted on the green monster about to be unleashed on them. They heard it first – a great roar from their left, then their right, then their left again – before they saw it. And by the time they saw it, it was too late.

After the beast had gone, row upon row lay fallen, decapitated.

Perhaps they’d fare better next week.

The old lady allowed herself an evil chuckle.

She’d printed a number of emails sent to her that previous week. Each asked her to log in to her bank accounts with HSBC, Barclays, RBS, JP Morgan Chase and Citibank, then follow a series of instructions “to resolve some ongoing security issues”. But she had accounts with none of them.

But she did have special skills. She could combine an extraordinary range of keys to allow her to manipulate any computer connected to hers.

Five minutes later, each of the phishing computers had burst into flames and destroyed their owners’ homes.

I wish.

The journalist studied the elderly woman’s writing awards gathered during her long career. She pointed to an enormous trophy. “Is your Trump Booker your favourite prize?”

“No,” the writer replied. “It won for size, not quality – ‘Display Cabinets’ had 9000 pages.” She pointed to a smaller certificate. “The Lincoln Prize is better, won for ‘Cat’Astrophe’.”

The journalist smiled, remembering the groundbreaking novel about grammar-warrior, earth-invading cats.

“But that’s my favourite,” the writer said, indicating a small, framed rectangle of silver. “My LinkedIn Platinum Post. That started Friday Flash Fiction. It went viral and gave the most pleasure, don’t you think?”

His favourite meal­ – spicy prawn and pork stir-fry with egg-fried rice ­– could be made in a wok in a matter of minutes.

She threw in some spring onions and garlic, lots of fresh red chilli, ginger and some five-spice powder. Then she added the cooked pork, cold cooked rice and fresh prawns, cooking, tossing, until the prawns turned pink. She’d previously fried some egg into a solid omelette; now she added it, chopped up, then plenty of soy sauce.

But she wanted to show him how much she loved him. So she finished the dish with liberal garnish of cyanide.

Hydra looked lovingly across the night sky towards Orion.

“I love big strong-looking men,” she said.

“I like your hairs,” he replied. “Different styles on each head.”

“I’ve just had them cut,” she said. “Do you like them?”

“More than ever.” Then Orion summoned all his courage. “I love you. Will you marry me?”

“Of course,” she replied in chorus. “I love you too. Shall we set a date?”

Of course, celestial pillow-talk is very slow; remember they’re zillions of light years apart. It was all they’d time for before all their stars were dead.

It’s tough being a constellation.

Their meal was expensive, but worth it; afterwards, they walked down to the harbour, then out along the pier. Gazing upwards, she realised how much city street lights generally prevented her from seeing the night sky.

Reading her mind perfectly, he said, “Lovely night. The steak was done to perfection.”

“That’s Orion,” she said.

“That German pinot noir was amazing,” he agreed. “I was slightly doubtful when I saw the price, but it was great, wasn’t it?”

“Is that a planet?” she wondered, nuzzling into him, putting her arm around his waist. Then: “I love you.”

“Me too,” he said.

Four of us sat down round the table: two female lawyers from Park Catering Company, my lawyer, and me. Bizarrely, one of the women from Park produced a teddy bear and placed it on the table. A lucky charm, perhaps?

I quickly realised that we’d seriously misread the meeting’s dynamic when the bear began to speak, in a southern drawl.

“So ya wanna layona picnic?”

“Sandwiches, canapes, quiches, that sort of thing,” I explained.

The bear chewed gum. “Quiches? Hmm...” His lawyers held their breath.

“OK,” the bear said, to everyone’s relief.

We celebrated with tea. The bear had honey.