Blog Archives

How To Manage An Author

27/6/2014

She wrote furiously, trapped three floors up; her publisher, editor and proof-reader each insisted that her room would stay locked until she'd completed her long-awaited novel. Completed pages were to be thrown from the window into the garden below.

Propelling page eighty-six she yelled, "You can't do this to me. I have rights!"

The publisher/editor/proof-reader called back, "Think of Rossini."

"Rossini?"

"Composer. Barber Of Seville. William Tell. Only way to make him write."

Finally, page three hundred and four fell, followed by a loud thud.

The publisher/editor/proof-reader smiled. "Perfect. A tragic suicide. Now we can market the book as well."

Revolver

24/6/2014

This story was written for National Flash Fiction Day on 21st June.

Amelia still isn't sure what it was she saw that day exactly, but it looked like and felt like a gun: something very similar to the Smith & Wesson 625 her unfaithful husband had once possessed.

There it lay, reflected in the dressing-table mirror, a six-cylinder revolver with a dark handle, and although it seemed fully loaded, she thought it had the safety catch on.

Concluding it was probably a replica anyway as she studied it, she pointed it randomly in different directions. In fact, she only decided it was real when it blew her brains out. That settled things.

Burma, 1944

20/6/2014

The doctors and nurses have all been led outside the tent by the Japanese; we, the wounded, are left to wonder inside.

Suddenly there's a long burst of machine-gun fire, followed by a silence, then some Japanese shouting.

Then another brief silence.

Suddenly the machine gun is strafing our tent we dive below most of us too late but not me thank God.

Silence.

A Japanese soldier enters the tent, searching for the living. Bullet to the head each time. I play dead.

Six of us escape under cover of darkness later.

I suppose our side does bad stuff too.

Source: Time Magazine

The Font Of Knowledge

18/6/2014

The pupil waited. The moment had not yet come to ask questions. Eventually, the guru looked up: a signal.

"Guru," the pupil intoned, "I seek guidance. Can you foretell the future?"

"I see two things," the guru replied.

"What are they?"

"It."

"It? You said 'two'."

"I see two, but I see them one at a time," the guru explained. "Firstly, I see that it'll rain." Dark clouds rolled overhead.

"Ah," said the pupil. "Guru, you're so wise. What's the second thing?"

There was a bolt of lightning; end of guru.

"Ah," said the pupil, "that was the second thing."

Love Story No. 3

17/6/2014

Arlene gazes at the skies. "It's going to be a beautiful day," she says.

Her boyfriend Rab, a dour Scot, grunts, "Aye, right."

Arlene's confused. "Isn't that an oxymoron, Robert? You said 'yes' twice." She's not Scottish and understands neither it's people nor its language.

"No, it's just an oxy, it's not a moron. 'Aye right' means no."

Suddenly the heavens open. Arlene seems sure to get soaked, but miraculously Rab produces an umbrella big enough for them both.

"I love you," she says, gazing at him, "but I'll never understand you."

"You'll never understand the weather either, will you?"

Inside The Louvre

13/6/2014

Why do people stare? – It’s so rude. They stare at me, so I stare back at them. Then more people wander up, they stare at me, too, so I stare back at them as well.

They talk about me; they want to know what I’m thinking, but that’s my business, not theirs. They don’t even speak in Italian – not so much as a “Ciao, Lisa”.

You wonder why I’m smiling? I’ll tell you. Every day, thousands of people who know nothing about art pay around fifteen euros to come and stare at me.

That’s a smile of contempt, trust me.

Brotherly Love

6/6/2014

"Mummy, mummy, George is bullying me!"

"Oh, you're always whining, Albert. George just wants to play."

"But he's got this big knife thing and he's chasing me!"

"He'll just be wanting to play 'Chefs and Carrots' with you, Albert. Can't you just join in?"

"He's on the rocking-horse. Chefs don't ride horses!"

"Find something else to play with, Albert. The wendy house?"

"We set fire to it last week, remember?"

"So you did. You should take more care of your toys. Go and play with George. You know, your older brother has the patience of a saint....... Albert?.... Albert?...... Albert?"

Albert The Dragon's Mishap

1/6/2014

Dragons, it turns out, have extraordinary powers to move emotions, especially when they choose to write. On the last day in May, Albert The Dragon came up with a tale to make any human cry: tears of laughter, tears of sadness, tears of joy, all within the space of one hundred words. Reading back through it, Albert realised he had created his masterpiece, the greatest piece of fiction ever constructed.

"Ahhh," he said, reading the printout of his story. Sadly, his breath set fire to the paper, and in the ensuing panic he forgot it completely, and for all time.

Flash Fiction

Collections(FREE!)Click on image

Archives

Collections
(FREE!)
Click on image