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Gordon Lawrie

Tom And Mary

30/9/2016

 
Tom and Mary spent their entire marriage, all fifty-nine years of it, in competition. Mostly, they teamed up, thus avoiding public marital strife and maintaining a semblance of decorum. Friends knew the signs, though. A misdirected volley on the tennis court, or a missed short putt on the golf green, meant Tom would be sleeping on the sofa that night.
 
Later, their interests turned to bridge, where Mary would frequently be heard screeching ‘Why did you do that, Tom?’ He died suddenly at the table; she carried on playing the hand, Tom was dummy and they made a small slam.

Cornered

16/9/2016

 
I really tried. I went into the police station and confessed to murdering seven protitutes. (Well, they looked like prostitutes to me: these days with their short skirts and make-up, you can’t really tell.)
 
But the police threw me out – threatened to charge me with wasting police time. Same thing at the GP’s surgery: nobody believed me, I got barred.
 
I was cornered. I’d to prove I was a killer again. That’s where you come in, I’m afraid – sorry. You’ve probably guessed what the knife’s for; I’ll make it quick.
 
All because no one listened. I’m so sorry for you.

In The Self-Publishing Sea

9/9/2016

 
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It had all seemed so safe: a summer’s day, each contentedly bobbing about in water up to their necks. Thriller writer Albert Leighton floated with crime writer Di Glover. Jack Marks swam romantically with Lucy Walker: both wrote erotic fiction.
 
Suddenly, a scream – “Sharks!”
 
Sure enough, a fast-moving shoal of agents, cover-designers, printers, editors and marketing experts hurtled towards them. The writers tried escaping but were no match for the predators. At the final count, Jack and Lucy had lost an arm and a leg each to the marketeers, while Di and Albert had each had £500 amputated by agents.

Maggie's Legs

7/9/2016

 
A fellow writer was apparently having a little bother.

Maggie’s legs were giving her all sorts of bother. According to her doctor, one needed lots of rest, the other lots of exercise. “These legs of mine just seem to want to do their own thing quite independently of me,” she thought. “What am I to do?”
 
Meanwhile, her legs were having a similar debate that she couldn’t hear.
 
“Why do we accept this inferior status?” one demagogue yelled. “We allow torsos to dictate to us! It’s naked imperialism! It’s slavery!”
 
“Agreed,” said another, “We need to form a union. We legs need to stick together!”
 
And so they did.

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Where The Writers Go

2/9/2016

 
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Summoned into the Library, he looked around: two chairs, a desk, some pens, a leather-bound notebook. No books. On one chair sat an elderly figure, half monk, half grim reaper.
 
The figure indicated that he should sit at the desk. “Write.”
 
“Write what?”
 
“Your story.”
 
“Where am I?”
 
The figure waved. “This is The Library. Where we keep stories. And their authors.”
 
“I see no books.”
 
“The authors and their last book are in the walls.”
 
“IN the walls?”
 
“They’re all there: Shakespeare, Hemingway, Danté. And many stories you’ve never read.”
 
“Why am I here?”
 
“To write your last book.”

    Flash Fiction

    Flash 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
    (FREE!)
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    If you enjoy these stories, why not download Gordon's first two collections of these, called '100 Not Out' and '200 Not Out'? Available for all types of e-readers including Kindle and iPad, for free. Completely free, no strings.

    Click on one of the images below...

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