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Category Archives: flash fiction

Gloves

His dirty hard fingers touch me again. In the ribs, then the back, then they slide down and I’m awake, praying that those little pills kick in. There’s enough in me, and he forced three whiskeys down me to ‘loosen up’ before he took his gloves off. They usually like me tight. He likes me as long as I’m quiet. He pays well and often surprises me with little gifts. I tell him to put his gloves back on and shut my eyes. Tight.

 
 

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You Little Maniacs – A Stream of Consciousness

It’s a super highway of

Egotistical maniacs

WATCH ME!

COMMENT!

LOVE MY THIGH GAP!

BUY BUY BUY

And desensitization keeps us calm

Except for the red of santa

Thanks Coke

And the wars

And the love

All red

Bloodflow

Too fast

Everything is too fast

You egotistical

Maniacs

Just stop. And look. And listen

Walk away

It’s not at the bottom of your Costa cup

 

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Herpes – A Bitter Love Story

She contracted herpes in 1984, just before the threat of AIDs hit the English shores and everyone still believed in free love like it was the 60’s. It flared up every time she thought of him, a big red sore on the top left hand side of her lip that oozed and bled whenever she touched it. They had divorced in 1987 when she found him balls deep in her best friend, Mandy. Mandy had curly hair and he loved it, he often made his wife wear a wig when they were having sex. She can’t ever remember making love, it was always raw and thrusting and she often got thrush for a few days after. The cold sore was just a lasting reminder of that bastard. Mandy died a few months ago, they’d made up a few years back after her ex husband eventually cheated on Mandy too for a younger curlier model. At least they had something in common and would often share stories well into the night about the bastard who left a mark on both their lips. One night, after three bottles of shared wine, they kissed and grabbed at each others tits in some sort of failed attempt to feel loved. They both remembered what happened in the morning but never talked about it and just got on with their day to day lives wondering what each other were thinking and whether or not they could be lesbian. She decided she couldn’t. She never liked the look of her own cunt, how could she go down on someone else’s. Also she’d found out that herpes could be transmitted that way and she didn’t want anyone else to be cursed with her ex-husband’s sins. That bastard was still alive though, they still lived in the same town they were married in, she couldn’t afford to move out and he had a good job in town and bought a house three streets away. She saw him often but he ignored her by looking down at his shoes, or suddenly turning heel and walking in the other direction. He was the one who did wrong so how come he still made her feel like a piece of shit that had been trodden into the carpet? She’d once tried to turn round quicker than him in an attempt to get the upper hand, but she almost walked into a lamp post and she heard him snort a laugh before walking away. One day she will make him pay, make him realise what he had lost, as soon as she worked out how to get the money that she owed the council for her studio flat in the basement of a decrepted Victorian four story house. Her top lip started stinging again so she walked to the broken bathroom cupboard for some vaseline.

 

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It Was The Vodka – A Redundancy Story

She knew she shouldn’t really give a fuck about it, not now, not after so long, but she did, and she was beyond exhausted with her restless brain thinking on and on and on… and on into the early hours denying her any rest. That’s why she drank. It wasn’t a social thing, it was a sanity recoverer, without it she’d end up a zombiefied husk of a human. Her cat liked the new sleeping pattern, or lack of. It meant when he scratched at the bedroom door at 5am she would throw food in his bowl instead of scream profanities in his direction and occasionally open the door brandishing a well heeled shoe. ‘Fuck’ she exclaimed to the wall. ‘Fuck fuck FUCK’ she screamed out the ajar window to a random early morning jogger. She considered that she might just have everything out of proportion as she twisted the lid off the half empty vodka bottle and drank deeply. It was 5.43am on a Tuesday. The headache once again thundered in with the thought of getting her blouse on for work again. It would be the ninth day in a row. She fell on the bed with a heavy thud, drops of vodka leaping out of the bottle and on onto her forehead. She sighed as the cat jumped onto the bed and started licking the running droplets out of her hair. She never stopped him, although after he drank neat vodka from a cup and staggered into the TV stand she was more vigilant with the amount he drank. Cats really shouldn’t drink neat spirits, but then she figured cats shouldn’t be called ‘Shandy’. At least she always had a drinking partner in the small hours. ‘Fuck’ she told him. ‘fuck this shit’ and quickly squeezed her eyes shut. Two minutes later she opened them to find everything a bit greyer. Even the sun couldn’t be fucked to get up to full mast this morning. She felt herself sinking into the mattress. Even the spring in the middle that always tried to force its way into her spine felt comfortable. And she sank further.

It was 1.32pm, she opened her eyes to see Shandy curled up around the now empty vodka bottle, and sixteen voicemail messages on her phone. She dialed and listened, last first, ‘…imcompant for the last time, your…’ She switched off the call, she knew it was over. She stroked Shandy for some form of comfort. He was cold and still.

 
 

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On and on and on 

She knew she shouldn’t really give a fuck about it, not now, not after so long, but she did, and she was beyond bored with her flickering brain thinking on and on and on into the early hours. That’s why she drank. It wasn’t a social thing, it was a sanity thing, without it she’d end up a zombiefied husk from lack of sleep. The cat liked the new pattern, it meant when he scratched at the door at 5am she would feed him instead of scream profanities in his direction and occasionally open the door brandishing a shoe. ‘Fuck’ she exclaimed to the wall ‘fuck fuck fuck’ and considered that she might just have everything out of proportion as she twisted the lid of the half empty vodka bottle and drank deeply.   

 
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Posted by on January 29, 2016 in flash fiction, Uncategorized

 

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The Ajax Train

The stench hit me as soon as he sat down. You get used to differing flavours of reek when travelling on a train in rush hour. They hit the back of your mouth and seem to nest there for the rest of the day. This was acrid, like strong industrial soap and powdered ajax, the sort of disinfectant my nan used to scour all over her body when she started believing she smelt of death. His wax jacketed arm was leaning into mine so I tried to push myself as close as possible to the murky window for fear of being tainted with this aroma and having to sit in a air conditioned office all day tainted in ‘clean’. I turned and scowled at his wide bald face, he was too busy staring gormlessly at his phone to notice my silent protest. I took a minute to look at him, his bulbous red nose was ejecting some sort of green and blue slime that was dangerously gravitating to his mouth. There was a blackhead so large and ingrained on the right nostril it distracted me for a second and I wondered why he didn’t scour his face in ajax too, that would surely clean that muck out. I’d been watching youtube videos of people squeezing all manner of solid yellowing puss out of blackheads and it looked rather soothing and satisfactory, but my eyes flickered back to the dripping mucus and I gagged a little. My stop was three more stations away and there was nowhere to stand anymore, I was trapped in public transport hell. I started to pray he didn’t shake his head like a wet dog and cover the whole carriage with strands of multicoloured bodily fluids when suddenly he took out a clean white tissue and started blowing his nose. He opened the tissue after a final intense blow and looked horrified, his eyes suddenly turned to me and caught my aghast face for a second. He mumbled something incomprehensible, I’m not even sure it was language, more a pitying wail, and turned to face the passengers to the left of him, the smell of acrid soap and ajax wafting from his wax jacket. I turned the music on my MP3 player up and prayed he got off at the next station.  

 

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Mountin Dew

Don’t pour Mountain Dew on my cornflakes
Don’t push licorice allsorts in my roll
Don’t crush my Cheetos with your steak knives
And grate that stinky cheese in my bowl
I don’t want raw pickle in that salsa
I don’t want that cream on those crisps
You try so darn hard to please me
But stop gluing fake eyeballs on that fish. 

 
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Posted by on September 26, 2015 in flash fiction, poem

 

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