Flash Fiction Friday

#flashfictionfriday 06

Charlotte cries in the shower while Greg watches cricket on TV. The day had been fine; bub took all his naps, had a good poo, and even went down for the night after only three rounds of Soft Kitty.

But still, she cries.

It’s not like she misses her job, but weekends were nice. So were lunch breaks. Even that 5 pm clock-off time she whinged about looks appealing now.

The hot water wanes. Charlotte rinses her hair along with her tears. She gets out of the shower, towels herself off and makes dinner.

Short Stories

the investigator

The smell of death surprised him every time—sweet and pungent in its foulness. Rence stood over the body of Lord Harrison, regarding the pattern of his splattered blood across the slate tiles of the monastery. Beside the body was a pistol—a relatively new model by the looks of it. Pinched between his gloved thumb and forefinger, Rence lifted it from the pooled blood, the barrel cold and greasy. It was a decorative thing: a three barrelled flintlock with brass mechanism and an ornately carved ivory grip. A curious smile crept across his lips.

This was a rich man’s weapon.         

Continue reading “the investigator”
Flash Fiction Friday

#flashfictionfriday 05

“They will be here before dawn,” Mayor Turncott said. He turned to Jacquelyn and gripped her by the shoulders. “You must take the boy and leave.”

Jacquelyn glanced down at the new born babe in her arms, swaddled warm in a woollen cloak.

“There’s a tunnel through the hills,” Turncott said. ‘Speak to the smithy. Tell him, ‘All the leaves have fallen,’ and he will show you the way. Follow the path until you reach the forest. And then, you don’t look back. Do you understand?”

Jacquelyn nodded. “I’ll protect him with my life.”

“No, my dear,” Turncott said gravely. “You are the Mother of Hope—it is you who must survive.”

Flash Fiction Friday

#flashfictionfriday 04

A black business card tumbles to the floor as she’s slipping out of her bra. The man in the white tuxedo picks it up.

“Miss Murder,” he reads, loose-tied and champagne-drunk. “Named after the song.”

“No,” she says and reaches into her purse. “Named after me.”

One click and he was dead.