Flash Fiction – Senses – 301 Words

I can see the ocean, its waves pawing at the white-gold sand that lay far below us, and the blinding sun reflected from the normally dull, grey rocks.
I can see a spreading crimson move from the rocks towards the horizon, and a cruel, broken whiteness lying amongst the glimmering rocks.
I can see the small orange mitten, being carried away on the tide.
I can hear the gulls circling above us, the laughter of our children as they play in the sun, entranced by the view of creation, suffusing them with an omnipotence I knew they would never feel again.
I can hear your sharp, desperate voice, mingled with the fading cries from the cliff-edge.
I can smell the fresh sea-breeze, which carried the scent of salt and mysterious spices from lands unimaginably distant, a by-product of foreign cultures sailing towards our shore. The pungent stink of sweat from the brows of long-lost sailors, tolling their huge, cracked bells in forgotten cities below the sea.
I can taste life, its bouncing joys and unimaginable cruelty dancing along the tip of my tongue. I can taste horror and pity and blame in the pit of my stomach, rising like bile to touch the roof of my mouth.
I can feel your lips on my cheek, their slim, young bodies in my arms, and that long hideous scream tearing my throat. I can feel it stretching, ‘til long after the piercing noise stopped.
I can feel sharpened blades, tipped with fear and anger and guilt, running across the muscles in my breast and the sheer, blinding panic as we ran.
I can feel your cold, pale flesh beside me, like the broken bodies of our children, lying where we had to leave them, crushed between the rocks and the glimmering, whispering sea.

Flash Fiction – Fat Man & Little Boy – 170 Words

The Fat Man watched, eyeless, as his Little Boy was carried away, gently, nervously. Fat Man tried to weep for the youth, feeling in his metallic heart that it was what Little Boy would expect of him. He listened to the falsified, and yet, heart-rending cries of Little Boy, steeling himself against his sudden, perverse desire to rescue him from the Gods, from the intellectuals with little knowable morality.

They had their differences, certainly, but the Fat Man loved his Little Boy.

‘They are taking Little Boy to a better place.’ Fat Man muttered. ‘Little Boy will make a peace to last generations, and Little Boy will save millions of lives.’

A few days later, on the Ninth of August, nineteen-forty-five, they told Fat Man. Fat Man was following his Little Boy!

‘Where is he? Is Little Boy okay?’

But, with eyes cast down and white coats tightened about skeletal framed, and metallic fingers enwrapping his sickeningly inflated body, they refused to answer Fat Man with any sound, save silence.

Flash Fiction – Cocaine Years – 409 Words

My friend knelt by the body, its face a mangled wreck, barely recognisable as human. He ran his hands over the body’s chest, searching for a wallet no doubt.
Moonlight glittered off broken glass.
He made a small, triumphant little noise, almost as if he had solved the idle matter of death already.
I hit her again. And again.
He stood up, running a long, pale hand through his unkempt, dirty brown hair whilst his other flipped open the black wallet he had taken from the corpse.
There was blood, a black stain across my fists.
His expression tightened subtly, so slight a movement that it was almost unnoticeable, even to me.  
She wasn’t crying anymore.
He was staring at me now, in a way he had never done before.
I hit her again. And again.
He crossed to me, stowing the wallet into one of the pockets of his ragged coat.
Expressionless, I watched her face cave under my fists, as I hit her again.
Hands clasped my shoulders, shaking me. I jerked from his grasp, amazed at the weakness in his arms.  
And again.
His mouth opened soundlessly, his thin lips shaped themselves around that all too familiar word.
My own skin had broken now, white bone rising from my bloody weapon, as I hit her again.
I hated it when he called me that now. That name that set my blood raging.
And again.
I hated him.
And again.
I warned him of its dangers. I told him this is where he would end up, though I would have laughed if told I would still be following him. It cost us everything.
I finally pulled myself away from her, my breath coming in short, painful bursts.
His once fine deerstalker was a ragged mess, as was his Inverness cape. These last years had not been kind to him.
These last years have not been kind to her.
His riding crops, his cane and Webley, his mind, they were all gone, sold to feed his addiction.
The years have not been kind to me.

He deserves this. She deserves this. For what they both did.
He shook my shoulders again, repeating that dreadful name.
I walked away. The footsteps lost in the foetid air.
I’m not him anymore, old friend. Your faithful lapdog died years ago. Slurred and desperate, his words finally broke through to me.
‘It’s The Woman, Watson! The Woman!’
I know Holmes. I know.

Flash Fiction – Hello Dad – 100 Words

The knock on the door was the sound of dead feet kicking at the coffin. He knew who it would be, though he had been buried these eighteen long years. He had visited the grave once every six months since then, a routine as sure as the rising of the sun. He had put it off, as he struggled with school, with his health, with his family. He pulled back the first dead-bolt. Then the second. The third. His pale, trembling hand pulled at the white handle. The door opened; a nightmare for his nineteenth birthday.

Hello Dad.’ He said.

Flash Fiction – 22:18 – 100 Words

The stain wouldn’t come out.

She’d been working on this for days. Anyone else would’ve just thrown the old, rough black cloth away, but she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. It was her obsession, her duty. The filth was her sin made manifest, the need to clean, to cleanse, to purify, was her punishment. The Mother told her that.

She hadn’t wanted to do it, but the Mother had said it was her duty. She called for justice, justice in the name of God. She had followed His rules, did what He had commanded of her.

The stain just wouldn’t come out.