Category: Flash fiction

Maybe you can guess where this little short story is going from the title and the three images… With ‘Screwdriver’ and 100 words, this is what you get…

Bob had three most treasured possessions. His toolbox, his golf clubs and his ’66 Mustang.

Beryl also had three most treasured possessions. These were Bob, her beautiful home and her marriage.

Bob had recently added a fourth item to his list. Her name was Anna.

Beryl went to Bob’s workbench, grabbing the first implement she could find and marched out to the car. Gripping the handle of the star screwdriver tightly, she laid its head against the driver’s door and walked around the vehicle, gouging into the bright red paintwork.

She surveyed her handiwork and wished she’d used his 9-iron.

Here are two quick pieces that were written back to back in response to ‘Magnolia’ and ‘Elaborate’ (85 and 120 words respectively). A comment by a friend on Facebook about the job she most wished she had was, in part, the inspiration. Well, I guess, someone has to do it…

Magnolia Home

Magnolia. How our minds work. Mine went straight to a pot of paint. Imagine being a Paint Colour Name Thinker Upper. This season’s Magnolia Home Range includes Watering Can and Webster Avenue. Rainy Days and Garden Trowel.

Another range’s warmer hues include Downy Duckling (I especially like that one)

And then there’s nail polish colours. It’s a Boy! (Blue, obviously) Suzi Without a Paddle.  How about Exotic Birds Do Not Tweet? But even worse is the naming of car models. Don’t even get me started…

and…The Job Interview

‘Perhaps you’d like to elaborate on your previous experience’, the paint technician asked.

‘Well, I came up with our entire Spring range’,  I boasted. ‘Nail polish is an extension of your personality. The colours need creative thinking.’

The paint technician glanced down at his interview notes.

‘I see your creativity ran away with you sometimes. How does Suzi Without a Paddle say pale blue? And why don’t exotic birds tweet? How about Can’t find my Czechbook?’ he looked up and rolled his eyes.

‘I find your colours a little …obscure. Here at Daub Paints we’re a little more conservative. Take Downy Duck, for example. One of my personal favourites. So descriptive. Tells you exactly what’s inside that paint pot.’

In these days of pandemic propaganda, gaffes, about turns, disinformation, fake news and general confusion by so called leaders and their capacity and willingness to confront COVID-19, came this story. The theme was ‘Contrary’ and the word count 150. Who knows why Jennifer can’t find a party or cause in which she can apply her skills for good, but hey, this is just fiction.

Contrary to popular belief, Jennifer had not always been committed to the movement. That was part of the fiction she had created, rewriting the past to suit her present narrative.

In reality she was deeply sceptical, completely lacking any conviction for the cause. She had joined in order to further her own agenda and not theirs.

She spouted untruths, regurgitating the party line, legitimising policies and showing unwavering support for their credo, all the time sounding as if she meant it.

With her natural credibility, she became the mouth piece for the campaign and an authority on their doctrines. She spoke on radio and television and gave interviews, advocating strongly for their fundamental purpose.

Everyone loved her but she hated herself. She questioned everything but said nothing.

She was torn in two. The public Jennifer committed to a crusade and the authentic Jennifer, mistrustful of everything it claimed to represent.

‘Orchid’ was the very first prompt in our Keep Writing Challenge, which began on 24 March, 2020. We had 300 words to work with, which given my relationship with these fickle pot plants, seemed far too many. So from my disastrous past came this. I promised my friend Holly Hutchinson-Keip I would post this, after seeing a picture of her prolific outdoor orchid, thriving without a care in the world.

The gift of an orchid was one which she considered as the most anxiety inducing of floral gestures.  She had been the unenthusiastic and reluctant recipient of many varieties of plants in her time, delicate petalled, fluted, pendulous, leafy and ferny, all as unreceptive as the next to her attempts at nurturing. She had consulted, Googled and researched every horticultural expert on the subject to no avail and so assiduously avoided them wherever possible.

But Paul thought she needed more greenery in her home. He knew she disliked cut flowers but insisted on always bringing her a pot plant each time he visited. It was something that she both loved and hated about him. His thoughtfulness was a source of such delight to her, but he seemed oblivious to the number of plants that now bedecked her small London apartment.

The flat was beginning to resemble Kew Gardens. The plants thrived to differing degrees. Those that had already wilted since his botanical onslaught began, she had hidden behind the more hardy, Triffid like ones. The latter were resisting succumbing to her over or under watering, too much or too little exposure to the sun that streamed into her sitting room, and her other general inadequacies as far as taking care of living things was concerned.   

She regretted her incapacity truly to love – she had always felt her heart was too cold to admit others, whether it was a plant, a pet – even puppies failed to elicit the same requisite mushy emotions as in others – or a person.

The complexities of the orchid required too much of her, and she saw now that so did Paul.

The glorious pink phalaenopsis would soon become a stick in a bowl, barren of petals or leaves, a symbol of her desolation.

When we’re not trying to meet the daily Keep Writing Challenges set for us during lock down (51 days and counting), we are writing every month in the 12 Short Stories in 12 Months challenge. Both work along the same lines. A prompt and a word count, with a strict deadline. Since I have already dealt with the topic of online dating in Holding Back the Years , which is non-fiction, I thought I should share my fictional version which I wrote for ‘Not my Type’ in 1200 words.

“Not my type, no, definitely not my type, eew, nooo! not my type…”

Swipe, swipe, swipe.

Melanie despaired of ever finding a match.

“Why am I even doing this online thing, anyway?” she directed the question to her cat, Misty who held infinitely more appeal for her than the men she saw – short, tall, bald, hirsute, fat, thin, clean shaven, moustachioed – the gamut of masculinity staring out at her from a phone screen in various poses, astride trophy motorbikes, or on ski slopes, or crossing the finish line of an endurance race (‘I’ve still got it!’ the pictures screamed)

“What’s with these boys? Must they puff out their chests, fluff up their plumage and strut their not very attractive stuff and think we’ll all fall for their lame ass profiles?”

Misty purred.

Melanie’s thumb hovered over the next picture. Nice looking. She wondered…she would have to take the plunge sometime and given her long working hours, general lack of social life and introverted nature, Tinder seemed to offer an expedient solution to an intractable problem that had dogged her for five years since her divorce. Singledom.

The app pinged and to her horror, her picture came up entwined with that of the only man she had selected in months of browsing and swiping. Dan. She went back to his full profile and checked out the three photos. All posed, on his own, with an indiscernible background that placed him everywhere and nowhere. One photo in black tie, looking dashing. In another, the more rugged look, partially unshaven in jeans and a stylish shirt and in the last, casual in shorts and a t-shirt, reclining on a sunbed, sunglasses perched on his forehead.

“Hello, Dan” she addressed her screen. The app pinged again, showing her there was a message – from Dan. She threw the phone across the bed as if it was going to bite her, or Dan was about to jump out at her.

“Misty, what shall I do?” Misty flicked her tail. Melanie reached to retrieve the phone.

Hi Lovely lady, the message read. Short and sweet. Was that it?

Hi yourself, she typed back, before she got cold feet.

What you doing here? Surely a beautiful woman like you already has someone in her life?

Uncertain as to what to make of the off the bat sweet talk, Melanie smiled. He thought she was beautiful!

Well, it’s a long story…she typed.

Will you tell me your story sometime, angel?

When?

Well. I’m out of town right now on a contract so as soon as I get back.

What do you do?

I’m an engineer on the rigs. Weeks on, then time off. Time to spend with you.

When will you be back?

Soon.

I’ll be here. Can we keep talking in the meantime?

Of course, I’m not leaving you now I’ve found you.

Melanie offered her cell phone number and invited Dan to communicate on WhatsApp. She was done with Tinder now and wanted to delete it from her phone. If her few friends or colleagues even knew she was on it, she was sure they would be shocked. It was so out of character for her.

Over the next few weeks, Dan’s messages became more and more affectionate. Only occasionally would there be an out of place remark, or odd question.

When are you retiring? Do you live in a big house?

Both these times, and on a few other occasions, Melanie left the questions hanging, going back to the conversation only hours later. Sometimes Dan got impatient.

Angel, where are you? Are you playing hard to get? I get unhappy when you ignore me!

Then she felt bad and sent him long messages. About her day. About Misty. About how lonely she felt and how she couldn’t wait to meet him. She asked him for more photos.

My phone crashed and I lost all my pics ☹ And I’m useless at selfies. You’ll just have to wait to meet me in the flesh!

She sent him different pictures of herself. And Misty. She sent him snippets of articles, poems, songs, giving so much of herself. He lapped up her messages always quick to reply and always commenting on how sweet and thoughtful she was.

Then this.

My angel, there was an accident on the site today. I messed up bad.

What happened?

A piece of equipment got smashed because one of my guys was careless. It’s going to cost me.

Haven’t you got insurance for things like that?

What kind of question is that? I’m telling you I’m in trouble.

Although taken aback at the reply, Melanie put it down to his stressing about the accident.

I just wondered if you weren’t covered for damage to equipment?

I’m just a contractor, not a company employee. I’m not covered for that.

Melanie bit her lip, sorry for doubting him and concerned about what would happen next.

So, what happens next?

Angel, I’m so worried. They want $100 000 before they’ll let me leave the rig. Can you help me? You know I’ll pay you back. I just need to get back and speak to my business partner and work something out.

Looking back, afterwards, Melanie marvelled at the fact that she didn’t question that if Dan had a business partner, why he didn’t speak to him on the phone, or on Whatsapp, like they did, and resolve his crisis that way.

All she could think of was that their very first meeting the following week was now in jeopardy and that simply was not an option. It was unthinkable after months of sharing, and loving on the phone, that they wouldn’t meet, and finally touch each other. She had an access bond she could use to help him. To bring him to her.

How can I get it to you?

*           *           *

“So, ma’am, what happened next?” the detective from Interpol asked her gently, as she sat, stunned in the investigation room. After weeks convincing herself she would hear something soon, the realisation of the full horror of what happened hit her and she had reluctantly reported Dan to the police.

“He sent me an account number, with a SWIFT code for a bank in Mauritius. In his name. D. Nolan. At least I think that’s him. Come to think of it I never did know his surname.”

Melanie hid her head in her hands.

“Ma’am I’m sorry to say, this is a common modus operandi. We have a number of cases like yours that we’re working on. Dan Nolan is definitely not his name”

Melanie took out her phone to show the officer Dan’s photo. The man shook his head.

“Ma’am. He is neither called Dan nor does he look like this. These are almost certainly stock photos.”

“He told me he loved me”

“I’m so sorry. They all do. They prey on …women like you.”

Melanie looked up at him. Was he judging her? Another sad, middle aged woman duped by a con artist who skilfully exploited her loneliness. Groomed her to part with over a million Rands.

“If you met the real Dan, ma’am he wouldn’t be your type. I’m certain of that.”

For writers on our site that are sitting in the northern hemisphere, the prompt ‘Spring’, posted in early April, was a godsend. They only needed to look out of their windows for inspiration and some of the submissions were glorious reminders of the renewal of life, even as we remained holed up in our homes. For me, twenty five years after swapping the northern for the southern hemisphere, the reversal of the seasons still feels strange.

Spring (250 words)

It’s Spring now in England. There are daffodils, bluebells, blossoms and baby lambs. Lengthening evenings and the anticipation of summer. Pubs spill tables and chairs out onto pavements. Layers are shed, goose bumped arms and legs revealed. Barbecues are cleaned off, squally showers deter no one. Playgrounds swell with the sounds of children, months cooped up, letting off steam, the joy of the fresh air evident on their ruddy cheeks.

Winter has been long, dark and hard.

‘ Ne’er cast a clout ‘til May is out’ – my grandmother’s warning not to be fooled by April’s early promise went unheeded every year as we embraced the weak sun.

In South Africa, the nights have drawn in. Trees have been stripped, the streets strewn with their autumnal leaves, removed by the whipping wind. Like an over amorous boyfriend it didn’t take the time to see how beautiful they looked, but swiftly removed their summer clothes, which are now lying crumpled on the floor, like a lover’s cast off dress.

Lawns turn brown but the Liquid Amber trees burn bright yellow and orange for a few weeks before they also succumb and fall silent. The Highveld withers and slowly dies.

More than twenty years here and the seasons remain forever back to front. How strange that April, a month synonymous with life and fecundity now means hibernation and dormancy.

In September, we swap over, and my season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is exchanged for the start of a long, scorching summer.

These two related pieces came from the prompts ‘Gently’ and ‘Ivory’. They were posted in that order, but I have reversed them as somehow it works better with the shorter piece first. They reflect my deep regret at being inherently un-musical, and my fascination with watching pianists make wonderful music.

Ivory (100 words) It’s about more than tinkling the ivories

Until he settled on the old worn piano stool, and he and the cool ivory keys made contact with each other, he could never be sure what notes he would strike. The sensation beneath the tips of his fingers suffused him with joy, sadness, energy, lassitude.

The piano would guide his hands, determining the tempo and the mood of the pieces that flowed effortlessly through them. The instrument knew his state of mind. Sometimes it indulged his melancholy, sometimes it contrived to buoy him through the difficult times. It uplifted and calmed him, harmonising with his inner thoughts, soothing his soul.

Gently (300 words) – Hitting the Right Notes

His agile fingers danced effortlessly and gently across the ivory keys, making the complex shapes of the different notes and chords. He looked up at her from time to time and then bowed his head again, moving his torso sinuously, swaying and dipping over the keyboard. His feet flexed and released the pedals, damping some sounds and allowing others to build in resonance and timbre.

She did not have the gift of music and so envied the ease with which he could sit at the beautiful maple wood baby grand and bring it to life. Seated at the worn piano stool he would disappear for hours into himself, locking her out, left, tuneless, helpless, without the words or notes with which to reach him.

She recognised the melody, but without his training, his vast repertoire played without sheet music, she had no recourse in her memory to search for the title or the composer. It was something classical, that had been modernised somewhere, somehow. She tried to recapture a time when she had heard it before and to know why this tune, why now.

“Ed?”

He shook his head, dismissing her and changed tempo.

The piece was discordant, the minor chords giving it an overwhelmingly sad feel. He shifted now into ragtime, his left hand hitting the same notes in a repetitive pattern whilst his right stretched and jangled the higher notes. He switched to an achingly beautiful piece and became engrossed in its complexity. As it reached a crescendo, he slipped seamlessly back to the ragtime. He was mocking her. That’s what he used his music for- to tease her, to love her, to laugh at her, to show his anger – to communicate with her. But today she was at a loss to decipher his musical code.

This piece was written in response to the prompt ‘Doughnuts’ in 150 words. I dislike all forms of deep fried doughy cakes including Spanish churros, French beignets, South African vetkoek, American Krispy Kremes or a good old traditional English jam or cream doughnut, so that took me straight to the other kind…It is written from painful memory…

Only doughnuts provided her with comfort and relief. She watched her diet, balancing her quota of fresh fruit, roughage and protein, but doughnuts were absolutely allowed and had been recommended by her doctor.

Sometimes her need for one overwhelmed her, reducing her to tears. She could barely function if she got to the office without one, unable to get through the morning without her fix. She would pace, not settling at her desk until one had been sent in for her.

She never imagined her dependence on doughnuts would become so all consuming. She had tried so many alternatives but none worked as well. She had been embarrassed to confide the extent of her pain without them to her doctor, who had reassured her that it was completely normal in her condition.

She was pregnant, haemorrhoids were killing her and only sitting on a hollowed out soft cushion eased the pain.