flash fiction

  • The Writer

    I often used to sit with him while he worked on a story. I could say that all the while he was writing, but often he’d only be reading over something he’d already written. He took ages over the smallest detail. I’d be in the armchair by the window, reading a paperback novel I’d brought

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  • Life Drawing

    Maybe you could sketch me. I’ll recline, here on the couch, and you can study me all afternoon. No clothes, isn’t that the way it’s done? Turn up the heating, I’ll cover the cost. I’ll fall asleep eventually, drowsy with warmth, and you’ll be able to take your time, to notice the unguarded in my

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  • Just Martin

    They’d been playing for most of the afternoon, despite the cold, but as soon as the light began to fade, their mothers began summoning them inside. Time for dinner. See you tomorrows were called with cheer as one by one they left the square, until eventually it was just Martin remaining. He watched the sky

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  • Laundry

    Laundry

    There are too many choices, and he can’t decide, so in the end he stays home and does some laundry. He sits outside on the battered chair and watches the washing drying on the line. While he watches, he smokes cigarettes and drinks milky coffee. He’s forgotten the ashtray so he flicks the ash onto

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  • Number 58

    It was a short-term lease, and now their couch is gone from out the front. Some nights they’d sit there in underwear, onesies, crazy hats; talking, but only to each other, and smoking and playing. And by early morning the night’s detritus of notebooks, clothes, packets, bottles, would be strewn in still life over the

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