flash fiction
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Roscoe tells me he thinks I’m getting better. I don’t know why he brings it up like that, from nowhere. It starts me thinking. I don’t feel much better. I haven’t been comfortable going out after dark for months. I count back. Three months? Four? ‘It’s all ended well,’ he says. ‘Has it?’ ‘It’s…
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We’d bunked off school that afternoon. Me and Pauline were lying in the tall grass. Henry was sitting away, with his back to us. For ages I looked, at his dark hair, deep black, almost purple, like a crow, and the whiteness of his neck, like ice-cold milk. His head was down, and he was…
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We were in a seafood restaurant. Herman was chewing a mussel, over and over. I asked him if it was okay. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s tough. Like meat. I want to spit it.’ ‘Then spit it,’ I said. I looked around for him. ‘No one’s watching us.’ ‘A pity,’ he said. Why, he asked, did…
Barry Lee Thompson 