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Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Three stories in 450 words.

Today is flash fiction day, so I thought I’d share my efforts with you. Here are three stories at 150 words each, let me know what you think.

Only come to check the meter, so of course I let him in. He was a bit too jowly, and his eyes were dark around the edges, but he was the first man I’d had in the house since my Terry passed. He hadn’t gotten his photo ID yet, but he looked the part, with his British Gas fleece and his little suitcase full of wires. I offered him a cup of tea; he declined, so I stood in the mirror checking my curlers, and somehow he got to the front door without me seeing him. 

“All done now, love,” he said, and stepped into the evening rain.

I dreamed about the meterman last night. He was stood bedside my bed. He fell softly on my neck, kissing, biting. There was ever so much blood. I woke early this morning and opened the curtains, but the sun was too bright.

He stands with his hands on the Victorian iron and looks down at the water. Steady, wide. He has never been east of the river before, but he has a five pound note, and he wants to see the fair.

There are so many people. So much coloured light. He sees a sign. He doesn’t read well, but he knows the word ‘magic’, so he follows it to a red velvet tent. The man in the spotlight calls him to the stage, has him check a hat for hidden compartments, then conjures two doves, which fly out through the doorway. Someone says it is fine sleight of hand; he is sure they are wrong.

It is midnight. He stands on the bridge which will take him back to the flat above the butcher’s, where his mother and sister sleep. He looks at the sky. A dove flies towards the moon.

Flash – A horror story
There was lightning in the sky, and the rain fell on the leaves like a giant watering can.

“Let’s hide in that old house!” shouted Kevin.

He was sick of reading horror stories. Nobody wants to mark coursework at one AM. Every story seemed to feature fifteen year olds taking shelter in haunted houses. Still, they ticked the boxes for similes, adverbs and onomatopoeia, so he gave them good marks.

It was raining when he went to bed. It hit the windows like… like a giant watering can. Perhaps bad prose really was infectious. He sunk his head into his pillow and closed his eyes. Great Expectations sat on the bedside cabinet. Dust made thick fur on his guitar strings. A notebook lay open on the
coffee table. He’d left the pen lid off when he’d written ‘novel ideas’ in the centre of the page; the ink was going dry.

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