Tag Archives: flash fiction

The Saturday Shed: Summer of ‘69

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Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

Fred shut the windows and drew the curtains, but the sound of next door’s party still thundered around the room.

“Bloody kids,” he muttered as he slid under the duvet.

Joan appeared in the doorway. “You’re only young once, darling. And they did give us plenty of warning.”

“When did they get so loud?” grumbled Fred. “I’m sure we were never that annoying when we were teenagers.”

“I think we were,” Joan smiled. “Remember the night we met?”

“That was over fifty years ago. But how could I forget?” Fred tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Me and my mates were passing by, we heard the music—”

“Courtesy of my old Dansette record player.” Joan kicked off her slippers.

“And we snuck in the back door.”

“Where my then-boyfriend tried to throw you out.”

“But someone locked him in the kitchen cupboard,” Fred laughed at the memory.

“That was my sister,” Joan admitted. “And it was her fault what happened next.”

“She winked and gave me a glass of cider,” said Fred. “Strong enough to strip paint.” He sniffed as if he could still smell the tart aroma of fermenting apples. “And you and I ended up in a bedroom, snogging under a pile of coats and jackets.”

“Glory days,” said Joan, draping her dressing gown over the foot of the bed. “No point trying to sleep. We might as well read.” She picked up a Jilly Cooper paperback.

“I have a better idea.” Fred got up and padded out of the room. He returned five minutes later with a wicked grin, an armful of coats and two cans of Blackthorn. “Fancy reliving the past?”

“And we can go all the way tonight!” The book and Joan’s nightdress hit the floor.

The Saturday Shed: Cinderella Drops the Shoe

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Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

Blanche stood at the bus stop, fuming. Apt word, she thought, because she could kill for a cigarette. Even though she didn’t smoke, had never smoked in her life. But honestly, this day would drive a saint to dark deeds, including murder.

Was she being unreasonable? Probably. Was he an arse? Definitely. Although, to be fair, she knew he was an arse when she married him. And presumably, he’d overlooked her quirks and foibles when he said I do. Which left her where? Apart from waiting in a rainstorm for the number twenty-seven to turn up. Keep calm and carry on, or divorce the bastard? The latter was becoming an attractive option. Thank God they didn’t have kids to worry about. Or a mortgage. She could cut and run with minimal damage. But did she want to?

She closed her eyes and wriggled her wet toes in her too-tight shoes. The bus pulled up, but Blanche let it go and squelched over to a park bench, collapsing on the seat without a thought for her dress. She kicked off her white stilettoes, wondering why anyone in their right mind would choose to wear such hideous and uncomfortable footwear.

That was it; she’d lost her marbles, gone doolally. Why else had she agreed to, arguably, the worst half hour of her life? Thanks to all that ridiculous planning and preparation, which ignored the essential essence of their beings. Deep stuff, and only themselves to blame for getting carried away with a crock of marketing bollocks. The pressure to conform scrambled their brains, and they embraced the overpriced charade that blighted many a wedding day.

Blanche shifted uncomfortably, aware that her knickers were getting damp, and kicked off the hateful shoes, wishing she had her comfy, old Reeboks to hand. Or to foot. As if conjured up by her thoughts, a pair of old trainers dropped into her lap.

“Thought you might need these,” said Jed, her husband of twenty minutes.

“You look like a psychotic penguin in that get-up.” Blanche waved a hand at his morning suit.

“And you look like a drowned rat,” he retorted. Then he grinned. “But you’ve never looked lovelier.”

“Stop taking the piss.”

“Sorry about that.” Jed joined her on the bench. “And for putting you through today.”

“Your brother proposing to his girlfriend just before the ceremony. Then, my dad’s third wife trying to drown his second in the font. And the row about seating arrangements. I think everyone joined in that one.”

“They’re still fighting in there.” Jed nodded at the church. “We should have stuck with our plans to elope,”

“Or not bothered at all.”

“Don’t say that.” Jed took her hand. “Our wedding was a disaster, but I still have hope for our marriage.”

Blanche looked into his eyes. “So do I.”

The Saturday Shed: Paper Dolls

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Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

Sheela spotted it first; she came back from the loo with the toilet roll in her hand.

“Look what someone’s done to the end of the bog roll.” She held it up.

“It’s an origami crane,” said Carol.

“Whoever did this needs more fibre in her diet. She must have been in there for ages,” I chipped in, and we all laughed. Sheela put the bird on the shelf above the fax machine, and we carried on with our work.

Two weeks later, Carol burst out of the toilet. “Our mystery folder is back.” She placed a paper item on my desk.

“What a darling little tree,” said Sheela and put it on the shelf with the crane.

Over the months, Carol and Sheela kept finding folded sculptures, always a tree for Carol and a crane for Sheela. Of course, they assumed I was doing it because I never encountered origami in the ladies.

It all came to a head when Sheela announced she was pregnant, and Carol made the connection.

“Cranes are like storks, the bringer of babies.”

“Crikey, Sheela, I hope there aren’t quins in there,” I said, waving my hand at the five birds perched behind me.

“Just the one,” she said, patting her tummy. “But what is Carol’s small forest all about?”

We found out just before Christmas when a freak storm blew down a tree. It landed on Carol’s car. She was lucky to escape with only broken limbs. Sheela and I started using the loos on the second floor after that. The new girl laughed in our faces and used the old toilets. She found out the hard way when she discovered a series of origami gas masks. Thankfully, Peri from IT got to her in time.

The maternity temp humoured us, but nothing was left for her. I wonder how she would react if I told her about my collection. You see, I lied about not finding anything. And I know fate will catch up with me. Everyone else found variations on a theme, but mine are all different. I have one I thought was an ironing board, two that look like thigh-high boots and what I took to be a sweet little dolphin.

Next week, my wife and I celebrate ten years of marriage. We are flying out to Australia, where she wants us to go surfing.

The Saturday Shed: Poker Face

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Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

“Pass ‘em over, sonny.” A jolly voice startled Jay but did nothing to ease his misery. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a keyring, which he gripped in his fist.
  “Play silly games, win, or, as in your case, lose silly prizes.” Merrick laughed himself into the hiccups. After a few minutes, his breathing returned to normal, and he wrestled the key from Jay’s closed hand.
  “Where are the rest?”
  “Inside.” Jay nodded at a house with boarded-up windows. “In a drawer in the kitchen cabinet with the spare set. And I assure you, there are no copies.”
  “Better not be,” threatened Merrick. “Now, for the deeds!” He rummaged in his briefcase and produced a sheaf of papers. “All signed, sealed, and witnessed. I’ve got the original. This is a copy for your files.”
  “You’re very thorough.” Jay dropped the document into the carrier at his feet. “And unless you need anything else, can I go?”
  “Just wait here while my lads check the place out.”
  Jay sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets as, at Merrick’s signal, four men leapt out of a van. One grabbed the key, and they ran into the house.
  Merrick considered making small talk but took a look at Jay’s expression and shut up.
  “Hurry up, boys,” he muttered. “And remember to keep out of the garden.”
  “Never did much with that,” said Jay. “Always meant to dig it up and build a patio.”
  “Glad you didn’t; garden makeovers are one of my hobbies.”
  “Oh.” Jay wandered over to the bus stop and pretended to read the timetable.
  Merrick would normally be furious with such disrespect, but Jay was suffering. Going down a quarter of a million in a bent card game would ruin anyone’s sunny disposition. And forfeiting his house to pay the debt had turned Jay into a right old grumpy-boots.
  “Mr Merrick, sir.” One of his men appeared in front of him. “The building is secure, and we are bringing out an item overlooked by the previous owner.”
  Jay trotted over with a bemused frown on his face. “There’s nothing in there. I cleared it out as instructed.”
  “But we found this in the cellar.” The henchman thrust an ageing Adidas sports bag at him.
  “That’s not mine!”
  “You wouldn’t believe what gets left behind,” said Merrick. “Now, take it and bugger off.”
  Jay picked up his bags and shuffled off. Merrick smiled. Lord, he’d proved difficult to shift. Why did people have such attachments to bricks and mortar? But Jay was in for a pleasant surprise when he opened the bag. Merrick believed in compensation, or should he call it hush money? Whatever!
  He whistled a cheerful tune as he strolled through the house to the backyard. Tonight, he would remove his dad’s last victim. What a busy little hitman Pop had been in his prime.

The Saturday Shed: Of Nigerian Princes and Ponzi Schemes

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Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

Felix smiled with pleasure; over fifty emails were waiting for him. And he only posted the link an hour ago. He settled down and opened the first message.

An hour later, Felix sat back, shaking his head in despair. At the sad, desperate people who wouldn’t recognise a scam if it bit them on the arse, and the fact, he’d spent most of the last sixty minutes grinning like an idiot.

You lack empathy, Donna had often told him. She was right, but she was hardly in the running for empath of the year. This was a woman who laughed like a drain when some poor sod fell over in the streets and thought watching pranks and epic fails was the funniest thing on the planet.

And she wasn’t showing much of a caring side, running off with a security guard. Bouncer more like, and not too gentle with his techniques for quelling drunken behaviour. At least, thought Felix, I’ve never finished an argument by throwing a bloke through a window. But according to Donna, this new man was all sweetness and light with her. Not that this relationship had much of a future.

Mr Bouncer was leaving for Preston, Felix checked his watch, in the next twenty minutes. There, a new job awaited him with more money, subsidised housing, a company car, and no Donna. That had taken some arranging, but Felix enjoyed doing good deeds, especially when a side effect included pissing off Donna.

What would she say about his empathy now? He sniggered to himself. Of the fifty-odd emails, seventeen had attached their bank details. He felt bad, but he had to do it. If Donna only knew about this side of him. But by the time she found out, it would be too late. Her life savings would be gone, and seventeen families would be looking forward to a dream destination holiday.