flash fiction, flashfiction, short story, shortstory, Uncategorized

‘The Sac That Was Our Living Room Ceiling’

(my 4th winner at Ad Hoc Fiction )

bowl

The flat upstairs.  It’s their escaped water, low slung in the sac that was our living room ceiling.   Icy cold drops sweat along the pregnant plaster, grow plump, fall down – we had to move the couch.   The floorboards are dotted with filling bowls.  Some day (or night) soon, the whole lot’s going to finally burst.

My family nag me to call the landlord but I hate confrontation.  I say I’ll call him tomorrow, after the weekend, after Christmas.  I know they’re losing respect for me over this.  I hate that I’m supposed to be the one to deal with problems.  This isn’t our country.  I don’t like to make waves.   Meanwhile, the sagging over our heads undulates and sways with its own incomprehensible tides..   Icy cold drops sweat along the pregnant plaster, grow plump, fall down – we had to move the couch.   The floorboards are dotted with filling bowls.  Some day (or night) soon, the whole lot’s going to finally burst.

My family nag me to call the landlord but I hate confrontation.  I say I’ll call him tomorrow, after the weekend, after Christmas.  I know they’re losing respect for me over this.  I hate that I’m supposed to be the one to deal with problems.  This isn’t our country.  I don’t like to make waves.   Meanwhile, the sagging over our heads undulates and sways with its own incomprehensible tides.

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flash fiction, flashfiction, microfiction, short story, shortstories, shortstory, Uncategorized

New flash ‘Ally McBealzebub’

now up at Twisted Sister Lit Mag.   Star-studded pop culture meltdown comedy Horror… Hope you enjoy!

ab1  ab3

ab4  ab2

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flash fiction, microfiction, short story

‘Every Rut and Bump’

Cramps tape for 'Every Rut and Bump'

 

We found every rut and bump in the road, flying off our seats each time we hit one. Frankie howled with toothache behind us, rolling around the backseat, kicking us in our backs.

“We’ll get you some medicine, soon as we can, honey,” drawled Joan around a cigarette. A cracked window sucked the smoke around her head like bandages. In the silver black moonlight, she looked like a Forties film star, a real candidate for wax.

Through sleeping villages, country roads; Frankie didn’t let up for a second. I was fumbling through Joan’s tapes – a choice of the Cramps, the Cramps or the Cramps – when her top half suddenly swivelled, 1-80 degrees.

“We already passed that Fiat dealer earlier,” she said. I braked, Joan thumping the dashboard with her palms, and threw us squealing into reverse until we were idling in front of the blacked-out forecourt. She looked at me for a second, cigarette tip making little circles, then jerked the door open, which is when Frankie slipped out after her and into the night.

We looked for him for hours, calling his name until we were hoarse. We tried every street of the village, twice, stumbled over fields as the sun rose coldly around us. The sea air carried the sound of him to us but we could never work out from where, and they grew increasingly faint.

Back in the car, Joan looked scooped out, as close to crying as I’d ever seen her.

Damn hound.

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