There is something quite comforting about knowing that this is the end of human existence. It doesn’t matter that we all die; that everything is pointless and that I’ve not achieved anything. I must be special if I’m one of the last people to walk the earth, before our self-inflicted extinction. It’s the same perverse
Tag: Micro Fiction
Surrounded by bamboo trees, Molly lounges in her stained oak rocking chair, observing her spotted male cat and wondering which Goddess showered the boy with the gift of true patience. But not the kind exhibited by humans, who simply fall into a momentary lapse of reason and stare with vacant eyes at their immediate surroundings.
Every Saturday, Luna walked to an adoption center. She put on a coat and two scarves. More often than not, she carried a piece of fruit. One Saturday, it was a peach. She rolled it between her fingers, by turns gentle, then violent. Luna needed a family. She wanted a child that wasn’t too young
Too possessive to be a friend. Demanding to the point of being an acquired taste. He calls my name and expects me to come running and even if I close my eyes and try to ignore him, I hear him and feel him. God, I hate that. He never stays in the morning. That side
Snow piles on Suki’s hakama and makes her grow heavier. Every now and then, crystal flakes will catch in her hair and pepper it white. The flakes are cold powder around her, powder and icy sludge. Suki thinks she might be falling apart. She’s not exactly sure. Sometimes, she feels put together and driven, like
About two thirds of the way through ‘The Fabric of Tombstones’ there’s a line – short and sweet though it is – that perhaps sums up what we should expect from B.F Jones’ debut flash fiction collection. ‘All these souls, here momentarily, before going there permanently, trying to get on with their lives and make
The world was ruined, but I was the only one who could see; the sky bright red, buildings burning. Streets and buildings on fire. But the world seemed normal to everybody else. Overgrown carousels with faded creatures and bumper cars mocked with the inability to move, carrying instead a ride into fear. The wind rattled
It had been nine weeks, three days and five hours since James had died. From the moment Adam had been told of James’ accident all he had felt was emptiness. The so-called ‘stages of grief’ had proven to be a disappointing no-show. He looked around the living room; setting of countless memories: raucous parties, blistering
She wants out. Tells him so. He loves her too much. She belongs to him. If she leaves, he’ll track her down. Kill her. Tells her more than once. She believes him. * * * Two years of abuse. A slow ruthless awakening leaves her nights staring at the ceiling listening to his ragged breath
She’s flicking through one of those animal encyclopaedias, the kind you get heavily discounted in the run up to Christmas, and then even cheaper before New Year, the kind nobody is ever going to pay full price for. ‘Do you think I should keep this one, Mum?’ she asks. ‘I mean, it was a present.