Flash Fiction

Big News! ‘It Never Rains But It Pours’ my creepy little story, has WON the January 2024 Not Quite Write prize! Read it here!

Read more of my tiny stories below (they’re not all creepy, I promise!)

Love Potion Number Ten

Mrs Goode needed a new milk jug. Mr Goode needed a new horsewhip. Phineas Goode needed a new inkpot and quill for his studies. And Abigail Goode needed the blood of a baby goat to make sure her next love spell worked... read more via the link below!

Winning Entry for the September 29th Prompt ~ Writer’s Hour Magazine/London Writer’s Salon

Let Down Your Fettucine

This story begins with the reassurance that they all live happily ever after. When I say ‘they’ I of course mean Rapunzel, her husband and their seven plump children. After all, one hundred years in a remote tower doesn’t bode well for a romance story. But for a while there, it didn’t look like our girl was going to ever leave her turret…

Day 36,251
Dear Diary, I am bored out of my skull. Since I ran out of embroidery projects I’ve made literally hundreds of mosaics from my toenail clippings and stuffed cushions with my belly-button lint. It’s very mindful, very demure, but all so cringe.

Day 36,297
Dear Diary, today a hot knight on a white horse totally came to rescue me! I heard him crashing through the forest and there he was, a totes rizzler — big blonde hair and a smile whiter than my mosaics. He’s coming back tomorrow with a ladder.

Day 36,298
Dear Diary, fully devastated. His ladder was way too short. He shouted to me that no one has ever said his ladder was short before, then told me to let down my hair. So I did but he took one look at it, yelled that he was gluten intolerant, and ran off into the trees. No sign since.

Day 36,524
Dear Diary, something special happened today, which I totally knew it would because it’s been nearly one hundred years since I was trapped in this bloody turret. A man came through the forest, so quiet I nearly didn’t hear him. Average looking (maybe a six) and his old horse was a drab brown. His accent was strange; he said he was from a floating city where one travels by boat. I let down my hair, which he admired and said he would be back. I totally believe him.

Day 36,535
Dear Diary, he came back! He climbed to my window holding a bunch of roses in his teeth. He kissed my hand and told me he loves pasta. I’ll keep this short because I have to pack. He’s no hottie but I’m doing it for the plot.

Day 36,586
Dear Diary, I was wrong. My new husband, Prince Antonio of Venice is a TEN.

I’m entering my gondola era.

Winner of the September 2024 round of Right Left Write ~ Queensland Writers Centre

The International Crab Race, run in conjunction with the Parenting Olympics

I blame the Coco Mojitos and the hermit crab known as Bula Boy for the following: a sulky child, a marital disagreement, and a $200 gambling debt. In my defence, it was our first night at the resort.

It’s universally accepted that on your first night of holidays you let loose. Pop on the sundress and the good thongs, turn a blind eye when your spouse decides to live in tog shorts 24/7 and your child turns feral. Unpack, snap a few braggy pics for your socials and then hit the bar.

Most resorts are cash-free, this equals: carefree. No one is driving and the feral child is at kid’s club, so you cluster with the other carefree parents and indulge in exotic, happy-hour drinks.

A brief interruption in the form of a seafood buffet dinner. Sunbaked offspring are released back to their family groups in the dining pavilion and the whispered observations begin.

*Look how poorly behaved those two girls with the braids are.

I can’t believe they let their kid pile up a plate of oysters and then not eat them.

Those ones haven’t been off screens the whole meal!*

Your child, screen-free and looking adorable in a cowrie-shell necklace, is positively angelic. So well-behaved that he gets two runs at the dessert table, before being shepherded off to collect hermit crabs in a bucket.

Husband heads back to the bar, you return to the bure to freshen up, the resort blurrily magical as you weave along the timber pathways. You don’t reach the bure, because you find the Beach Bar first.

A big blackboard is propped out the front: “International Crab Race: Hermits of the Globe” scrawled across the top and a list of crabs underneath. It starts in ten minutes, just enough time for another quick Coco Mojito!

Your sandy child finds you, he’s beaming, holding a green plastic bucket of scrabbling crabs. He needs to enter his fastest crab in the race, he says. Of course, my darling, you say, anything you want, we’re on holidays.

Meli the MC has the children sit on the floor around a chalk ring he’s drawn. He stands at the board and takes bids from parents to “buy” a racing crab for their children. The bidding is immediate and fierce. The insufferable braided girls are shrilly bidding for several crabs while their mother watches on indulgently.

Your golden-by-comparison child smiles up at you. Husband is still at the other bar. Your mouth is sticky with coconut liqueur as you shout out Fijian dollars for the last crab, uncertain of the conversion rate. It’s cash-free anyway, not real money!

Meli is shaking his head– Bula Boy is not yours yet. More dollars! Smug success! But your crab crawls feebly across the chalk, last, just as your husband arrives. He’s had enough Vonu Lagers that his math skills are next level, he tells you that Bula Boy cost 200AUD as your child throws his shell necklace into the ocean.

Longlisted in the Australian Writer’s Centre Furious Fiction Showcase July 2024, and published online by RUJoking?

Reader Discretion Advised: Course Language and a Strong Sex Scene

The two flash fiction judges sat back in their seats, stunned. In a twenty-four-hour reading frenzy, they had devoured sketches of sadness, tales of triumph, and yarns of youths misspent.

Ted rubbed his eyes. Too much caffeine and not enough ocular yoga during the process had turned him into a jittery, nearsighted lump with a cricked neck.

Next to him, Miranda was defogging her designer spectacles and fanning herself.

‘I’ve found my wild card Ted, this one called “Girth” is smutty in all the right ways.’

‘Hmmm. I did see that on the list but assumed it was about horses or saddles or somesuch.’

‘It is.’

Ted cleared his throat and busied himself tidying the table. Spreadsheets jostled for space with messily notated comment cards, many adorned with coffee or wine stains.

Miranda discreetly moved “Girth” into a special folder on her laptop to read again later.

‘I have my wild card,’ Ted filled the silence. ‘Not a jot of punctuation, no dialogue, just a five-hundred-word stream of consciousness called “A Date With Desertification A Treatise On Climate Change”.’

‘More like a date with dullness - that sounds like my literal worst nightmare. Glad that was on your list, not mine.’

They rose, groaningly, from their chairs. Miranda attempted a few stretches while Ted looked for his shoes. He preferred reading barefoot, could always think better when making fists with his toes in the carpet.

A piece of blank white paper sat under his sneaker. Retrieving it, Ted saw it was another story, which he waved at Miranda.

‘Did you print this entry out? I thought we agreed to physically print only the longlist tomorrow?’

‘We did. And I didn’t. What is it?’

Miranda pulled her chair around next to Ted’s, and they subsided into their still warm seats. Mindful of the fact that both of their natural deodorants had ceased to be effective twelve hours ago, they kept a small distance whilst reading the mysterious new entry.

It was a revelation. A gently quirky tale with a lyrical turn of phrase, which met all the prompts in a clever yet delicate way. Evocative and descriptive without turning purple, it had the appropriate allocation of four-letter words and ended with a shiveringly intense sexual encounter.

‘Yes!’ Miranda jabbed the page with her finger. ‘Now that was worth the wait!’

Ted was rubbing his eyes again, this time in frustration.

‘We have a huge problem, in that we don’t have a clue how this got here, or who wrote it.’

‘F*ck.’ 

‘Yep.’

And so it came to pass that the true winning entry could never have its name pronounced on the podcast, make its way to the website, or be exclaimed about on X. The baffled judges dove headfirst into an obsessive quest to find more stories by the anonymous author, turning the quarterly competition monthly, then weekly, then daily, until finally they were existing on just caffeine and words.

Longlisted in the April 2024 round of The Not Quite Write Prize

The Long Wait

The second best part of Bevan Horton’s death was the freshly vacated position of President of The Merry Valley Yowie Committee. I anticipated hot competition for the role, especially given the suddenness of the situation; usually candidates would have months to prepare for their campaign.

Glancing at the clock above my office desk, I calculated that because I’d finalised my reports in record speed I’d now have nearly three hours to perfect my speech. Opening a previously saved file on my desktop I pulled up the list of other prospective presidents, their experience and qualifications in dot points next to their names. Mary I had notated as a ‘slim chance’ – too new, too green. Trevor was labelled as an ‘old-timer’ – stuck in his ways, not tech savvy. Sanjay, oh dear poor Sanjay – definitely an obsessive, I had an inkling that too much time making yowie traps in the bush could make anyone loopy. All signs pointed my way, a respected local professional, excellent public speaker and one of the few who could claim a true sighting.

 Later that evening, I prepared to wrap up my rousing speech by first taking a moment to glance at each member of the assembled group sat before me under the harsh lights of the draughty town hall. It’s no riddle why I stand here before you tonight, ready willing and able to take the MVYC into its next chapter, I stated in my most authoritative tone. For too long the yowie community has not achieved the respect and recognition it deserves and I’m the only one who can change that, beginning tonight! I pounded the lectern with my fist for emphasis and the hall erupted into cheers and applause, even a raucous catcall from Sanjay.

Straight afterwards Clara Horton approached me, her right hand outstretched to shake mine, instead I clasped it warmly between both of my hands and gazed deep into her clear grey eyes. Her usually pale complexion instantly flushed as I watched, a deep rose blush that swept across her cheeks endearingly. Congratulations, she said, it’s what Bevan would have wanted. Thank you for accepting me so readily as your new president Clara, I said cosily. You really must allow me to take you to dinner sometime soon, to pick your brains so to speak - I’m sure you were the beauty *and* the brains behind the scenes of Bevan’s long reign. She blushed again, and after a long moment nodded her assent. I silently congratulated myself. Twenty long years of waiting and finally she was within my reach. The first and absolute best part.

Originally published in the Australian Writer’s Centre Furious Fiction Showcase April 2023

The Last One

Dawn held no promise of beauty in these streets. The early light of the day only served to illuminate the truth of Whitechapel, where filth and sadness clung to each cobble and brick like a foul miasma. It pleased me to pull the front door closed upon it, to shut out the chill of early November, and to muffle the sound of the city beginning to stir.

Savouring for a moment the welcoming stillness of my hallway, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. It had certainly been a long and intense evening, and at the very thought my hands trembled as if I were a jumpy, callow youth in the first flush of love. However, a deep fatigue threatened to engulf my bones, perhaps my very spirit, yet there was still work to be done and time was of the essence.

 The kitchen had been prepared in advance; a sink of fresh, boiled water, a new cake of soap, and an empty sack waiting on the floor. Carefully shrugging off my overcoat and laying it over a chair, I began to remove my gloves. There was a delightful crackling resistance as I peeled off each one in turn, the fine leather catching on the not quite dried blood liberally covering both hands. As a reward to myself I pressed the gloves to my face and savoured the scent, an intoxicating aroma of tanned hide, cheap perfume, and the very essence of Mary.

Time to bid them farewell. They had served me ably, however the risk in keeping them was too great. Dropping them into the sack, they were followed by my boots, breeches and felt hat. My formerly pristine dress shirt and waistcoat I briefly displayed upon my table in order to admire them now, the bloodstains like a lavish bouquet of crimson and russet blooms.

From the pockets of my coat I retrieved two knives, which I placed into the suds. A small lock of blonde hair, snipped from her fringe, neatly folded in a clean handkerchief, was transferred into the pocket of my new greatcoat. And now, time to wash myself clean, a ritual I found I much enjoyed, watching the water turn pink whilst reflecting upon my endeavours.

By the time the clock struck nine I was stepping from my threshold once more, this time a dapper gent briskly joining the workaday throngs, carrying a suitcase and a sack. It was but a short stroll to the docks, and but the work of a moment to release my heavy burden into the Thames, timeless keeper of secrets.

As I strode up the creaking gangplank of the ship I could hear the noon bells clanging, and closer still, many voices shouting in cacophony:

‘Another one! The Ripper has struck again! They say it’s the worst yet! They’ll get him this time!’

I smiled like the sun rising over an idyllic tropical paradise. Do your best, Peelers. Let’s see if you can find me in Australia.

Originally published in the Australian Writer’s Centre Furious Fiction Showcase May 2023

Perfect Pairing

My earring was caught up in the blindfold. I was paused on the top step attempting to untangle it when a body bumped into me from behind. From the distinctive snort-giggles I could easily identify my friend Jules sight unseen.

‘Move it along, Becks! A room full of delectable men awaits!’ She pushed me through the doorway, feeling foolish as my hands groped the empty air in front of me.

‘They’re probably all horrid’, I hissed back, ‘I agreed to a blind date, but this is beyond ridiculous.’

She took my arm reassuringly. ‘Well, the food will be delectable, I promise.’

A silhouette loomed in front of us.

‘Welcome, let me escort you to our Sensual Singles Salon, please each put a hand on my shoulder.’

The said shoulder was solid and well-muscled. Jules whispered loudly: ‘Is this one on the menu?’

There was no response forthcoming, but his silent bulk was reassuring as he walked us through what felt like a labyrinth of tables, chairs, and other diners. Without sight my other senses were on overdrive, I could hear silverware scraping, crystal clinking, and smell the heady aromas of food.

Shoulders was depositing me brusquely into a chair. I reached out for Jules but she’d been escorted off to another table, not without incident though as I heard a glass smash and an accompanying snort-giggle. Okay, so here I was. Finally freeing my earring from the blindfold I ridiculously considered touching up my lipstick. Instead, I used my hands to explore.

A linen tablecloth, a rough placemat, a wine glass and – another hand! I pulled my own back as if I’d been burned, and as I laughed at my reaction I heard an echoing sound from across the table.

‘Red or white?’ Shoulders had returned.

‘Red’. My dinner date, owner of the other hand, and I spoke at the same time.

The soft glug of the liquid hitting our glasses was very welcome, and as if we’d planned it, our waving glasses managed to clank together midair - ‘Cheers!’

An amplified voice crackled into life.

‘Welcome, Sensual Singles, to the newest sensation in Sydney, where serious sustenance leads to spectacular spouses! Where will it lead you? An hour of happiness? An evening of euphoria? A night of naughtiness?’

I was sinking into my chair, trying to escape the pretentiousness. This was turning into my worst nightmare. My idea of a good dinner out was just my friendly local Thai place.

I was feeling around for my glass again when my companion’s hand grabbed mine.

‘I’m cringing too much to eat. Want to do a runner with me?’ His voice sounded delectable. I peeked under my blindfold. Yes, he was.

‘Sorry, Jules’, I whispered into the air as I abandoned my blindfold (along with one of my earrings) and snuck out with my date; there was a Tom Yum Goong with my name on it, and perhaps if I was lucky, more than an hour of happiness.

Winner of the January 2024 Flash Fiction in ‘Hearts Talk’ Magazine Romance Writers of Australia

Burrow

I tell them I am a wombat but they’re not listening, even when I explain that I am snuffly and fat and brown, with a black nose that shines like my school shoes do on the first day of term. I wish they would look at me and call me by my wombat name, but they are too busy wearing their serious faces while they make serious phone calls.

They don’t notice when I watch my Bumper cartoons on the floor, wrapped in the cave I have made out of blankets I have stolen from your bed. I am warm and cosy inside and I take lots of deep wombatty snuffles, I can smell early mornings and baking and your hair and I am calm.

Today there are more people in the house, many more voices, but I stay deep within my blanket cave. My dad’s voice drifts in to me, his normal voice but deeper, croaky like he has a cold without sneezing.

‘There’s no prizes for guessing where she’s gone again, she’s been impossible.’

‘That’s just it, she won’t talk to us.’

‘You’re welcome to try.’

My auntie’s voice this time. Her hand with her glittering charm bracelet appearing in front of me, just far enough from my cave that I can’t reach it, she knows I like to count them, at Christmas she had eleven plus a new one. I stick my wombat paws out in front of me to count up to eleven plus one and before I know it my auntie has grabbed them and is pulling me out of the warmth. I scrunch up my face and tense my tummy and kick my feet but she keeps tugging until I am in her arms, then I snuffle and she smells like your hair so I am calm.

‘Did I steal you out of your burrow, Little Wombat?’

Her cool hand smooths my hair from my damp forehead. The tinkle of the charms. A finger touches my nose.

‘I like your little nose, but I’m just wondering, are you a normal wombat or a hairy nosed wombat?’

‘Hairy! Eww!’ I wriggle away from her and dive headfirst back into my cave. Or burrow, I do like the sound of that.

I hear the tinkle again later that day and find special wombat snacks have been delivered. The sun goes to bed and nobody comes to get me, but I wake the next day back in my own room, one of your blankets draped over me.

They come to get me then. I am dressed in the good clothes that you know I hate. When they make me put on the tight shoes with the little straps I howl like the wombat I truly am, crying hot whiskery tears.

We are in the churchyard. They are all still wearing their serious faces, especially Daddy and Grandma. When they find me scratching at the dirt I tell them I am burrowing my way to you.

Ever The Same

All my possessions for one moment of time. I have been standing in the centre of my bedchamber since dawn and the day now grows dark. When I weary of my present surrounds I simply close my eyes, so I am once again returned to the great hall, back in his arms, both of us youthful and resplendent. I was not unused to flattery then, the courtiers a constant fluttering presence singing my praises however each quiet endearment from his lips was sweeter than any other. I was his flame-haired beauty, his childhood love, his Gloriana.  

Last sennight the physicians clustered around me like crows, a mournful gathering indeed, to enforce the removal of my ring, now caught deeply within my flesh. I resisted of course, unthinkable to have it taken from me, but Doctor Parry explained that ill humours was causing my hand to become tumidus, inflatus - swollen, inflated, a danger to my life! I acquiesced, they cut, I fainted.

All my possessions for one moment of time. My gown has become heavy, fatigue causing me to sway but the weight of my wide skirts tether me to the flagstones, a strange support.  I long to lay down, to take a draught of spiced wine to dispel the foul taste in my mouth, to rest, but I fear if I do then I shall not rise anon. My eyes close and I am with him again on that lost night. Within the private alcove he had presented me with a jewel like no other, the candlelight flashing off its many brilliant facets. I had refused, for the reasons against our union were multitude, however my heart only knew one truth, in that one moment.

Helena comes to me, the only of my ladies I can tolerate, when all the others I have loved have been taken away by death too soon, too soon. She begs me to take rest, that Cecil and Whitgift and the others also beg of me the same. Their presumption enrages me, but I tell her she must promise to stay close to me until the end.

When I am too weakened to protest any longer, they lift me onto my bedstead. My hairpiece comes untethered and falls to the floor, I see them avert their eyes from my pitiful balding scalp. The younger ladies are flinching at my unwashed state, holding perfumed kerchiefs to their faces to disguise my rankness. Helena’s soft hand strokes my brow, she is murmuring soothingly as if to a small babe, I am slipping away now. Soon the solemn dirges will be chanted and the heaviest of the bells will toll across the land, but I will not be here, I shall be back in my Sweet Robin’s arms. I whisper my final wish to Helena, but I know not if she has understood.

“All my possessions for one moment of time.”