Categories
Category: Flash fiction
Categories
Protected: Corvid 19
Categories
Protected: The Clap
Categories
The scone post
Funny, the way she pouts when she’s doing that. Her mouth a perfect puckered heart. The tip of her tongue poking out of her lips like a cat’s tail disappearing under a blanket. She adjusts the scone again. Setting it dead centre on the black plate. The two currants on top give a gladiatorial stare. Not that she’d see that, Tom thinks, picking grey scum from out under his fingernails. She pushes the scone a millimetre to the right, lays the plastic pack of strawberry jam at a jaunty angle beside the knife, leans back, sticks her tongue full out, and taps her phone.
CLICK
CLICK
One more, she says, adjusting the jam and the knife.
CLICK
CLICK
Tom brushes the nail scum off his lap, takes a sip of his latte, and studies her. He can’t remember her name. Loretta maybe. Or Laura. Not Lorraine. He’d never have swiped right a Lorraine. Not that she’d used her own name of course, but he’d have known, he was sure. Her user name had been cool, floral, aromatic. RoseFlake. He’d liked the play on words. And he’d been lured by the gloss of her chestnut hair thrown back over her shoulder and the not quite straightness of her flashy white teeth.
He rattles his cup in its saucer. She’s picking out words for her post, the chestnut hair falling all over her face and hands. Would she mention him? His blunt edginess? His sanded back corners? The smell of her is winter warm. Cardamom and chocolate. He crosses his legs, puts his elbows down on the table and leans his chin on a balled fist.
WHOOSH
She’s pressed send. Finally. Now she’ll look up at him. Surely? She pushes her hair back over her shoulders and lays the phone face-up on the table. It rests a moment, then blinks, buzzes, and blinks again. She blinks back at it. Her fingers drum beside it. He knows she wants to check. Check the likes. He stretches his arm across the table, touches her narrow wrist with his thumb. Feels the faint drum of her pulse. He eases his hand over hers. She looks up and smiles. Her skin is stretched velvet. He feels her hand relax, her fingers curl towards his.
The phone buzzes and jumps. Her eyes swivel. Her fingers stiffen. He frowns, lets go of her hand, uncrosses his legs, slides his hand over her phone, stands up, and drops the buzzing phone into his pocket. He feels his movements seamless, slick, practiced. Then he’s across the café floor, out onto the street, and hailing a cab. In the back of the cab he leans back on the cold leather seat, takes the phone out of his pocket and searches for the off-button.
PRESS
PRESS
From his other pocket he pulls out a small notepad and pencil. He flicks it open. Adds a short line to the eight already there for that month. Nineteen phones this year, and eight months still to go. He twists around and pushes the phone firmly down the slim gap between the seat and the backrest until he hears it drop to the floor. He examines his fingernails. Each one now neat and clean. He leans back again and turns his face to the window. He smiles at his reflection. This’ll do, he says to the driver. Just drop me anywhere round here.
Categories
F
F is for Forward, she says. Like B is for Back.
No, he says. F means Carriage F. You’re wrong. That seat’s mine.
She checks her ticket. I’m not wrong, she says. I’m staying here.
A woman wearing an animal around her neck intervenes. Its glass eye winks. F is for Fox she says. Like B is for Badger.
The girl reaches out to the Fox. Tickles its chin.
The pelt opens its mouth. F, it says, is for get the fuck out of here. Both of you.
Categories
Drawing arms
The dusting of night snow on the platform flares fickle orange. They look out at the weather and each other through the window. They are strangers. Separated by a table and thirty odd years of other people’s lives. She blushes, puts her hand to her neck. He stares on, draws a smiley face in the steamy glass. She adds hair. He provides the body. She traces two legs. The arms are never drawn.
Categories
The Violation
His hand is on her shoulder. A rough hand with dark crimped hairs and short stubbed fingers. A slim neat scar runs the length of his knuckles. Her coat is green tweedy wool flecked with red. The colour of sphagnum moss after weeks of rain. Wool that looks soft and deep. Wool you’d like to lay your cheek on. George Street is almost empty in that dark, eclipsed time between closing shops and beckoning bars. A group of tourists wearing pink disposable rain ponchos straggle a crooked line outside the Assembly Rooms on the other side of the street.
‘Excuse me,’ he says to her. She starts, her mouth opening. Her black umbrella swings down from above her head, caught by the wind and the sudden intrusion. ‘I need to tell you something,’ he says. She pulls away from him. Leaves his hand spare and loose in the air, his fingers dangling. She wields the umbrella, now a turbulent barrier between them. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he says. Her head twists from one side to the other above the umbrella. She’s searching the street.
She manoeuvres the umbrella back up above her head, pulls her large leather shoulder bag in close to her side and moves away from him. Checks the road for traffic. Left, right, left. She crosses, her steps a sharp staccato. She doesn’t look back. He follows her. He’s a good ten years younger than her. Perhaps thirty. Holed up in an olive green parka, the fur rimmed hood dropped over his face. The hems of his jeans are wide, wet and torn. Dirty cotton threads trail over his trainers. ‘You need to check your bag.’ He is calling after her with twisted vowels and smoke-tarred edges. He may be foreign. Her pace quickens. Her thick red heels startle the gloom of the pavement. Rain spatters her calves, tracking up the pale tan of her tights.
He stays a few paces back. ‘It was when you were putting up your umbrella outside the shoe shop.’ His voice is raised against the wind. She is almost running now, pulling the umbrella hard down over her head, pushing her legs through the thick pleats of her coat. A young couple, arms wrapped around each other, splutter out of a bar a few doors ahead of her. She waves her free hand at them.
‘Wait,’ she calls. ‘Wait!’ They look at her, soft-mouthed with matching kohl-lined eyes. The boy hails the black cab that has slowed in front of the bar. The couple slide into the back seat and slam the door. As the cab moves past the woman, the girl’s face is pressed to the window. The girl smiles and waves. And then they are gone.
The man catches up with the woman. Pulls his hood down. Holds his hands out, his palms open, catching the rain. ‘I just want to tell you what I saw,’ he says. The umbrella tumbles from her hand. She pulls her bag across her front, shields it with both hands. The man and the woman both look at the bag. The open zip. ‘Get away from me,’ she says, ‘or I’ll call the police.’ The man drops his hands to his sides. ‘I was just trying to help you,’ he says. The woman’s eyes narrow. Her lips thin. She may be about to spit. ‘Help me?’ she says. ‘A man like you?’ He shakes his head, opens his mouth and shuts it. He looks at her wet red shoes. The spots of muck on her legs. He pulls his hood back over his head and turns his back on her. ‘You’re not even from here,’ she says. His shoulders slump. He stands still for a moment, working his fingers, then walks back towards the way they came.
SANDERLINGS 