Category: Microfiction

Whenever she walked into a cathedral she felt oddly heavy. When she was younger she thought it was the weight of guilt, pressing her down and telling her she didn’t belong. But now she recognised it as the weight of history, of the songs sung beneath stone towers, the words of promise spoken at altars,…

He remembered the sofa his mother had bought in the eighties. He remembered the cream covers with stripes in shades of blush pink, bright teal and dove grey. He remembered Val from down the road cooing over it. He remembered how at eighteen he had stumbled into it, red wine in hand. The cream had…

“Look mama – there are people in the trees!” Her gaze followed her son’s chubby finger. Through the trees she could see the path of the local park, slightly higher than they were, that indeed made it look like the people and their dogs were walking on the branches. She prepared herself to talk to…

She cried every day. She couldn’t help it. She was made that way. She stood by the river and inhaled deeply as the water flowed past her. She watched as dogs passed her by, sometimes stealing a glance up at her but largely ignoring her. She watched as the rowers moved through her shadow, too…

She tried not to stare. But it was so hard not to. The woman was sat at a table on her own, smaller than she looked on TV, and decidedly more human than she looked on social media. She had what looked like a matcha latte in front of her and her small dog sat…

She was obsessed with cherries, despite her first experience of them. Stealing a chocolate from her mother’s Valentine’s selection, she had gagged as an explosion of cherry liqueur had burned its way down her throat, her mother crying with laughter in the doorway at a lesson learned. But now they were her simplest joy. The…

It knew it was ugly. It was too big for every modern house, too low for every modern body. It had tassels where no one wanted tassels to be, and an unpleasantly fruity smell that oozed from its cushions whenever anyone sat on it. Its favourite part of the day was when people smirked as…

He couldn’t tell them what had made him become a mime artist. Obviously. But he could show them. He began by showing his crippling shyness, cringing away from their watchful eyes with his hands over his face. Then he mimed tears and shaking shoulders, an imitation of the complicated sadness of his childhood. Next, he…

He had been upcycling for twenty years, but this was his first piece of treasure. Left on the side of the road by a weary man bent with grief, a hastily scrawled sign saying “free to a good home”, was a Victorian demilune cabinet, the marquetry inlay flat and unloved, wood dulled by neglect. He…

No one could tell just by looking at her. Not even when her nose twitched as if a perfume had crossed her face. Not even when she won the parents’ one hundred metre race at school sports day, even outstripping the man who was known for his running prowess and his talk of his latest…