Category: Microfiction

She sat beneath the pale light of the slim moon, the stars watching from their vantage point. She had always climbed on to the roof to watch the quiet unfolding of the night, the birds enjoying one final swoop to their homes, the lights in the houses winking off one by one. When the foxes…

He always had a guitar slung over his shoulder. It made people notice him, whether he was walking down a street crowded with harassed workers and staring tourists, or sitting in a bar with a whisky in front of him that he never tasted. Occasionally someone would ask if they could play it and he…

She saw art everywhere she looked. Because she made a point of looking, turning her eyes skyward and crouching to examine the world beneath her feet. A slick of hasty graffiti, unfinished by a panicked arm in a flash of blue lights. An impossible flower growing where it shouldn’t. A crack in a building that…

He watched the man living the life that he was meant to live. They had met in drama school, and he lost out on roles in school plays to him. He was Rosencratz to his Hamlet. Howard Wagner to his Willy Loman. They crossed paths at auditions and he watched from the wings as his…

He tried to wear his loneliness with ease, walking through life like he always had somewhere to be. Like there was always someone waiting for him to share his stories over dinner and wine. But it was starting to feel like a scratching sweater on his skin, causing micro tears that no one else could…

She spotted it sparkling next to the path, half hidden by the roughly mown grass. She watched as a small dog paused to sniff it, its owner too engrossed in her phone to notice his reason for stopping. He was dragged onwards, skittering claws, disgruntled snout. She bent down under the pretence of tying her…

When the flies appeared she blamed windows thrown open against the heavy warmth of summer. She closed them all, turned off all the lights. But still the flies remained. She thought it might be the bins so she hit them all with bleach, gagging at the heavy chemical perfume as she scrubbed them clean. But…

She got unsolicited comments on her hair every day. In addition to the sideways glances of adults or the open mouthed faces of children, she was told that it aged her. That it looked dirty. That she looked ridiculous. If only they knew. If only they knew how it had felt to watch strands disappear…

When he found the tunnel he knew he had finally found the thing that would make him interesting. He would no longer be the kid with red hair. The kid with the weird, angry dad. The kid with the dead mum. He would be the kid with the secret. He thought about who to share…

She was known as the girl with the too big coat. It didn’t matter what the season was. She wore it over thick sweaters and under heavy scarves in winter, her hands plunged deep into the pockets despite the hole in one of them. She wore it over floaty dresses in summer with flat sandals…