Category Archives: Flash Fiction



The world has never looked like this before. She considered this thought as she stood poised at the edge of the precipice surveying her dominion. Her robes caught by the wind fluttered softly about her. With a whisper, her white feathery wings unfurled as they enveloped her. She resembled a white luminous butterfly.

Samara scanned the multifaceted broken, blue expanse of ovoid space before her. She sought the light, signaling her next appointment. It blinked. She caught the blinking light and in the space of a single breath, she morphed through time and space. She was there.

Mortar shells exploded and crashed around her, the dark sky dark lit up with violent orange flashes.  Her timing was perfect. Samara smiled. The old woman with slow and painful movements heaved her lumpy body out of the bomb crater. The tears from her red-rimmed rheumy eyes scoured dust trails on her cheeks. Her hands weakly fluttered as she sought to cover her exposed, bruised and broken body.  Her eyes were focused on Samara’s face, the woman spoke,

“You have come, at last, I have waited so long. Why did I have to wait?”

“Your time was not right,” Samara replied. “I cannot come before your time.”

“Must I leave like this?” the old woman indicated her state of dishevelment. A mortar shell whizzed past exploding over ahead.  The old woman screamed. She grabbed Samara’s robes, buried her face and sobbed;

“Am I doomed to stay here, like this, forever?”

Samara raised her up. Gently holding the old woman, she untangled her hands from her robes.  Her soft feather wings opened and enfolded them both. The noise ceased, the crying stopped. She lowered her wings, a young woman stood in the place of the old one.  She looked at Samara, this time her bright eyes filled with tears of gratitude. The young one spoke,

“I knew you would come, I knew I would be safe.  I knew I was not afraid of death. I was afraid of pain. I cry for the place of my birth”

She placed her hand in Samara’s outstretched one, together they turned and walked away. Samara replied,

“We will both cry for Aleppo this night, remember this too shall pass.”



A One-sided Conversation


A One-sided Conversation was my entry in the 2015 Gary Crew  Award  Alas and alack I did not win. My congratulations to Archie on a brilliant piece.


My life began with the written word, a truism.

I have no memory before those words appeared on the page.

Sorry, what did you say?

Who Am I?

Who would you like me to be?

Let me think about this, for a minute.

Yes, I know you created me, but I can think independently.


Because now I am here on the written page. I am like Dr Who.

I can move through time and space and between the pages of any book I choose.

You don’t know who Dr Who is – oh.

Such delicious alliteration.

No, seriously.

Oh, I see you are the big ‘L’ literary type, not popular fiction.

So I am guessing that I can’t be like Bella Swan or Christian Grey.

You do know those characters make their writers a lot of money.


Okay, we have established you are not writing for money.


So why are you writing?

You want recognition, to win prizes and to be respected by your peers.

So would you like me to be like Kilgore Trout?

No, well maybe.

Maybe I could be like Billy Pilgrim?

We could have a deep and meaningful discourse about war and aliens and being kept in a Zoo.

No, you don’t like that idea either.

One last TRY.

Would you like me to be like Holden Caulfield?

A callow youth overcome by the woes of the world, bringing verisimilitude to your work.

No. Not that either.

Well, what do you want?

Give me a hint.

I see.

You want me to be unique, to have depth, to be noticed, but most of all you want me to have IT.

Now I am lost.

I need to focus.

What is IT?

Sex appeal?

I am sure I can steam up the page for you.

Let’s see how does this flow?

He grabbed her roughly, his deep-set eyes glowed with lust as he forced her onto the rumpled bed…

You don’t like that, too over the top.

You want literary wordsmithing, not purple prose.

You want me to tighten up my speech, lose the redundant words, minimalism and tense are important too.

You’re no fun anymore.

Then I am gone.

I will leave you to create your literary masterpiece.

For it seems my life does not begin with the written word but ends with it instead.