Flash Fiction
A selection of original short stories and flash fiction written as homework for Coventry Writers’ Group monthly get together.
Enjoy!
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Forgive Me Father
This is a short story, written for Coventry Writers’ Group. The theme was “Seven Deadly Sins”. This was my interpretation. Enjoy!
Trigger warning – contains references to abuse that some readers may find upsetting.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
The confessional is shadowed, but the voice belongs to a young man. Father O’Connell runs through the preamble on autopilot, then settles back to listen to the man’s transgressions.
“I have committed all of the deadly sins,” says the visitor.
“Tell me,” the priest instructs. This’ll be more interesting than the usual old ladies there only because tradition dictates they receive penance before taking communion.
“I confess to pride,” starts the man. “In my appearance and in my accomplishments.”
O’Connell grunts encouragingly.
“And yet I remain envious of others. I have no need for increased wealth, but my greed drives me to gather more. But … sometimes a darkness descends on me, and I can’t bring myself to move. I am consumed by sloth.”
“Do you know what drives these passions?” asks O’Connell, his curiosity triggering a rare interruption. Something about the voice is familiar.
“My upbringing,” says the man firmly. “I was abandoned as a child, then raised in a loveless environment. There was never enough to go around, and the result when I finally had more than necessary was gluttony.”
O’Connell is feeling uneasy. The voice behind the grill has a manic edge. The bishop recently instructed priests to gently persuade those in turmoil to seek outside assistance beyond the spiritual. In O’Connell’s opinion The Church has muddled along just fine for 2,000 years without such nonsense. But, he concedes other professionals might have something to offer; what the man calls sloth, sounds more like depression. Before he can open his mouth, the man continues.
“And then there is lust. The unspeakable, unnatural acts that I experienced as a child awakened dark desires. Devilish desires.”
O’Connell starts to sweat. It’s not possible, he tells himself. After the … incidents … at the home, his then-bishop had moved him on. To this small, far-flung parish. How many priests in the UK share his name?
“Well, Jesus forgives all of our weaknesses,” starts O’Connell. He wants this over, desperate to prescribe a few Hail Marys, then leave by the back exit.
The man giggles. “I’m afraid I’m here under false pretences, Father. I don’t want your help seeking forgiveness.”
“Then what do you want?” O’Connell croaks.
“To complete the set.”
O’Connell casts his mind back. He counts six sins. Panic mounting, he struggles to recall the missing vice.
It is his final thought before the bullet rips through the thin grill separating him from his victim.
Wrath.
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POETS Day
This is a short story, written for Coventry Writers’ Group. The theme was “5:30pm”. This was my interpretation. Enjoy!
The office block was normally populated until at least six. But this is London, and today is POETS day – that’s Piss Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday for the uninitiated. The woman in the coffee shop ticked off names as employees left the building.
Finally, everyone was gone. Except for one person. Pulling her cap down low, and, avoiding the CCTV above the café exit, she crossed the street.
Entering the building was easy. The T-shirt with the cleaning company’s logo was as good as any swipe card. The security guard barely looked up from his phone as he pressed the door release. Minimum wage – you get what you pay for. Same goes for service staff – a depressingly small bribe was all it had taken to convince the regular cleaner to stay home.
His office was on the fourth floor. He’d found her on Tinder. It seemed that screwing a cleaner on his desk was a fantasy his wife was reluctant to fulfil.
Pausing briefly to put on some rubber gloves, she knocked on the door marked Vice President – R&D. He turned in his chair, his eyes full of lust.
The wall clock hit 5:27. Any second now …
The fire alarm almost deafened her.
“Shit,” he said. “We can’t ignore it. I’ll go first. You give it a minute.” He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s a false alarm.”
She nodded as he left, hastily buttoning his shirt. So easy …
He hadn’t even locked his computer, which saved her time. Within ninety seconds, everything she needed was on a memory stick.
He’d followed his proscribed evacuation route; down the stairs and out the front. She took the rear fire exit. In the stinking alleyway, she removed the T-shirt, cap and wig and slipped them in her bag and placed the envelope of cash where the security guard would find it.
Opening her phone, she deleted the carefully-crafted Tinder profile.
The last thing she saw before removing the phone’s battery and SIM card was the clock on the screen flick over to 5:30pm.
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When Two Tribes Go To War
This was my first short story written for our monthly homework. The theme was Christmas.
A war reporter, that’s how the observer sees himself, gazing upon the seething hordes beneath him. A scenario played out a million times in a million different ways for a million years. Details change, sides change and weapons change. But the goals remain the same; to show one’s superiority, to claim the biggest prize and to cement one’s legacy.
The soldiers can be classified into different groups, each with its own identity and method of combat.
First the Alphas. Big, loud, and brash, they strut the battlefield oozing confidence. Darwin would classify them as the ‘fittest’ of the population. But evolution is far more nuanced. Biggest doesn’t always equal best, and many are too showy for their own good.
Enter the Dancer. Nimble and fleet-footed, he makes up for his lack of mass with guile. Battlefield manoeuvrability is his forte. Sweeping beneath the very nose of an Alpha, he steals the target with unmatchable grace and poise.
Next the Talker. Specialising in battle-field communications, he wins hearts and minds. A few well-chosen words and the physical superiority of the Alphas is dismissed as oafishness; the grace of the Dancer re-interpreted as embarrassing flashiness.
Finally, the Wingman. He’s the sturdy sergeant. Fighting along-side, supporting and defending his leader, he may get lucky, receiving crumbs from his master’s table, But more often he serves until victory is assured, before slinking away to drown his sorrows alone.
Yes, the observer decided as he watched the drama unfold. It’s all here, playing out as it always does, his thesis proven yet again.
But a good reporter seeks both sides of the story. With that in mind he selects the next record and settles back to see if the girls behave differently on the dance floor.
‘Last Christmas, I gave you my heart…’