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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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…’