MAN MADE FLASH FICTION

Down to the river - Dystopian micro fiction by Russell Cavanagh "Mum, I want to play with Sarah and Jack."      "Help me with this first, then you'll have all afternoon with Jack and Sarah."      "Oh, mum!"      "Come on, you know we need clean clothes and clean bedsheets."      "But why do I have to come do this?"      "I need your help. I don't like doing it either. Once upon a time we had machines that washed our clothes, dried them too, but not now."      "So people didn't always go down to the river, didn't always hang them to dry between street poles?"      "Those poles used to have lights on top of them, so folks could see when it was dark outside."      "Now we use candles."      "Yes, indoors we use candles."        "And did people not always live in vehicles? You told me that once ..."      "Vehicles used to m...

   Part of the problem - Dystopian micro fiction by Russ Cavanagh  The television brought bad news by the day, by the hour even. There was nowhere to hide it seemed, no rest from the wicked.      "How much is left?" Henry asked.      "We'll make it," replied his wife.      Hannah was good at stretching out their rations across each cycle. But empty shelves and high prices weren't going away any time soon in what shops remained open.      "I could go see Mister Ginsberg?" Henry suggested, already guessing his wife's response.      "No," she said, fingering her wedding ring, "Ginsberg's part of the problem."      After a meagre lunch - tinned sardines on toasted bread followed by jam scones and what passed these days for coffee - Henry washed up as Hannah straightened out the front room before their usual afternoon of viewing.      "Peace negotiations resume tomorrow in ...

Slice-of-Life 100-word story by Russ Cavanagh So I dissed the local authority's repairs department for incompetent (even negligent) work done at the house I rent from them; not just for substandard workmanship but also for squandering public money. Matters worsened when they botched attempts to remedy their misrepairs, each one creating further mess I'd then have to clean up.      In a formal complaint I called them 'clowns'. They rejected that complaint on grounds of 'abusive language'. Their email, issued by their legal department, contained an assessment rightly saying I was 'alleging discrimination'. They also labelled me 'high risk'.      I'll live with the holes in my walls.   Copyright © Russell Cavanagh  

Cut - spy thriller flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh 'How did you find me?'     'You know it's my job. It's what I do.'     'You just working for her or for the others too?'     'She wants it back.'     'Sure, just like that, eh?'     'Just tell me where it is.'     'I don't have it. It's not here.'     'Really? That's most unfortunate.'     'Yeah, well ...'     'Where is it?'     'Probably somewhere safe by now.'     'Is that even possible?'     'Well, relatively safe. In a manner of speaking.'     'You know they'll put the heat on her.'     'She's a big girl. She'll handle it, just like she did me.'     'Not this time. Far higher players have taken an interest.'     'Who, the boy scouts?'     'I wouldn't joke about it.'     'So who?'     'Think Prague - nine years ago.'     'Oh, I see. And ...

Hard Bastard Terry Ewart - a real life story by Russ Cavanagh I only ever met Terry Ewart once. He had a reputation as a 'hard bastard' and even the toughest boys feared a summons to his office for what would likely be six-of-the-best from his thick leather tawse.      Despite being a heavy smoker, Ewart wore a dark suit and tie each day to work. His gun-metal moustache and peppered hair complemented piercing brown eyes. Months away from retirement, he was deputy headmaster at the secondary school I attended in the nineteen-seventies.      My story with Ewart started one morning after my registry teacher Fran McIntosh, a late middle-aged woman with the vocal articulation of Geraldine McEwan's film role as Miss Jean Brodie, asked me (or, rather, told me) to take a note over to a distant classroom in some peripheral wing of the school building.      I refused Ms. McIntosh politely, being concerned that my first class of the day was in ...

Glasgow Pride 2069 - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh Firm friends Big Rod and Roger the Pole met up at the 2069 Pride event in Glasgow. It was a sparse affair, turnout being lower than at any time in living memory.      'Ooh, Big Rod ... Lovely to see you again darling ... Mwah!' said Roger, kissing Rod's wrinkled face.      'Hello Roger, darling. You're looking handsome as ever,' Rod lied, noting the other now used an albeit stylish walking stick.      'How long is it now, Rod?'      'I beg your pardon?'      'How long have we been coming here to Glasgow Pride?' replied Roger, adding, 'Silly boy!'      'This will be my fortieth year at the parade. You?'      'Yes, about the same for me, dear.'      'I see the Church of Scotland float is leading this year,' said Rod, proudly showing Roger he still had his beloved 2029 Pride scarf. ...

Reavers - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh They'd found me and I didn't like the implications of that. Voices outside my window talking low but definitely audible. Maybe waiting for back-up.      Leaving the back way the alley was clear. No one knew about this exit route except perhaps some of the local elders. Picking up my bug-out bag, its contents including a copy of St. John's Gospel, I crept along the vennel with my head low.      Looking back I spotted the crowd that was building down my street, waiting by my front door. Breathing now regulated, I felt my chest tighten nonetheless. That was then I realized I'd forgotten my medication. Too bad, it wouldn't matter.      At that time the track down towards the water was deserted. No reavers were about. This was due to normal people not yet braving the streets where they might be targeted. Reavers usually surfaced only once the whitened sun had crossed into the afternoon. ...

  Fish today? - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh She answered to Margaret. But who knows these things nowadays? Translucent skin pulled tight across her tiny frame, she weighed no more than a young child. Despite deep-set eyes and a straggle of grey hair, Margaret was impossible to age accurately.      'Fish today?' she asked as she ran her fingernail along a scratch on the counter. As with every morning, the hope in her voice was tempered by experience.      'No, Margaret, I'm sorry.'      'Are the rivers still too dirty?'      'Yes, the rivers,' I said, 'and pretty much the seas as well.'      Her face fell. She held out the same handful of coins as she always did. 'What else you got? I can pay you with this.'      'No, Margaret. You know coins don't buy anything any more.'      'But I have nothing else ...'      'Should have taken the chip like the rest...

  Let's go get lunch - Dystopian Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh 'Yeah, almost as if they can read our minds.'      'But what if they really can?'      'Sure, that'd really be something - but how?'      'I dunno. Maybe the tech's always been there, but we just don't see it?'      'Nah, that's giving them too much credit. Remember it started with contextual ads, where you'd see a banner ad about products and services relating to stuff on the page you were looking at ...'      'Yeah.'      '... Then they developed browser cookies so they could base the banner ads on your surfing habits through your browser history - a perfect excuse for spying on us.'      'Yeah, then listening to us and watching us through our devices - phones, smart-wear, laptops, smart-TVs ...'      'Yep. So I reckon it's just got so sophisticated now that it seems they ...

XITIZEN RC1803 - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh 'Xitizen RC1803, you violated Zero Carbon Code Orange 2D/xi yesterday by leaving Zone Beta without permission. Your UHI allocation will therefore be reduced for the next seven days. You may submit a defence or appeal statement within twenty-four hours of receiving this transmission.      Closing my device, I drew a deep breath. Like any good xitizen, I'd taken my daily vaccine shot yesterday. Then I'd set out to look at the ocean, to see one last time the place where my earliest memories were made.        A fifth-generation female android at reception noted my identifier tag and the code violation reference. Steadying my nerves, I stole a backwards glance at the city street outside where medicated commuters acted out what was for them another ordinary day.      'Thank you for your cooperation. Go to level eighteen, court five. You may use the lift opposite. State your gro...

Last stop, Sheffield - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh  Squeezed behind a window at the station office a huge man of Afro-Caribbean descent asked, 'Where to, brother?'      'Sheffield, please.'      As if to counter the ticket seller's warmth, a beggar accosted me as I made towards my platform. As if reciting a rehearsed monologue, I said, 'I'm going to see my young son who lives with his mother in a different city. I'm on the dole and have only seventeen pence left to my name. You may have it.'      After a pause, the beggar ran and called out after me to return the worthless change. His demeanour now softened, he said, 'Hey man, I can't take this off you.'          While on the platform waiting on the train to arrive, I recalled the maxim about leaving home without any form of money in order to see how far we get and thereby experience the limits of our freedom.      'Please stop,' I...

A Scotsman in Paris - 50-word Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh We sat at a sunny pavement table across from Gare du Nord. A wiry waiter of middle age arrived dressed in blacks.      “Deux tasses de café, noir mais grand s’il vous plait,” I offered in my very best school Francais.      In broad Aberdonian he replied, “You speak very good French.”     © copyright Russell Cavanagh   

Below the high flats - 50-word Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh One sunny morning at the bus stop below the high flats, nary a tooth between them, a haggard man and woman announced, “We just moved in.”      Pointing up to a distant window, indiscernible from the rest, Missus said, “Our daughter’s up there gagging for it.”      Mister just grinned and nodded. © copyright Russell Cavanagh  

  Who - 50-word Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh It's not just that we exist. It's that we're aware of being, some of us anyway. After all, things which are seen were not made of things which do appear. But then there are those among us who not only know but who thereby exploit. You know who they are? C opyright ©  Russell Cavanagh  

Paragraph Planet website publishes my 75-word micro-fiction  Today - 20 May 2026 - one of my very short stories appeared as the front page on the website Paragraph Planet . Every day it publishes a different 75-word micro-fiction authored by different writers. I love the site's concept, its feel and its look. I am chuffed! 😎

  Social Media Warrior Princess - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh Ella hit the button and sat back in her throne to wait. She was a social media warrior princess par excellence, dismantling the toxic patriarchy one post at a time. Every response, good or bad, would answer to her digital sword.      Hearing a gentle tap on her bedroom door, she switched tabs back over to the vacancy listings and leant her face closer to the screen.      "Drink, Ella? Want a sandwich?"      "No, but thanks anyway," she mumbled.      "OK. Any jobs yet?"      "No, nothing so far."      She glanced out of her window at the crummy neighbourhood she'd known all her life. Another day of grey rain. Still pondering why everything was so hard, so needlessly difficult, she switched back to the  BlueSky  tab and saw her first like . C opyright ©  Russell Cavanagh   Ecclesiastes...

She was easy - far too easy - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh Neither too pretty nor too bad looking, she caught my eye. Part of a wider company that night, we swapped numbers before she had to split early. The following Saturday I got a text saying she'd found a babysitter and did I want to go out that evening for a drink. I did.      At the bar we drank beer, played pool, and chatted. Afterwards it became clear we'd be walking home in mostly the same direction. As we reached the bridge I had to decide. Lingering a while in the autumn night air we continued to talk. I asked about her kids. She said little other than that she couldn't have any more. That certainly raised my interest, being the man I was back then. But something I couldn't quite place nagged me inside.      Months later I overheard someone talk about her. Apparently she was expecting again, already having five children by three different fathers.     copyright  © ...

My poems picked for the front page of AllPoetry website  Good news earlier this week: The popular poetry website AllPoetry.com picked another of my poems for exposure on its front page. That means three of my submissions have been highlighted on the site over the past month. Each poem attracted great feedback from other contributors to the site. 😎 You can find the three pieces on this link .

NASA says it's round - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh "I don't know, and neither do you."           "All the science says it's round."           "No, NASA says it's round, and they need impossibly complex mathematics to try and prove it."           "So you think it's flat then?"           "I told you, I have no idea."           "But all those NASA images ..."           "NASA is a massive money-laundering scam. Everything about it is fake - even the logo is a snake tongue."           "So you don't think we ever went to the Moon then?"           "No."           "But why would they lie?"           "You admit there's a 'they'?"           "Well, you know wha...

Going to the store early - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh The idea was to beat the rush and get round the isles and back out as fast as possible. But at that time of the morning there was only one till operator on and I hate automated checkouts and their inevitable glitches.           I noticed the old duchess in front of me sway slightly as she loaded the conveyor with bread, processed meat wrapped on trays, a carton of six individual iced cakes, a family tin of assorted shortbread biscuits, a small jar of coffee, a half-litre of semi-skimmed, a share bag of salted peanuts, a one-litre bottle of no-name gin, two one-litre bottles of store-brand tonic, a three-litre box of white wine and a copy of the local weekly rag. She then rummaged in her bag for her purse and loyalty card before extracting ... every ... last ... bit ... of ... small ... change ... she had with which to settle the bill.           "Making you wait mister, a...

Back from the old road - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh My stomach had rumbled steadily over the past hundred or so miles. There was nothing for it, I'd have to find somewhere to pull in and eat. As luck would have it I saw just the place - a little truckers restaurant sat back from the old road.           Inside and out cane seats sat under clean formica tabletops. There were no other customers around, maybe because it was by now way past lunchtime. A coffee machine hissed from the kitchen and a radio played hits from yesteryear. Soon a man wearing an apron appeared and took my order.           As I tucked in to the generous portion of ham and eggs, followed by pancakes drowning in maple syrup and ice cream, the man told me how his family had opened the place the previous century. He said business became tight a few years ago when the local plant, a big employer, relocated south.           "My nam...

Surfer with the white hair - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh Whenever possible he would sit with his back to the wall, facing out into the room. His features gaunt, his hair shot through with white, he seemed a man old before his time.           No one really knew what he looked at time and time again on the screen. Though many tried to guess, he himself said nothing.            Rumours started. But that's all they were - rumours. After all wasn't he using shared Wi-Fi in a public library? Hadn't they checked the router logs more than once already?          Until, that is,  the day the librarian, the petite brunette, crept up quietly ... only for her hands to shoot up, her jaw to drop, and her eyes to widen.           "Oh my ..." she gasped, struggling for breath, "I, uh ........"           "Well now you know," snarled the su...

For the wicked - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh  ... BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM ...         It's past four in the morning, for goodness sake ...         Drunken laughter now danced across my ceiling. My upstairs neighbours had given no notice, no warning.           I'd just returned from playing the jazz club only wanting to shower then slip into bed.           But ... BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM ... until at last silence broke out as the sun rose outside. I slept until almost eleven.           Readying to go out for breakfast I tuned the dial to the blandest AM station, turning the volume high. Groans issued from the bedroom above.           Two hours later I snapped the radio off and listened. Further groans - the young couple still in bed, doubtless nursing hangovers.       ...

  Out of time girl - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh The dark roast smelled rich and warm.           "Thanks," I said, "why is your internet so slow?"           Gesturing towards the plate glass the barista said, "I don't know. Maybe because we're so close to the edge?" That made sense. "I can ask?"           "No, that's OK. But thanks." No need to waste both our time.           She lingered, no other customers demanding her attention. Only the occasional dog-walker and their mutt braved the rainy promenade outside.           "Haven't seen you in here before. You a student?"           "I'm studying for a degree in tourism and leisure. This is my holiday job."           Turned out she was nineteen. Not only beautiful with natural blonde hair, a pretty face and a pretty everythi...

My first and probably last: Six-word story - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh       copyright  ©  Russell Cavanagh  

The Agency - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh "Oh yes, she's perfect," I thought, eyeing the girl on reception.           It was 11.45 a.m. and the others were already here. The advertising agency hoped to land a lucrative account today and the prospects would arrive shortly. Warm sun splashed through open louvres as a scent of quality espresso filtered throughout. Taking my usual seat, I plugged a thumb-drive into the Mac and opened a project I was working on at home.           Alan came out of his office looking just the part in a silk suit he'd bought especially for such occasions. Stopping to breathe in the scene now before him, he beamed with the confidence of the seasoned salesman he was. It was going to be a good day.           Before long the clients arrived and were ushered into Alan's office. The young lady on reception took her cue to go and see if they wanted coffees. Laughter could soon ...

Dinner cancellation - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh "OK. Let me tell you about Kevin Drummond."           I had the boy's full attention. He'd been advised to come over and ask me.           "Kevin Drummond used to promote a band I played in years ago. He paid an absolute pittance and if we complained he'd get his minder onto us, one Derek Sprott.           "He also had a young lad in tow called Ronnie, supposedly his nephew. But I expect Ronnie's gone by now.           "Drummond took a particular liking to our bass player and tried to isolate him from the rest of us.           "When we later noticed posters going up on billboards for gigs we hadn't agreed to we pulled out and went into hiding, not playing anywhere and keeping away from other local gigs.           "About a year or so later I read that Kevin, ...