MAN MADE FLASH FICTION

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. 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 grounds for defence or appeal when called to do so by the clerk.' ...

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 told my brain, 'I don't want to know.'    ...

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   

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 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  

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! 😎

  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 10:18

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  ©  Russell Cavanagh  Proverbs 5:3-11

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 .

"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 what I mean."           "Whether or n...

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, aren't I?" she said, slurring her words from behind a trowe...

  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 name's John, by the way," he said, "I hate that it's...

  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 surfer, looking at her now gaunt face, at her own sudden shock of ...

... 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.           With only the barest smirk I recounted my s...

  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 everything else, she was clearly intelligent and possessed...

My first, and probably last, six-word story:       copyright  ©  Russell 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 be heard from behind the closed door. So far...

"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, Derek and Ronnie were up in court, charged with groom...

"Go on Jeannie, read the leaves!" they urged.           Mrs. Sanderson, who was new to the circle, asked, "You can tell the future, Jeannie?"           Jeannie protested that she hadn't done it for a while but now encouraged by the group she said, "Give me your cup. I'll see if there's anything in the leaves for you." She swished the dregs in the bottom of the cup before spilling them out onto a saucer.           Peering into the cup Jeannie frowned. "I see a man in uniform. He's coming to visit you."           Mrs. Sanderson gasped, eyebrows raised in astonishment. "My son is in the army. You couldn't possibly have known that. He's due to come home on leave in a couple of months."           Six weeks later Mrs. Sanderson heard a gentle knock on her door. Opening it, she saw the man in uniform holding an envelope.      ...

"Kieran, I've met them all. Every one of them nuts."          My brother  hadn't actually met every one of my girlfriends, but my he was nonetheless right.           And now I'd had enough of women. Or so I thought ... >>>>>   I didn't join in the banter with my colleagues on the coach. Still raw, still wounded, I had much on my mind.           Fuck women. Or rather, don't.           Then another one arrived.            "Mind if I join you? You look like you could do with company."           Five foot seven inches tall, on the slim side of shapely, gleaming dark eyes, sporting an auburn mop, Emily Crow sat next to me anyway. I didn't want her to. I had hoped to get off the coach, abandon my workmates, and explore the long shoreline on my own.           Oh ...

Tony couldn’t play pedal steel but he was a policeman who checked permits others required back then      A wandering Spanish cock despite beautiful wife and home he revelled in the glamour of our music-making      He’d disappear after gigs for a private performance with some lucky tourist sweating under his spell      A pleasant yet despicable man I still think about his wife       © copyright Russell Cavanagh

"You just take a wee seat there, love. I'm off for a whizz."           I step off the tarmac ribbon to cross the machair towards the public toilet over by the burn. Once inside, the unmistakable scent of piss over porcelain and concrete.           Oh she was a wee beauty all those years ago. I mind how her girly smile on that wee face lifted me away. And she had more than enough o-levels for the job. She just lacked confidence, coming as she did from a poor family stuck on a rough estate.          Aye , I knew even then I'd be taking her off the payroll to make her my bride. Almost a child bride. Am I really such a dirty old man? Was I? Nothing at all illegal about it. Her mother, herself very much a looker by the way, certainly saw sense in it.           Aye, we had many good years since then - years when I could provide home comforts and holidays abroad and anything else ...

  "Did you take it?"           "F*ck no."           "You sure?"           "Why? Did you take it?"           "No."           "Well then ..."           Curry was miffed at Ross for mirroring his question.           Ash, Curry's best pal, watched the exchange from a computer chair. He was smoking a blunt as he listened to his two very different friends.           His bedsit hid behind curtains always pulled across a window that never opened. Ten empty bottles and two full ashtrays set the scene.           "You want any of this?" Curry asked, pushing a five-skinner at Ross.           "No, thanks."           Curry's eyebrows raised. "You sure?"   ...

"Eh? Whit?"           "Gie me twae poond." Looking far from destitute if somewhat bedraggled in her later middle age, this chancer was pure taking the piss.           "Nup," said Kieran.          Without  further comment she strode on through the chill morning towards another stranger. Kieran continued on his way now thinking about economic inflation and beggars with brass necks.           But several yards further down the pedestrian precinct he stopped in his tracks. He recalled a previous beggar who'd asked him for the exact same amount. That previous lass had been a druggie of indeterminate age. The venue that time was an almost empty platform in Partick subway station. She'd started by asking when the next train was due - even as they both stood bang next to a noticeboard clearly indicating "NEXT TRAIN: 3 mins". Kieran had refused the £2 request back then as well....

  "Car!"           Still a quarter mile distant on this gentle forgotten brae the motor rasped up worn tarmac between auld drystanes. It was time to pick up the basket and lean in to the ripe outgrowth.            A Morris Minor waved his thanks and stirred down a gear to tackle one final gradient up to the high road.            My mother placed a few dark brambles into my cupped hand before retreating into silence. Maybe her thoughts were of the jam she'd start to make tomorrow, back home where my father no longer was.     © copyright Russell Cavanagh  

Quite a long time ago I existed on the dole in Edinburgh. One of life’s few pleasures back then was the prestigious Usher Hall selling unsold seats for a mere £4 to welfare claimants on performance days.           Dressed in finest poverty, including a woollen coat bought from a charity shop, I regularly witnessed world-class orchestras play their symphony music.           One time I was even blessed to land a centre seat at the front of the first circle.           The usher collecting tickets that night stared down at me with contemptuous disbelief as I climbed plush carpeted stairs to where he maintained guard. This fellow recognised me, as I did him, from his day job working for the dole office.           Oh how delicious it was to see his demeanour change when presented with my pass for what was undoubtedly the best vantage point in the entire theatre. Perhaps it d...

Even shit-faced on many beers and potent smokes I could tell my newly animated buddy how the barman had pointed us out to the two girls. “Prostitutes, Jimmy,” I said, reminding him we'd run out of money. © copyright Russell Cavanagh

Before a spell as a marine commando in his younger days the old man was an apprentice boat builder. But now the hospital was refusing his requests for a tot of rum.           "Mr Cameron, please will you tell your father he can't have alcohol in here?" the doctor implored. The old boy must have thought he'd ended up in a hospice or some sort of palliative care. Ross had a word with him. A crestfallen silence followed.           Visiting time now over, Ross promised to come again tomorrow. The old man gave a knowing stare at his only remaining son.           "Take care of yourself," he said. These were the final words Ross heard from him.           By the following day his dad had slipped from consciousness. A nurse suggested Ross just sit with him. Listening to the death rattle, he was reminded of the previous year with his older brother.       ...