A Scotsman in Paris | 50-word story

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.”

Please can you tell your father

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. ...

Back from the old road

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...

Surfer with the white hair

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 ...

MAN MADE FLASH FICTION

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