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Popular posts from this blog

Audio reading of my story "Obituary"

Read along while you listen to Canadian story-reader Heather Sherman's treatment of my slice-of-life flash-fiction  Obituary : 😎 The original story, as written: Doob was a soak who drank alone at his regular barstool in his local, where today the dark interior contrasted with a warm sunlit afternoon outside. He had extended his lunchtime drinking, skipped returning to work, had told his employer he would be out of the office to follow up an unspecified list of potential new prospects.      Donald O'Brien hated his job, hated his life.      Looking straight ahead he saw himself nursing his whisky and beer in the mirror sat behind the optics. This ritual he would repeat until, probably some time mid-evening, he would stagger back to the empty home he no longer shared with his wife.      Now well into his early thirties, Doob's hair had thinned and jowls were becoming noticeably pronounced. The creased suit he wore was just as sha...
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London calling

"Who was that?"      "A blast from the past, Jim London," said Ross, putting down his mobile with one hand and scratching his head with the other.      "You were pretty abrupt with him," said Lesley.      "Yeah, well, fell out some years ago."      "Where did you know him from?"      "When I lived in England. We had one or two common interests, one might say."      Ross was clearly agitated by the call. He'd hoped for a relatively uninterrupted afternoon with his visitor.      "What's he like," said Lesley.      "A unique blend of considerate, kind-hearted, and supercilious dickhead," declared Ross.      "Being a wee bit judgemental there Ross?"      "Nah, just lived experience and keen observation."      "So what was he after?"      "Just what you heard. He's comin...
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My body, my choice

Ross heard a commotion at the square. He went over, finding young adults of both sexes - plus a few more variations, if you believe such things - taunting a street preacher.      "Abortion is murder," proclaimed the preacher, his voice amplified through microphone and speaker.      "My body, my choice!" young adults with wombs screamed back at him.      "But it's not your body," insisted the preacher.      "My body, my choice!" screamed the empty wombs.      "From the first cell formed after conception, the foetus DNA is different from that of the mother - so abortion is murder," repeated the preacher.      "My body, my choice!" screamed the empty wombs. Now standing in front of the man, Ross turned to face the baying crowd. He held up both hands in a plea for silence.      The screaming subdued.      "Right at this moment," he announced, "I ...
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