MAN MADE FLASH FICTION BLOG

Not bad, not bad at all, thought Justin. The mobbed precinct had proved a rich hunting ground.      With the stolen cash and phones now tucked safely inside deep coat pockets, he tipped the unwanted wallets, purses, ticket stubs and other detritus into a nearby bin.      But he did pause briefly over a photograph of a young girl. It was stapled to a yellowed newspaper clipping. He must have lifted her mother's purse.      Too bad, he muttered, tossing them into the waste as well, it's a rough old world .      As he readied to leave, Justin spotted an open door - S urely an invitation for any thief , he thought . It was the entrance to a low-rise building, one he'd never noticed before. He went over.      Nobody there, but on the floor just inside lay a velvet pouch containing what felt like small stones. Soon a dozen blood-red rubies sat in his palm.      My, oh my,...

I follow him into his kitchen, then through to his bathroom. Wherever he makes a noise.      " R EAP ! "        What did he just shout ?      Once, he told me there should be thirteen equal months in a year, as dictated by the Moon. That would mean five spare days that are totally out of time.  He said, Hidden men are manipulating our calendar to alter reality and change our experience of this world.  Imagine !      I kind of get that . H e does seem clever .      N ow then, did I rinse this bowl? I t’s my sacred duty to make sure . L et's clean it all again , my old friend the blue basin , just to be on the  safe side . G erms breed so fast , don't they?      He turns on the radio in his front room. I'll go through and catch what he's listening to.      But that would mean I must leave the tap running in the kitchen - which will be OK, ...

Rifling through your scant possessions, I unearthed the secret. In taking flight that darkened stormy night you were actually saying adieu forever, n 'est-ce pas ? Now hurtling towards inevitability, finding love's old sweet song through a myriad of half-truths and tales untold, you left me drowning in floods of tears. But be careful what you wish for, my lovely; tender is the night, and my platitudinously purple prose, barely meretricious let alone meritorious, continues. Pretentious, moi?     CC BY-ND 4.0 Russell Cavanagh Ecclesiastes 12:8 (KJV) "Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity."  

The barmaid stole a glance at my wedding ring as I picked up the two pints then gave me an enigmatic smile. She was a looker for sure, no pun intended.      "It was Alice suggested the Canny Man," I told my friend Jimmy as we turned to look for a free table. "She's got her sister and some friends coming round for a girlie night in and wanted me out of the house."      Jimmy laughed. "Of all the people, Ross," he said, "I never reckoned you to be one for getting hitched and settling down."      "No, me neither," I said, fingering the shiny silver band gracing my third finger, still light-headed after the recent event.      "Alice is a nice lady, you're a lucky man," he said. I believed him.      We went on to discuss other topics, such as the state of the world, updates on what mutual friends were up to, memories from our time together at college, the usual. Beer and conversation both...

I'm sipping it slowly, thinking he's stood me up, that I made a mistake. Wouldn't be the first time.      We women know we're the prize of Creation. Sure, some of us might think we fall short of the ideal, don't meet the standard suggested by this world, perhaps believing ourselves too fat, too thin, too tall, too short or just plain ugly. But there's bound to be a man out there somewhere, a soul who will show interest nonetheless. It's just a matter of patience, of waiting.      Many years ago I learned to keep my ears open and my mouth closed. That made me feel more intelligent, reserved. More importantly, it also meant I could listen to what a man's words revealed about himself, his personality, about how he really regarded me.      This guy Ross seemed warm and pleasant last week when we met in the local library. By chance, we were both asking the library assistant about requesting the same novel, a newly published CRIME ...

Tim "The longer I'm in this game the more I realize that quantity ≠ quality," moaned Sue, combing her close-clipped nails through short gelled hair, taking care neither to stain her Dior neckerchief nor smear her Holland Cooper tweed jacket.      "Doesn't it depend on context though, on what your criteria are, or do you just mean poor writing skills?" said Tim, eir sperm-donating partner.      "It's a bunch of stuff," said Sue, "such as reliance on tedious tropes, purple prose, not checking spelling or grammar, being utterly unaware of filters and redundancies ... and all the bloody rest."      "Talking about a specific project?"      "These people seem to think it's OK to type whatever comes into their heads then send it in as if it's worthy of serious consideration," she complained. "It wears me down."      "But surely the work of a commissioning editor fundamental...

He's chatting with a customer in an otherwise empty shop. Once she leaves I'll go in. I prefer it quiet.      I love my visits here. The books cost no more than a pound or two, and sometimes the very latest titles are sat there waiting for the right person.      "Good morning," he says once I'm through the door. On the counter in front of him sits a stack of new donations, some handed in by the woman just before me.      "Hello," I say. A nervous flutter now settles in my chest.      My usual routine is to browse the CRIME & DETECTIVE shelves first, then the SCI-FI, next the CLASSICS & POETRY. I'll often finish up by searching out my favourite authors in the alphabetically sorted general fiction section.      Today I'm blessed to find a school poetry book. It's cloth-bound with a label pasted inside that lists pupils' names, the forms they were in and the dates they held the book - all...

One of the 'Glasgow Wee Folk ' , I thought, deliberately keeping my attention on shelves stacked with assorted spirit offerings.      Clearly enjoying the moment, the diminutive old lady raked her purse painstakingly slowly for coins while chatting to the checkout assistant. I'd seen her do this before, auld bissum.      A man standing in front of me harrumphed loudly then turned, hoping I'd echo his impatient displeasure. He was well-dressed and in his early fifties.      I didn't oblige.      Her bill at last settled, shopping packed away into her tartan trolley, the old dear continued talking with the assistant. Now she really was laying it on thick, especially as the queue behind us was growing.      Seemingly having reached the end of his tether the man barged in front of her. Visibly angry, he as good as knocked her out of his way.      Some folk have no patience, ...

I find a few particularly interesting facts as I skim his patient record. This guy isn't one of the usual compliant fools I deal with on a daily basis.      First off, he didn't respond to any of our letters offering flu shots to the over-60s. In fact, he doesn't seem to have taken any of the covid jabs either. These facts alone should tell me all I need to know about Ross Cameron.      But secondly, he wrote in recently asking us to stop sending him letters about bowel cancer screening and requests for stool samples. What does he know?      Thirdly, he requested some time ago that we don't share his medical data with Google or any of the other tech companies. Indeed, on recent visits here he's even asked that the doctor or nurse seeing him doesn't use the AI assistant designed to help us record and store notes.      This man is a fruit-loop. An anomaly. Potentially a serious problem.      As ...

Full English in mind, I walk through the door and past so many empty tables.  Greek owners, I think.      “How many?” he asks.  Greek, right enough.      “Just the one.”      “A seat here, please,” he says, showing me to a table behind a pillar and far from any plate glass.      I respond by turning and leaving, pointedly eyeing undeniably available window seats before passing back through the door and out into late morning sunshine.      In the park across the street a little girl wearing pigtails and a gap-tooth smile swings her pencil legs above precious few worldly cares. She is with her mother, her father hopefully at work.      I know the girl will forget this day, perhaps until a vague childhood recollection much later when a thousand such times and many thousand such suns have passed.      Stay loved , little girl, I think to myself, and never lose your trus...

My name is Adam Cain. I'm seventy years old and live in Edinburgh. I've something that needs to be said.      When I was a boy living in East Lothian we were very poor. My mother, a single parent, was too proud to claim National Assistance and instead opted to do back-breaking agricultural work.      During school holidays she would send me off to spend the day with the families of her friends until she returned home late each afternoon. I found this arrangement dismal and disorientating, shy lad that I was.      Then late one summer she asked if I wanted to make a few bob working in the fields. Being used to enduring poverty, always making do with second-hand clothes, receiving pre-owned birthday presents, getting my meagre pocket money by returning glass juice bottles for the deposits, I jumped at the chance.      Next day I was on the coach with a team of pickers, all women, rattling along farm roads surrounded e...

When I first moved into my flat several years ago junkies and other neds would gather outside my window after dark. Occasionally they'd knock on the glass, apparently expecting some kind of reaction. Sometimes they just hung around chatting in subdued tones on the street.      The previous tenant was a man called Kyle. I never met Kyle but found out from a neighbour that he was taking psychiatric medication. He had severe mental health problems caused by a chronic drug addiction which had resulted in paranoia, manic schizophrenia and other related conditions.      The gang had completely taken over Kyle's life. They would bully him into giving up his welfare benefits and his medication (which they then cut with other substances to make what's known as Street Valium ). Apparently Kyle went through such hell on an almost daily basis.      Eventually rescued and rehoused elsewhere by the local authority's social services department, Kyl...

Little sl*t sent me a text saying need some daddy . And now looking down at the street I see her walking her pit-bull and heading towards my stair. Unlike those other slags who've turned prematurely into crones, Seona still has a nice figure, slightly boyish, and a pretty face - that is, if you don't look too closely.      Seona knocks, and I unlock the door. She then waltzes through until she's in my bedroom. Her twenty-three years to my fifty-two, skinny jeans and p*nties now at her ankles, she kneels over the edge of the bed. This piece of our business won't take too long.      And now seated in the living room she rolls a blunt as I go and put her package together: Ket and an assortment of jellies - the usual mix - I got from my main supplier only yesterday.      I tell her, "Usual deal. Skim what you want for yourself and charge the punters whatever you like - so long as I get my grand by the end of next month." She's...

"Indira, get the passports ready," said Kash as they approached the gate. His wife complied, and soon they were through and heading for the luggage carousel.      Once outside at the taxi rank they savoured the warm Italian afternoon. Soon they'd be sitting down to eat at their hotel.      "It was a good summer this year Kash, certainly by Scottish standards," said Indira.      "Yes," laughed her husband of almost sixty years, "a mild summer in Scotland is infinitely preferable to baking in Mumbai, just as a warm Indian winter beats freezing in Britain."      Both long retired, Kash and Indira lived on multiple pensions earned working in the UK and in their native country. As usual on their seasonal changes of residence they were making an en-route stopover in Europe, this year Rome. It had become a routine they both prized greatly.      After dining at the hotel the couple sat out on their ro...

Tony couldn’t play pedal steel, but he was a policeman who checked permits other visitors 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. CC BY-ND 4.0 Russell Cavanagh   Matthew 5:28 (KJV) 28  But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.  

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...

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 ...

"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...

Ross remembered his mother making supper each night as the family sat in front of their rented 24" black & white Phillips telly.      It was usually something lightweight on, such as Morecambe and Wise , though Ross does recall one Play for Today episode where a distressed wife smashed a dresser of crockery, making his mother shake her head and mutter, "Och! What a waste!"      Supper would be around half-seven or eight with side plates containing toast or a sandwich and a couple of ginger snaps appearing on everyone's chair arms. Mother would then disappear back through to the kitchen to fetch mugs of sweet, milky tea. Ross' father might be at home, depending on his shift pattern.      One day his father was thoughtful enough to knock a hole between kitchen and living room so that supper might be passed straight through the resulting "workmanlike" service hatch, thus reducing wasteful journeys via their short hall. The ...