writing

scorpion scar {flash fiction}

There’s a scar on my chin, right under the center, at the bottom. It looks like a scorpion and feels like a raised ridge. 
I tell everyone it makes me feel like a badass, but really it makes me feel like a battle axe. 

The story goes that I got into a bar fight.

Jim from the up the street was three shots of whiskey too far gone and putting his sweaty oversized paws on a woman that didn’t want nothing to do with him. 

I stood up, bold and sober and I demanded that Jim leave her alone. The ensuing fight involved all sorts, from broken chair legs, to broken glass to me slamming a cashew shell into Jim’s ruddy cheek.

The punchline always gets people; the part where Jim pissed himself and scuttled away in embarrassment. 

They laugh, buy me a drink and everybody’s happy.

Except, that’s not how it happened. 

I’m a writer and one thing writers do is embellish. Even in real life, writers are forever telling stories. If I can entrance someone just by telling them a story, I can make magic happen on paper. 

That’s how the story of my scar grows. 

The real story is that I fell asleep at my desk one day. I know what you’re thinking, how does that lead to a scorpion shaped scar? 

Now you’re wondering if the scar really is shaped that way. 

I know the answer but I’ll never tell.

What’s important is that I was sitting on a three legged chair and unfortunately, chairs are inanimate. They don’t think the way that we do, if they think at all. 

So when I startled awake, there was some kind of breakdown in communication between the three functional legs and I went down hard and knocked my chin against the hard pine. I tasted blood almost immediately and I knew that it was going to leave some kind of mark.

I didn’t know it would be scorpion shaped, but I’ll just take it as a blessing.

That story – the truth – isn’t as interesting as me being a hero. People might laugh at clumsiness, but heroics get you the golden points. A free beer, a free slice of pie, a questionable donut from an officer who probably knows that I’m full of shit.

Being a hero makes me feel like a king and I’m not a good enough person to walk away from that.

Is anybody?

People aren’t interested in the truth so I don’t bother to give it to them.

Life is all about the illusion and even I find myself playing along. Some days I live in that bar fight, play it over and over in my mind like it really happened.

In some ways, it did.

The setting just happens to be my imagination.

writing

crushed {flash fiction}

Why am I always writing about weddings or people who want to get married? I don’t want either of those things at the moment, lol. Unless my conscience is trying to tell me something! 😂

There’s a glint in the distance, gleaming bright. She creeps forward, her heart beginning to race with anticipation. It’s been three years and she’s hoped.
Wished.

Dreamed.

Even though he’s against it and changes the subject every time. People change their mind all the time, right? She just has to hope.

Wish.

Dream.

One more step and she comes face to face with the sparkling object.

Her heart sinks when she sees what it is.

It’s what now remains of the faux diamond earrings she lost last week.

It’s crushed, with the diamond part hanging limply, as if it’s given up on life, on being whole.

It’s like looking into a mirror; she realises that she’s just deluding herself.

There’s no hope.

There are no fulfiled wishes.

Dreams are just dreams, pockets of imagination that aren’t supposed to be unleashed.

She takes a step back and ignores the way her heart continues to sink with disappointment.

She’s been on this train for three years, but this isn’t her stop. This isn’t the end of the road.

She’s only halfway through the ride, and not ready to give up just yet.

One day, she may regret her decision but one day isn’t today. It won’t be tomorrow either.

It never is.

writing

30 day flash fiction challenge | day 13

Someone’s life takes on a new meaning when they discover an unusual tree.

Dave has never been the most adventurous guy. When his friends were hanging around at bars and fast food joints, he was playing video games and armed with text books in a bedroom that probably smelt like farts and cheese puffs. On most days, he was too busy trying to find X or solving problems. He was a mathematician after all, it was kind of his job. Still, he found himself wishing that he was outgoing. That he could just stroll into a bar and scream ‘WHAT’S UP PARTAY PEOPLE?!’ without everyone judging him hard. Continue reading “30 day flash fiction challenge | day 13”

writing

30 day flash fiction challenge (day nine)

This can be read alone but also kind of go together with Day 1 and 18.

Day 1 > Day 18 > Day 9

There are many reasons why Dave could have been kidnapped. The pet goldfish that he accidentally overfed. The cute redhead he glared at after she almost trampled him with her bicycle. In short, karma. Karma has come for him. And Dave senses that it has something to do with The Sweater. See, he once had a friend called Chet. Chet was many things; and he had the kind of personality that came with having a name like Chet. He was a little crazy and possessive. If you touched his stuff, he would tee pee your life. Seriously, Dave was always still finding toilet paper in odd places two weeks after their arguments.

Anyway, Chet had this soft blue sweater that seemed to be a bit with the ladies. Dave, a colossal screw up when it came to dating, assumed that borrowing said sweater might improve his luck.

It didn’t and coincidentally he never saw Chet again. Calls went unanswered. Texts ignored. His emails presumably languished in Gmail purgatory. Chet was just gone. And Dave was cool with that so long as the guy was okay. What he was cool with was having the lucky sweater.

He mailed it to Chet’s parents house only for it to return. Chet’s grandmother’s house. Same thing. And try as he might, Dave really couldn’t afford to keep mailing the damn thing. He put an ad on Craigslist, tweeted about it and hell, he even put up a poster in the damn library. That was extreme even for Dave. He didn’t go to the library on account of the How To Draw Manga book he accidentally poured a caramel mocha on one time. The head librarian had ironically been about three coffees away from wringing his neck.

In the end he left it on a park bench and pretended that he didn’t feel something dark lurking inside. A bad feeling and this weird sense of foreshadowing.

Now, as he lies on the floor and anticipates his fate, he wonders if that damn sweater was possessed.

writing

30 day flash fiction challenge (day eighteen)

Apparently, Dave is here to stay and I don’t like doing things in order?

Day 18: The floor tasted like peanut butter. 

The floor tastes like peanut butter. That is the first thing that Dave realises. The second is that he’s on the floor. Being on the floor isn’t unusual, but being on the floor after being chased by a bunch of cartoonish villains is definitely new. 

Dave is a mathematician by day and mathematician by night. While stereotypes about mathematicians are almost always wrong, Dave freely admits that he’s boring. 

He has four of the same sweater. All of his jeans are black, with the exception being the yellow pair he bought before he realised that skinny jeans weren’t for him and they definitely were not appropriate for Sunday Service. 

He still remembers his mother’s reaction clearly – that white girl you’re dating has got you turnt up – because he had to look up ‘turnt‘ on Urban Dictionary and sit through an episode of The Real before he could come up with the perfect response. 

And even then, it was just a text that said: Lol.

Yeah, Dave isn’t big on words. 

There’s a knock on the door and a scurry of feet before there’s silence again. 

This is almost surreal but Dave can’t feel a single part of his body. And he’s refusing to even contemplate the thought that he might be dead. As far as he’s concerned, this is just a disturbingly vivid dream. Or some kind of magic mushroom induced hallucination. He’s good with either.

He’s just going to sit here and wonder why he licked the damn floor in the first place. 

writing

30 day flash fiction challenge (day one)

So apparently I’m doing this. For now. Here’s Day 1.


Day 1: an impulse buy leading to intergalactic warfare

So, here’s the thing. 

Life isn’t supposed to be like the movies. No, real life is mundane. Boring. Routine. 

When Dave goes to buy a book – yes an actual book – he’s not expecting to find a USB taped inside the middle (and yeah, turns out that a large chunk of the book is missing — literally). He’s definitely not expecting to find a note scribbled inside that says, ‘If you were unfortunate enough to buy this book AND bring it into your home, you’re shit outta luck‘. 
Even if something unsavoury is about to happen to him, the author of the note could have at least reserved some tact. 

Unfortunately for Dave, all of that happened an hour ago. 

Now he’s cycling at top speed and sorely regretting the burrito he had for breakfast. Somehow, the burn in his lungs and the gunfire exchange he just about managed to dodge seems to pale in comparison to the wanton gas rumbling around in his system. 

He really is shit out of luck.