Flash fiction & other writing

Have been exploring flash fiction on, and off, and on again. Here’s a selection.


I’ve never come to grips

With why the BBC

Called a TV game


It is simply depressing

Let’s get real

If someone elects

To turn their TV on

Before the evening news

It is most likely

That they feel

That life is already


And, maybe

That watching the news

Will flip them back into reality

But sadly

Brexit gives neither consolation

Or reality

It too

Is Pointless

Scoring is futile

History Herstory










18th April 2018

Delicate Conversation Needed

She’d cherished the little pot for 40 years, remembers slipping it into her pocket when she found it, the rusty nails inside made a tinkling sound and the soot-blackened lid left a smudge on her coat. Cleaning revealed the silver cap and delicate, multi-faceted glass sides.

In her possession it had contained, variously, earrings, paperclips, moisturizers and face creams. Her daughter dipped her fingers into the coconut oil and asked her about the pot’s history. She’d always admired it and it fits in her hand perfectly. Soon, when she dies, her daughter will inherit it. Somehow she must tell her.

Published in thedrabble 17th April 2018

Writing Workshop with Sally O’Reilly at Spike Island

April 2018

Hush Hush Hush

The video shows someone being treated brutally. She’s in floods of tears. The persistent whacking of the man behind his knees with a truncheon makes her feel violently sick.

The man cries out stop, stop, please stop.

The repetition of the act echoes. The reiteration of power makes her recoil. Such incidents enter her body, churn her gut. Her sight goes fuzzy.



Screaming. Again and again and again.

Her heart goes thump, thump, thump; sounds thicken inside her head. Vision blurs. Then breath returns, slow, steady. Quelling the thump thump thump, silencing the sensory cacophony.

Hush hush hush

Written 2016, edited April 2018

Russian Doll

I sit on the shelf, a little bit smug because, unlike the human that made

me, I hold all five of my children inside my rotund body – I get to carry

them all my life. My painter was a very good artist, he did us proud.

I enjoyed his gentle brushstrokes on my body when he worked on me. I

love the duck egg blue scarf he gave me. He painted flowers on our

tummies. We all have beautiful almond shaped eyes, I overheard

him say to his wife that our eyes were the same shape as hers.

Written 2016, edited February 2018