There are people here, but not many. An old man sighs a joke as his grandchildren try to raise a kite into the still air. On the grey banks of mud a wiry bird stands still, too tired to prod for worms with its thin beak. Reeds have been blackened by the winter across the silent pools of the marsh. In the nearby woods, fragile, rusting leaves are broken from their branches by the merest gasp of air, their colour dulled in every moment that dusk creeps over the sodden ground. Birches have been felled and forgotten; ferns lifelessly splayed…
100-Word Fiction: ‘An Education’
The queue of kids had grown, their excitable faces turning into expressions of anguish as they waited. At a signal, each stepped forward and was met by a guardian who would inspect the child’s pockets and remove any money, sweets or small toys. Puzzle or colouring books were not permitted. Other banned items included art, musical and sports equipment, dictionaries, encyclopaedias or other reference materials. The guardians then provided each child with one workbook which had to be completed within a given time-slot. Late finishers and those requesting extra tuition received a punitive fine. ‘Know-it-alls’ were also to be discouraged.
100-Word Fiction: ‘The Old Cupboard’
Pat turned the key in the gloom and the old cupboard door opened. Shining a light, he gasped. Inside, boxes were piled high. A year calendar hung on the back of the door with days circled. Files were stacked and labelled meticulously. Civil Partnerships and Church, ‘Trouble’ Families, Euroscepticism and the Public, Standards and Sleaze: the topics ranged widely. The old cupboard was much deeper than Pat had expected – or hoped – and there was something strange about it too. The cardboard files were crisply rigid, the boxes bright and unsagged. Where was the dust? The calendar was from this year.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Advent’
It is the 12th of December. The passing of steady time is played out with a handball game in Doha, the King of Bahrain at Downing Street and Iraqi soldiers graduating into action after a mere month’s training in Kirkut. Was it Kirkut? The name remains, lingers like a strange flavour in the mouth. And from behind a grate there is heard a scratching, shuffling sound. Something is coming; some rough beast in a vast image, a revelation in these parts. But now clear, black and white, moving its slow thighs, Tian Tian the panda appears – and we forget all.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Where we come from, where we go’
Some of us came from the factories, sons and daughters of coal miners and steel workers. Others were the children of doctors and professors. We were brothers, sisters, neices and nephews, friends, colleagues and lovers. You saw us only through what we did; the ways in which we toiled. We created glories, memories, happiness, and you took it all to the bank. Cash in hand you led us to nightclubs, bought us drinks and fast cars. We hatched plans and got drunk, occasionally made the news. And now we are gone and the obituaries written. You smile, averting your eyes.
100-Word Fiction: ‘I Will Never Forget You’
xx saw xx xx xxx xxxxxxxx. x thought xx xxx xxxxx xx xx x xxx crash xx cancer. xxx xxxxxx news xxx xxx xxxx harrowing. xxxxxx? Oh xxxx xxx xxxxxxx xx xxxx xxxx another xxx? xxxx xxx xxx xxxxx xxxxx xx xxxxxxxx. xxxxx xxx all xx us, xxx I xxxx. xx xxxxx xxxx shared xxx xxxx xxxxxx. x xxxxx xxxxxxx xxx. xx xxxxx xxxx xxxx xxx years ahead xxx. Why xxxxx xxx speak? x xxxxx xxxx listened. xx loved you xx xxxx. XXXX. xxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxxxx. xxx xxxx xx xx xxxx xx this? xxxx xxx xx xxxxxxx? xxxx?
100-Word Fiction: ‘22 November’
I do not remember Franco’s death. The first transatlantic flight of Concorde, perhaps. I remember the coming of Mike Tyson as if it were someone else’s story, not mine. The withdrawal of Thatcher from the leadership race, smothered in feelings of a time and a place…
a bank of television screens in a shop window, baggy jumpers and long hair, oranges for Christmas, a cold dark house where woodlice and mold would triumph…
There is almost nothing. Almost. Nothing to fix a thought upon. No true memory. No one idea. Just a twinge, an ache, that something happened, once was.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Jim’
Jim fished for imaginary salmon, out in his back garden with a rod and live bait. We watched him and laughed as the line got caught in the fence between his shrubs and the fields.
Jim smoked a pipe and spoke wryly of the old times and how nobody understood his intentions. He always wore a hat.
Jim liked the children to come round on bonfire night with their lanterns made from turnips and bright smiles, but the mothers always moved them on. Jim was eccentric, creepy, strange.
Jim mourned his mother’s death and never got married. Jim died yesterday.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Mission Creep’
That time
When I asked for a glass
Of wine and you
Brought back two
Bottles.
Or when you went
To town to window shop
And came back with bags of
Clothes.
I call it mission creep.
Things got out of
Hand – you say –
It wasn’t my intention.
But you knew all along.
It’s the same
Everywhere
You claim.
And maybe so.
So
I make the leap
To the streets
These streets
That now
Are always mentioned.
First with a higher police
Presence.
Then with little
Kettles.
Soon unmarked officers and
Baton bruises.
And now come
Plastic bullets.
What
Next?
100-Word Fiction: ‘They will come again and again’
Archeologists discovered signs of large buildings here, perhaps a temple. Remnants of weapons were also found, including traces of what might have been poisons. Certainly battles were fought here. A small camp seems to have existed, with broken pots, pans and temporary shelters found all across the hillside near where a river once flowed. We can only guess what calamity wiped out all of those who lived in those times, and at the extent of the destruction, but, what we do know, is that it was the end of an era – of an empire – and of the start of another.
MW Bewick 