It clicked with Little Georgey at around the time of his eleventh birthday. At first it was his father’s inventiveness, the way there was always some unfathomable new excuse: No, there could be no new holiday, not while the roof needed fixing. No, there would be no big birthday presents this year, not while his mother’s job was unsettled. The roof was never fixed. His mum worked happily. But there were no big presents, no holiday. Little George asked why. His father shook his head and laughed. Little boy, he said, little boy, it’s the way things work. You’ll learn.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Flying Scotsman’
It’s prehistoric, Jonesy had commented when Cam walked him through the engine shed to the turntable, where the locomotive gleamed in the electric light.
Aye, a mammoth job, Cam had replied.
Indeed it was. The smell of paint and grease had been in Cam’s nostrils for weeks. It was a beast all right. It was alien too; something from another world. You could smile or scratch your head, but to think people had lived side by side with these machines. The sooty towns and the crumbling villages. It was almost too much.
And now the information age, thought Cam. Ach.
100-Word Fiction: ‘So I Got My Head Kicked In, But I Was Asking For It (Redux version)
So I went to this dodgy pub and at the bar this fella gives me grief. But I chat to him then we’re having a laugh and he buys me a pint. Later I’m with my mates and he keeps looking over. At closing time he starts chatting again, pissed. I don’t want any aggro so I go along with what he’s saying. We get the same bus, but when we get off things turn nasty and he knocks me over and starts kicking my head and won’t stop. But it’s not a ‘serious’ kicking: I was asking for it.
100-Word Fiction: Girl Meets Boy
The young girl ran out of the hotel in tears. Her family thought it was a good job, prestigious. She earned little, like all the immigrant workers, and hoped for tips she could split between the family fund and a Friday night out. Chambermaids were suspended from work all the time, said the cleansing manager. The girl’s case was no different except in one respect. High spirits and regret were the words used. And the old man watched and dictated terms to his lawyers. He had developed a twitch, rubbed his eyes. That cow. Who was she to make accusations?
100-Word Fiction: ‘The Cave’
For many years we have lived a cave. We have been chained, our heads fixed, our gaze transfixed. We have watched shadows, believing them to be real. We have heard echoes, believing them to be true. We have been entrapped by reflections of reality, thinking we understood the nature of the world and that society depended on those shadows.
What would happen if we were released? If we saw the truth that cast the shadows? If we looked into the light of the fire? Would we stand up and turn towards the sun? Would we wish a return to darkness?
100-Word Fiction: ‘That Wedding Dress’
Wearing this jacket, which bears witness to the grand public schools, the British Empire, Kipling and Kitchener, Ypres, the Somme and the Western Front, brassy medals, Chelsea bombings, fighting in Norway, Palestine, South Africa, Iraq, Afghanistan and the Balkans, the Order of St Patrick, the ‘Troubles’, Brian Boru, the kid cadets still named ‘mini Micks’, Passchendaele, Jacobites and the Battle of the Boyne, the bear-skin hats, the Stuart dynasty, postings in Belize, Cyprus, securement of the British Sector of West Berlin, Kuwait, Basra, County Fermanagh, Zimbabwe-Rhodesia, the freedom of Liverpool, with thousands upon thousands dead and mutilated, I thee wed.
100-Word Fiction: ‘The Problem With Statistics’
I’m not sure if I can remember the exact amount. Bear with me. Was it 997, or 979, or 977, or 799, or 797, or 779, or maybe even 759? This number. It was hundreds. There were sevens and nines in it, definitely. Hundreds. Sevens of hundreds, I think, if I remember. Did you not see? It was in the news. How quick these things pass us by. Numbers. Released while we were hoisting the flags and choosing our party frocks. Numbers of people, schoolchildren and pensioners, the mentally ill, illegally imprisoned, dressed in orange. Does the exact number matter?
100-Word Fiction: ‘The Prime Minister Speaks’
The sun is out and a flurry of cars pass the end of the road, windows open. Mr and Mrs Bluebird are hopping through the velvet branches of the staghorn tree and there is laughter in the little park. At the corner, a man with his shirt sleeves rolled up arranges a drink with a colleague, speaking into his mobile phone with a voice that is bright and certain. I hear the clip clop of high heel shoes and the sound of a hosepipe from next door’s patio. There is not a solitary cloud in the sky.
The Prime Minister…
100-Word Fiction: ‘Andy’
Oh, you know, he was gorgeous. I thought so when he had short hair but when he grew it, my god. A local boy through and through, a real strapping lad. Those shoulders!
Of course everyone knew he liked a drink. A bad lad. None of us judged, not while he was causing such a stir.
But I know why he left. People say they hate him now and they can say what they like. We had fun. I loved him, kind of. Kind of. I sometimes still see him. A lass on his arm, smiling. He plays the game.
100-Word Fiction: ‘For the Kids, RIP’
In a bedroom with a notebook and biro. Turning words into lyrics. The radio on. Up-and-coming stars. Thoughts of playing gigs and getting on telly. The songs to be sung and the power to change the world. All those guitars. Rips in jeans and hair falling over eyes. A plaid shirt. Some jotted down chords. Browsing in record shops and nights in the pub. Dreams of success and band rehearsals made up of gaffer tape, howling feedback and arguments. Lying on a bed with the window open in spring. Listening to the news. Stomach cramps. Depression. Drugs. A shotgun. Over.
MW Bewick 