100-Word Fiction: ‘A Week In the Sun’

Sunshine. I could cry when I think about it. In January, when the rain teems down and those mornings are so dark, I want sunshine, no less.

Have you got any holidays planned? asks a colleague.

To know that you deserve a break, a week or two in the sun. How long to go?

Maybe even a winter break for some immediate warmth. A poolside and palm trees, southern Med, with a distant call to prayer. Locals in the streets – and a Frenchman, taking photos, killed by a canister of teargas. More than 100 dead. They call it ‘unrest’. Tears.

100-Word Fiction: ‘A Safe Bet’

Oh come on, man.

No. No more. You’ll just lose it.

I won’t. I’ve been tipped off. It’s a sure thing.

You’ve said that before.

Just £20. The odds will sort us out.

You’ve said that before too.

And I won.

You didn’t. You fucked off and I was out of pocket for months.

But I gave you it back. And I did win.

Did you? How much?

I got good odds.

How much did you win?

About £600.

With my money.

But you gave it to me.

Where’s your winnings?

I spent it. But come on, just another £20.

100-Word Fiction: ‘The Weather God’

In a village of the desert regions, men and women gazed at the heavens and prayed. A wind was up and clouds were rolling in. Lightning flashed. It never rained in high summer.

The steel structure had arrived in the village a few months ago: a giant totem. The Westerners called it an “emitter”. It sent messages to their god. The villagers looked on in wonder.

But then the palm trees blew and the blue sky grew grey. Slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, drops of rain began to fall. The villagers shuddered. The Westerners called the outlook “optimistic”.

100 Word Fiction: ‘At This Time of Year’

A barn owl crosses the fields, just here, every morning at seven o’ clock, at this time of year. And sometimes a deer jumps out from the hedgerow. Church towers can be seen every mile or so, through the bare trees, on towards the horizon and the cold, cold sea. We are on our way somewhere, between here and there, between last year and next, burying our heads in congregations and congratulations. But we laugh and sing while the real news continues. We daren’t look. News at this time of year is always a tragedy. The rutted earth is frozen.

100-Word Fiction: ‘Red Hope’

A hot bath can do strange things, no joke. There I was, straight into the steam with a book on the side to read. And then thoughts, good and bad. A solitary drip from the sink tap. Outside everything frozen up; trains and planes cancelled. Life’s long waiting game.

There was a beep from my phone downstairs. Who was it? For fuck… I had things to do, obviously. And this morning, low in the sky, the moon had turned a red colour. Had the radio said the cause was climatic? I thought they said climactic. I would prefer the latter.

100-Word Fiction: ‘Horses’

Horses, statuesque and all in line. Black coats, chestnut and white. Lush manes and tails. Snorting horses standing tall. A sight to behold. A historical site. Black riders, yellow vests, black helmets. Fluorescent yellow. A bright flash across a grey street, the muddle of a crowded square, seen from a helicopter, a camera on a crane. A horse’s slow walk forward. Then the rest, following: fifteen. The horses trotting, horses at a canter, into the street, the public throng. Horses at a canter, the crowd divided, falling and crushed. A black and yellow blade to the heart of a hope.

100-Word Fiction: ‘We Went For a Pizza’

I’m not a racist,
Said the waiter.
It’s just I think
That you won’t pay.
I know your sort;
I’ve seen your kind before.

Your kind? Your kind?

You know what I mean.
With your clothes
And your hair
And the way that you are.
You’re not to be trusted;
That’s what I think.

I read it in the tabloids,
Saw it on TV –
There were some kids
On Eastenders –
You look like them to me.

You’re here to cause trouble,
And I’m happy to believe it.
And I’m white.
And I’m a manager.
And there’s nothing you can do.

100-Word Fiction: ‘Goldilocks’

On account of his hair, they called him Goldilocks. He did like porridge too and sometimes had it for breakfast, sat at his desk, checking his emails. He worked quietly, slotting CDs into the disk drive and humming along to songs by Lady Gaga – his favourite! It took his mind off the wretchedness of his existence. He believed his position was hypocritical and hated the duplicity of his bosses who were always absent or in secret meetings. He did his own work, with data. It was a key to a world that no one knew. But they would, very soon.

100-Word Fiction: ‘1981’

That summer, cauliflowers and cabbages landed in our garden, gifts from next door’s vegetable patch. Maybe we played army in the fields. Post-Lennon, pre-Falklands, before the first CDs, just after the Toxteth riots and ahead of Sadat’s assassination. Retro styling meant Shakin’ Stevens and the future was the Commodore 64. There were street parties while plans were hatched, affairs were had, lies were told, while you were a sudden shudder, engendered there – and then… the burning truth, the broken car, and your mother dead.

And, well, we used to talk over the garden fence; now we do it across firewalls.

100 Word Fiction: ‘…because we never learn…’

Every year they are sent out and cheered on… leaves fall to the ground… across the grey pavements strewn… the news bulletins roll and call… civilians giving money to young men and women in combat fatigues…

There are dates… 11/11… 9/11… 7/7… 11/11… 11/11… and onwards… to the cenotaphs and the white halls and houses… year after year… so that everyone must know… suit lapels stained with a red wound… sweaters punctured by a crimson splash… so we must know again… and line up… and sing… and bow our heads…

…fall to the dread drumbeat… marched down… trampled… forgotten… again…