It was too easy to suggest that no one knew the full story; that no one understood. But he did feel that was true. It was also too easy to condemn. No one knew his background. Probably no one cared. He earned little money. Where he had come from! Then there was his family, the country itself. And if all that, then one day… while the sun was shining, if he had made up his mind and agreed in his head that yes, it was okay, to do what needed to be done – and he had purposefully overstepped the mark…
100-Word Fiction: ‘If I Could Just…’
If I could just…
Why were they looking so anxious? What were they trying to protect? Alaric knew. He knew! He tried again:
If I could just…
I think we need to look elsewhere, said one of the bosses.
Yes, yes, said one of the acolytes. We need to show some ingenuity, be more convincing.
They weren’t even listening to Alaric.
If I could…
We need to look at bringing more people in.
The meeting table looked like a battleground: legions of coffee cups, glasses, crisp packets.
And Alaric was a petty vandal caught up in their petty fucking empire.
100-Word Fiction: ‘They Loved Him Once’
He was the sort of guy that, for some reason, even though he had at one time been immensely popular, and even though his sheer enthusiasm to do things differently and better had won him all kinds of support and a deep well of trust, could suddenly, spectacularly, lose his appeal. Certain actions (and perhaps some of the relationships he had formed) were deemed, not only by his enemies but by those previously well disposed to him, as having been unforgivable, and the more he protested his innocence, and even proffered gifts, the more everyone’s hatred of him would deepen.
100-Word Fiction: ‘The View From Here’
He was looking over the treetops, across the plains. The view from the roof was incredible. It was evening and everywhere was bathed with a brownish hue. He wanted to stay up there for ever. Let it rain; he didn’t care. The kids were asleep in the corner, covered by a blanket of plastic sheeting. Somewhere down in the brown was the rest of his family. When he last saw his uncle a week ago, the old man was clinging to a post as the torrents tried to drag him under. Now the birds were singing again. God was everywhere.
100-Word Fiction: ‘The Unexploded Bombs’
The parcel bombs did not explode. They were discovered on p7, right next to Tom Jones. They were defused with only fifteen lines headed ‘Crime’, buried beneath news of Carlos Acosta dancing and a powerboat accident (p6), teenage choristers (p5), loan sharks (p4) and a BBC sitcom (pp1-2). The bombs made no sound. They were intercepted in London, one addressed to MI6 and one to Downing Street. The word did not spread. Message not received. No TV news item showed that terrorists had targeted the heart of the state. But then the postcode on the packages was Caernarfon, not Islamaville.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Chicken’
Apparently the humble chicken
Is the closest living thing
To the Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I heard a woman say it
In the street today
So it surely must be correct.
My thoughts drifted off
To a man I once knew,
A friendship now extinct
It was the accumulation
Of little lies
Over the years.
And the hurtful things
That he would say as jokes
That made it worse.
And the way his own fears
Played out against mine:
It had to stop.
Confirmed first suspicions.
Sometimes I see the chicken
In the old T-Rex
But sometimes the monster in the chicken.
100-Word Fiction: ‘REDACTED’
Certain informations remain disapplied for reasons of international security. Documentation pertaining to concurrent pertinences and actions during qualified renditions of suspects is undergoing systemic release to relevant authorities. Independent assessment of such documentation will ascertain that under no circumstances have parties sought to disclarify evidence that could help with any investigation. Instances of disclarification are treated appropriately. Redacting of documents is necessary for ongoing global security initiatives. It is appropriate to release the names of government agents and Forces personnel, particularly ******* Sir **** ***** and the Right Honorable ******* ***** whose orders ******* for the torture of British citizens.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Toil and Trouble’
For my toils they will all feel trouble. Thrice those patchy pussycats mewed for my help. Those poisonous toads, serpents, yapping lazy dogs. Come drink from this charmed pot and see if you sleep so well. Within these pages is a hell-broth; for I make powerful magic. My trickery prophesied all – the spell was cast long ago, but you did not see. You two, the king and the prince, had always murdered victory. One of you too sure, the other so uncertain, with true power not secured. But I will not be the ghost at a feast. So, read on…
100-Word Fiction: ‘Ruined’
There is something especially pleasing about smoking a large Havana cigar while drinking brandy. Feet resting on a leather stool, with the windows open on a late afternoon in summer and the rush-hour traffic grumbling along below. How content one can be.
This was the thought that filled my mind as I let the smoke roll round my mouth and the alcohol warmed my heart.
The moment was broken by the junior who rushed in.
It’s done, he said: We’ve been successful. The schools are ruined, gone.
I smiled. Ah, that content feeling again; truly the way things should be.
100-Word Fiction: ‘He Walked Away’
As he walked away from the football fields he heard a cheer. One of the kids must have scored. He looked at the time on his phone: it was fine, he’d be in the pub in twenty. Sometimes he wondered whether his own boy liked playing football. How old would he be now? Nine, maybe ten? Sarah had made it so difficult though. Splitting up was difficult. She’d taken him. It was better if you just stayed away – and they would be okay for money. Her family would help. What could he do anyway? He was skint. He couldn’t help.
MW Bewick 