100-Word Fiction: ‘Snowblind’

She was running through snowflakes. He always told her to take care, don’t slip, keep her gloves on, wear a hat, knowing how paranoid he sounded and how much he felt like his own father. The moment made him anxious, frustrated and sad. She just smiled and ran off up the hill. Look at her go. She was too young to know anything, she just wanted to slide. The burn of the cold would come later and she’d know then. Adults forgot how these days were nothing but fun. Fun was blind. Was that an expression? If only she’d lived.

100-Word Fiction: ‘Perspectives’

Daddy. Who was not where? Beards at the kitchen table.

Dad. Ties styled wide to thin. A holiday in Somerset, golden evenings and tractors. A rainy motorway and shouting.

Father travels first-class now. Him and Vic. Vic Benson is important. An important name. To me. I went away. So did dad. Pinstripes blurred.

Dad took mum to Spain every year, drank wine and smoked cigars.

He came to my office once, chatted up Stella on reception. She said ‘enamoured’; I reddened.

Vic got jailed for fraud. Dad didn’t.

He grows veg now. I live closer, but father is further away.