100-Word Fiction: ‘August’s End’

On the quay in a cagoule, with a north wind blowing in rain and echoing through the halyards of the Essex smacks. A cormorant headed up the estuary; the Roman River was full and the silent black-headed gulls bobbed on the choppy water. There was no one there, no one at the pub or in the café. The swallows were gone; the golden fields now steely stubble. She was trying to make a phone call for no particular purpose other than to keep in touch with someone. The signal was dead. There were times when something just needed to give.

100-Word Fiction: ‘A Cold Spring: Part 4’

Oh this spring has been ruinous. These reflections, thoughts! And then heating up yesterday’s leftovers of stew, listening to some millionaire on the radio, distracted by the garden’s bare earth and stunted buds. I got a text from friends on holiday earlier: the sun had come out and they had gone swimming. Here there are flurries of snow again. Tomorrow will be the same. We are becoming desperate. We do not know it but we are.

‘There’s only so long a coat keeps out the cold.’ It was all dad said as finished his pint and returned home to sleep.

100-Word Fiction: ‘How Long I Walked’

Today, as they talked, I again took notes. The records will show I wrote:

‘[I] believe that if the P___ leadership adheres to continuous negotiations, despite the obstacles that are coming up on every side, and if it is serious and determined in its intention to advance towards peace, just as we are serious, then it will be possible to, within a year, reach a framework that will be the basis for a peace settlement.”

Later I walked out along the cliffs. The sky was blue and I enjoyed the breeze. But a deep sadness is on the horizon. Again.