100-Word Fiction: ‘A Cold Spring: Part 1’

There is a queue spilling from a greengrocer’s door into a gentrified street. The customers are affluent and wrapped up in tweed and heavy knits. In a pub round the corner the rugby has just finished. The landlord kills the screen and the afternoon’s drinkers begin to disperse. Everyone goes home to cook or order something in. Drink.

Oh this spring has been cold. My neighbour says that if they don’t feel the warmth of the sun, narcissi grow up blind. They rise, look strong, but never flower. I think of this sometimes when I watch the wealthy at play.

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100-Word Fiction: ‘In the Haze’

It was the early period of the Pacific drought and every day, J___ would walk along the promenade, whether in a summer cold snap or the heatwave of a late autumn afternoon. He would stop and stare at the container ships on the horizon, imagining the imports and exports, and see the plumes of smoke from the refinery. All was well. On the pier, children whooshed down the helter-skelter. Through the haze of sea and sun, J___ saw the faint outline of the wind turbines. Were they nearer than before? There was something in his throat. He felt scared.