100-Word Fiction: ‘The Daffodil Girl’

She is the daffodil girl with the golden hair. She is here in the spring, telling us to slip off our winter coats. She is warmth and smiles, turning her face to the sun and the coming summer. She brings tales of childhood and hopes for the year ahead. I sometimes think the garden grows for her, because of her, in need of her. If in autumn she is nowhere, remember she’ll be back – glimpses of her come like a miracle even in the ice of January. She is always there; beneath the seasons she is constant. She is life.

100-Word Fiction: ‘If Just Once Those Birds’

If just once those birds
That scatter snow from the tall tree –
Its branches shaken from white to green
By whirled circles on the wing –
Would cross to us and feed

If just once those birds
Would cease from flailing
And flashing their colours
To the phosphorescent sky
And be still

If just once those birds,
As the yellow lamps
Light to stain the day,
Would linger and tread
Our path

If once those birds
Would trust
Our nails and wood
And feeding cage

If those birds
Suffered the troubles
We went to

If those birds
Saw humans
In snow

100-Word Fiction: ‘A Bone’

In the park the dog was wrestling with a bone. Hey, said the man, throwing a ball into the sky. The dog ran across the frosty grass and the ball soared into the winter blue, rising above the trees. Upwards from the tops of the oaks and birches a bird flew – maybe it was a dove – towards the gold-flecked river; and out in the distance, across the water, was a thin white plume. Aeroplanes. Horizons in Europe, the Indian Ocean, warmer climes, desert sun, heat. The heat – a missile caught in a tragic arc, screeching to earth. Earth, flesh, bone.

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.