Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction is an increasingly popular form of writing characterised by its extreme brevity. Known also as Postcard Fiction and Micro-Fiction, the emerging term generally refers to short stories of no more than 1,000 words. Here are some examples written by Huw Powell:

Contact: queries@huwpowell.co.uk

April Showers (April 2009)

Simon lay in his bed staring at the altocumulus cloud formations through his open skylight. It was Sunday morning and he was avoiding his weekend chores, such as cleaning, washing and ironing. His body was tired and his mind filled with thoughts of work and the week ahead.

A large commercial jet entered the window frame and steadily crept into his vision. It was not unusual to see aeroplanes darting across the sky, heading towards a variety of unknown destinations. This one was low enough to make out its bright red design, which caught the dawn sun and glistened like a giant ruby.

Simon watched it with fascination, marvelling at the achievement of mankind. It was amazing to think how something so big and heavy could glide so gracefully on fresh air, covering hundreds of miles at a time. He wondered if this flight was just leaving or just arriving.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted as the plane exploded in a massive ball of fire, making him jump and open his mouth in shock.

“Holy fucking shit,” he whispered, gripping his duvet.

What just happened?

Planes don’t explode like that, do they? Not in real life, not in his sky. Maybe it was an act of terrorism, a bomb planted in someone’s luggage?

Simon watched as bits of debris separated in slow motion and filled the sky thousands of feet above him. It was then that he realised he had approximately thirty seconds before tonnes of blackened wreckage rained down onto his neighbourhood.

Thirty seconds.

His mind raced in a wild panic, as he lay frozen in his bed. There wasn’t enough time to warn everyone, to evacuate the village, to save his friends and family. Had they seen the explosion? Had they heard the muffled bang? He had to get up. He had to do something.

Twenty seconds.

The sky darkened as the pieces grew closer, heading towards him at maximum velocity. Simon could now distinguish between bits of fuselage, luggage, seats and people. It was horrific.

“Move,” he shouted at himself, but his body refused to comply.

Where could he go? He didn’t have time to get to a safe distance and there weren’t any bomb shelters in his street. The whole area was about to be entered into a deadly lottery, with no way to predict which homes would be destroyed.

Ten seconds.

Trapped with indecision, Simon remained in his bed. He considered standing in a doorway or hiding under a table, but he knew that nothing could prevent a jet engine from turning his house into a crater, if he were unlucky enough to be hit.

Five seconds.

He could now see the bloodied faces of the passengers and flight crew less than a hundred feet away. It was too late to act, all he could do was wait and pray.

Simon pulled the duvet over his head and closed his eyes.

Flatline Caroline (November 2008)

Caroline didn’t like her job very much. Well, if she was entirely honest, it was more that she didn’t like her boss. She worked as a nurse in an emergency theatre in a major London hospital, assisting the Chief Surgeon, Sir Jeremy Glass. Although she was very good at her job, the hospital had one of the worst records in the country, losing increasingly more patients every year.

Sir Jeremy was bordering on incompetent, unable to save the majority of his cases. It was almost criminal how many people had died under his knife in recent years, surely the Board would be launching an investigation. Caroline used to hate the way he would look at the ceiling after losing a patient and mutter to himself, as if blaming God for his own failure. The irony was that Caroline now lay on Sir Jeremy’s operating table, bleeding to death.

Why did she get so drunk at the Christmas party?

Why did she go home with Sir Jeremy?

Why did she let him touch her?

Why did he slit her throat?

Caroline felt a sudden change and realised that she was slipping away. In her final moments, she found herself floating above her own body, staring down on the gory mess below. This is it, she thought, just another patient lost to ineptitude. Then, as she floated higher into the air, Sir Jeremy raised his head and looked directly into her eyes.

“I can see you,” he muttered.

The Prodigal Father (October 2008)

It’s been five days since God returned to Earth with a legion of angels.

Yes, God.

Most people are still in shock, even those who used to go to church. Why did we think this would never happen? When did we stop believing that God was more than a concept?

There was no warning, no indication that on Monday morning the sky would suddenly be filled with brilliant light and heavenly figures. It just happened.

In the first few days, the world looked towards its political and religious leaders for help, but the Lord doesn’t recognise governments or other self-imposed positions of power, not even the Pope. All men are equal, after all, there is only one God.

“How do we know it’s really him?” one person had asked.

“Do you want to ask him for ID?” another had responded.

Most of the scientists are still in denial, trying to find rational explanations for such an unprecedented event, suggesting that this could be an alien invasion or some kind of mass hallucination. I suppose it’s their way of dealing with it. The most popular theory is that God fell out with mankind thousands of years ago, when humans felt they were ready to run the Garden of Eden. God agreed to leave and not return in any shape or form until humanity was on the verge of destroying itself and the Earth.

It’s terrifying to think that we must have reached that point, but not really surprising. Political tensions have been at breaking point around the world, to the extent that nuclear vessels have been deployed into our polluted oceans. The environment is deteriorating faster than ever, terrorism is spreading like a disease, the financial markets are in global meltdown, and the seven deadly sins are actively worshipped on the streets.

Five days ago, we were given a week to judge ourselves, to think about our sins and decide if we still deserved to live in paradise. Then, on the seventh day, God will cast all the sinners from the garden, so only the good can remain on the Earth. Judgment day is only the day after tomorrow. Is there anyone without sin these days? What actually counts as sin? No-one can find a comprehensive definition anywhere. I expect it’s like a legal contract—the devil is in the detail.

Many people have purchased or stolen bibles, hoping to find some answers or win favour, but the bible is only a book written by men, so its value is limited as spiritual currency. Other people have gone mad, mentally breaking down or taking their own lives, yet surely there is no escape in the end.

Me? I’ve chosen not to repent, as I don’t really regret anything that I’ve done. No, instead, I’m spending my last few days in an empty bar enjoying expensive whiskey. Just one thought interrupts my otherwise blissful intoxication. If there really is a Heaven, then there must also be a Hell. I pour myself another drink and crack open a smile. It could be worse, I convince myself, at least I won’t be lonely down there.

The Last Englishman (September 2008)

Thirty years. It’s exactly thirty years since the great nuclear war wiped out half of the modern world. It’s impossible to know which country started it, or even why, as the devastation annihilated all government buildings, personnel and documentation. The surviving countries have all struggled to maintain control since the fallout, with many descending into anarchy or civil war.

My name is Henry Higgins and I’m the last Englishman. I was working for the Red Cross in Africa when the war started, unloading crates of medicine in Zambia as the sky lit up. It only took a few hours to eradicate a few billion people and turn their homes into mass graves. A few hours. I’ve spent the last thirty years searching for other survivors from my country, but the closest I’ve come is finding refugees from Wales and Scotland. My conclusion is that any other English survivors must have been since killed, either caught up in riots or infected by one of the new super diseases.

It’s the little things that I miss, the quintessential things that defined my land of hope and glory, such as decent fish and chips, a pint of warm bitter, the royal family, the miserable weather... my wife and kids. I long to hear the rich dialects from the different regions again. I struggle to remember some of them now, yet I can still recall a number of cheerful Geordie phases and the wonderfully nasal Midlands accent.

I’ve become quite a celebrity in these parts, a bit of a spectacle—the last Englishman. People expect me to be extremely posh, well mannered and somehow personify an entire country. Ironically, I was actually linked to royalty on my mother’s side of the family. She once told me that I was three hundred and forty-sixth in line to the throne.

I suppose that now makes me the King of England by default, but what is the point of being a King without a country, or any subjects, or even a crown. I’m too old now to take a Queen and start a family, but maybe I should make the effort, as there is no-one else to continue the bloodline.

Sitting on the side of a rotting harbour, I stare at a rusting tug boat in front of me. The captain assures me that it’s sea worthy, and that it will only take a week to get to New Dublin. It’s my only option and it has cost me all of the gold that I could scavenge. There is a small corner of Southern Ireland that is still habitable. It’s not quite London, but it’s as close as I will ever get now.

The captain calls for me to board his vessel. It feels funny leaving these African shores after so many years, but I don’t have long to live and feel the need to be near my home once again. I take a deep breath and rise steadily to my feet. This will be my final journey. My final adventure. Has it really been thirty years?

Keeping up with the Draculas (August 2008)

The dinner party was going well. It had been a while since James and Helen had caught up with Vladimir and Ellie, so they had plenty to talk about. As they chatted and laughed, Vladimir opened a fourth bottle of red wine, while Ellie served kangaroo steaks (which were a little on the rare side for Helen).

James ate heartily and then excused himself, heading upstairs to the bathroom. It wasn’t the first time that he had used his friend’s toilet, yet he felt the urge to be nosey. He decided to blame the alcohol for his sudden burst of curiosity, giving himself a cheeky wink in the mirror as he explored their shelves and cabinets.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in the room, as far as he could tell, only the usual selection of soaps, lotions, and decorative sea shells. Then, as he washed his hands, he noticed the tube of toothpaste. It sat innocently in front of him. ‘Fangshine’. He had never heard of that particular brand. Maybe it was Eastern European? Maybe he should try a bit to help freshen his breath? James unscrewed the cap and squeezed some of the paste onto his fingertip. It was dark red.

How strange, he thought, what kind of toothpaste is this? It didn’t smell like mint, it smelt more like kangaroo steak and it looked like it was made out of... blood. In a moment of realisation, James recoiled from the sink, dropping the tube on the bathroom floor in disgust. Who the hell has blood for toothpaste? Then, in his drunken and shocked state, he tripped over the rug and fell backwards into the empty bath with a crash.

Within seconds the room was filled with Helen, Vladimir and Ellie. Their expressions of concern soon turned to laughter as they saw James and realised that he was unharmed. Then the laughter stopped as Vladimir and Helen noticed the open toothpaste on the floor. Helen bent down and picked it up, examining the crimson fluid leaking from the opening.

“What’s this?” she enquired, a little confused, “is it strawberry flavoured?”

“Erm… not quite,” admitted Vladimir, “it’s blood.”

“Vlad!” shouted Ellie in horror.

“I’m sorry Elvira,” he responded, turning to his wife, “I’m sick of lying to our friends.”

“Blood?” Helen was more than a little confused now.

“Are you vampires?” asked James nervously, still sitting in the bath with his feet in the air.

“Yes,” said Vladimir calmly, “I’m afraid so.”

“Vampires?” Helen scrunched her nose, “I don’t understand.”

“Think about it,” said James, rising to his feet and banging his head on the shower unit, “we hardly see them all summer, they never come out in the day for lunch or coffee, they refuse to celebrate any religious holidays, and they can’t stand garlic.”

Helen cautiously sniffed the tube of blood paste, and then all the colour in her face disappeared.

“Vampires? Vampires? So that’s the real reason why you didn’t come to our wedding last year,” she said, putting down the tube, “it all makes sense now.”

“We’re so sorry,” apologised Ellie, looking embarrassed, “we were too frightened to tell you the truth.”

“It’s true, some people have a very bad impression of vampires,” added Vlad, “we’ve been demonised for centuries.”

There was an awkward silence. No-one knew what to say or do next. The alcohol was making the whole conversation more surreal than terrifying. Helen moved closer to James as she became aware that Vlad and Ellie were standing between them and the door.

“So… do you eat people?” asked James, timidly.

“No!” exclaimed Vlad, “we never kill to feed, we survive by eating animal meat and by cleaning our teeth with human blood paste.”

Helen winced and closed her eyes.

“The paste is produced in a secret factory, using blood collected by fake donor vans,” Ellie explained, “no-one gets hurt in the process.”

“I prefer Chinese or Egyptian blood,” revealed Vlad, “but Ellie has a particular fancy for the rich taste of Columbians.”

“Please stop,” begged James, holding his stomach, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Helen stepped forward slightly.

“Let me get this right, you’re friendly vampires?” she asked, “and you’re not going to bite us?”

“No,” confirmed Vlad happily, relieved that they were making progress, “now why don’t we all go back downstairs and eat dessert, Ellie has made some lovely Blood Orange Sorbet… just kidding.”

It took a while for James and Helen to get used to the idea, as vampirism is about as taboo as you can get, but eventually they realised that it could be quite fun having vampires for friends, especially at Halloween.

“It must be tough, living a secret life,” observed James, as they drank coffee.

“It’s a nightmare,” reflected Vlad, “my Uncle Jack was a vampire who tried to live life to the full, but he ended-up getting killed in a German nightclub back in the Eighties.”

“By a vampire hunter?” asked Helen, sympathetically.

“No, by tacky ultra-violet lighting and a giant glitter ball.”

Horror Scope (July 2008)

Standing on the pavement outside, there is something very familiar about the house in front of me. In my mind, echoes of memories tease my consciousness and feed my apprehension. I had to come here, I had no choice in the matter, my star signs had been very clear. For weeks, I’ve been manipulated by an invisible puppet master, an anonymous astrologer in my local paper, whose cryptic column had become so accurate, I now feel unable to make decisions on my own.

At first it was harmless, as if I was being dared to approach strange women, or stand up to my strict parents, but then my horoscopes became much more personal, as if the predictions were being tailored specifically for me. They would mention familiar names and places, and advise me to do things that I’ve secretly desired for years. This started out positively, enabling me to start a diary and conquer my fear of karaoke, but then things turned increasingly more sinister and I’ve been forced to do terrible things.

When my star signs instructed me to attack my neighbour, Tim, for playing his stereo too loud at night, I knew that things were getting out of control. I tried to confront the local paper, turning up at their office and demanding to see their astrologer. I was scared and angry, but I was also determined to meet my tormentor and put an end to my nightmare.

The receptionist explained that very few people actually worked in the office, and that most of the articles were now submitted via e-mail. I was furious. It took a lot of persuasion to get a home address from the girl, but desperate times call for extreme measures. I left the building before the police arrived.

Now, as I enter my mystic master’s house, I feel my hands start to shake. Is it adrenaline? Is it nerves? I’m about to meet my own personal script-writer, the oracle who controls my life. Let’s face it, I wouldn’t even be standing in their kitchen if they hadn’t told me to do it. I no-longer control my own fate—I’m completely at their mercy.

Moving away from the garden door and the smashed glass window, I notice something on the dining table next to a bottle of pills. It’s a note written in my own handwriting. I pick it up and read it out loud, “Dear Gemini, today is the big day, today you will discover that you are your own author, welcome home you schizo! P.S. don’t forget to feed the fish.”