Harlan Ray dismissed modern culture as “a lot of gay shit” and longed for everyone to agree.
“You faggots ever heard of Buster Keaton,” he’d scream. “Son of a bitch wasn’t human, he was a refugee from the planet Krypton. Christ, everybody these days thinks they’re a genius when Hollywood should come with a disclaimer: Only Superhumans need apply!”
Continue readingHearing the side gate opening, Mavis sighed. What’s happened now? Mitzi, Mavis’ poodle, raised her head and groaned, and disappeared behind the sofa. Puffing into sight was Eva, her daughter-in-law with the twins in their buggy. Thankfully they appeared to be asleep.
She stomped in: ”You’ll never believe what your waster of a son has done now!”
Continue reading‘Jed Newton. The hospital? Yes that’s right the wife’s on the list. We was told she’d be a proper good match in the right circumstances but… What? An opportunity has…? I’m not following you, mate. Listen now, she was informed the chances weren’t great due to the rarity of… What? A dying woman has what…? Are you saying Tracy can have her womb transplant?’
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Continue readingThe aboriginal spear looked unsettled in its pristine glass case. Visitors circled it like an enemy surrounding it’s prey. “Kangaroo skin” they murmured after reading the description, “seventeenth century… I wonder if they used it to kill emus” they continued before drifting away.
David stood nearby, rolling his eyes inwardly. As a security guard at the Museum of Ethnic Art it was easy for him to hide in plain sight. Not unlike his Aboriginal ancestors did in the scrub when hunting using a spear like the one displayed. David recognised this weapon, a woomera, as one used by his people for hunting, fishing, fighting, punishment and as a symbolic marker of masculinity.
Continue readingIt was feelings of both fight and flight that hastened Veronica’s trip to Milan. She urgently needed time away to collect her thoughts and prepare for an inevitable fight to come.
Already she had mapped out her problem on a series of mental index cards: Simon; nightmares; feedback from friends; and exit.
In the hotel the task began in earnest.
Continue readingIt was after the phone call informing me of the sixth divorce that I looked into my family history.
Sure enough, my mother confirmed I’m from a long line of bad-omen bridesmaids. We stretch out through time like twisted trees in a forest. Every single union attended by one of us as part of the wedding party has ended, sooner or later, in divorce.
But damn, do we look good in taffeta.
Continue readingFor three years, the paintings had been stacking up against the walls of Rhys’s studio. Mostly landscapes: the Preseli Hills under lowering skies, the Teifi estuary at low tide, the Pembrokeshire cliffs captured in thick, honest brushstrokes. Everyone agreed they were beautiful. The bank statements confirmed they were unsellable.
The Bwthn Colony had eight members left. There had been twenty, once.
She walked in on a Tuesday in March, her bright American accent cutting through the warm, sharp smell of linseed oil.
Continue readingI must admit, I hoped Gran might leave me her jewellery. Instead, on her deathbed, she passed me a box with a shaky hand and said,
‘Melody dear, take this to Chris at Hedgehog Aid. Oh, and this is for you.’
Now, this did look interesting. An ornate gilt-edged diary.
Her death was peaceful, or at least it looked that way from where we were sitting, on three wooden chairs dragged in from the kitchen. I was perched between my Mum and her estranged sister Alice, engulfed in their icy silence. The moment Gran passed, a warm glow filled the room, easing the tension and even some of the grief.
Continue readingAdam Taylor bounced out of the office, a ruggedly handsome man. His life revolved around getting that sensational story that would guarantee his fame and fortune. Life had other plans, he would become famous just not in the way imagined.
Adam had been working on something secretly for months. He was getting close and the lady Audrey, his snout, promised it was the real deal, she had inside information. Walking to the quiet gardens in Kensington he smiled to himself. At last it was going to happen. He was writing the story in his head.
Continue reading‘Get your coat on. We’re off to Tescos.’
‘Are they still open?’
‘Twenty four seven.’
‘Tescos you say…?’
No food in the house, I’ve this broken wrist, you’re driving me.’
Continue readingLate that afternoon, Donald re-emerged aboard what the crew referred to as “Hair Forced One”. He stepped into the press cabin with one arm hanging limp at his side. Face frozen in a blank stare, eyes heavy, he reached up to steady himself on the door frame and launched into an off-the-cuff monologue, giving the press no chance to ask questions.
Continue readingMartha Ferris didn’t see herself as a bad person, never went out of her way to hurt anyone. She just made a point of looking out for number one and if that meant trampling on other people, too bad.
When money was tight, she had a trick to save on food bills. Namely pinching grub from the fridge at work. Taking pride in her quick sleight of hand, as she grabbed her can of coke, she’d shove Rachel’s mini sausages or Nigel’s rice balls into her handbag, but it was Holly Blackbone she loved to steal from.
Continue readingThere have been a number of striking changes in the parallel world known as Fairyland over the last century. Two have been a dropping of dress codes for fairies, and the admission of a number of affiliates, including fairy-adjacent beings and proxy fairies. This loosening of moorings can be illustrated by the raging controversy over Cinderella’s coach being formed from a perfectly edible pumpkin which led to the retiring of the title of Fairy Godmother.
Under new management, the Fairy College has now abolished its single sex entry policy and welcomes overseas fairies with open arms and swelling coffers. This has led to a broader and more diverse approach to the curriculum.
HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 19.02.26.
TASK: ‘The Gift’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘The Gift’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 19th February 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 22.02.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.
Please send homework to Pat O’Connor, or message us via the contact page
Remember the Saturday morning queue, standing outside the local flea pit waiting for it to open? I used to get there early so I could get a seat somewhere about 8 rows back and in the middle of the stalls. It was magic, and I’d watch just about anything – twice if I could get away with it. The Pathe news was a bit of a struggle but even that, and the adverts, had their moments. I can’t say I was drawn to the acting side, but the mystery in the making of films really thrilled me. Just wonderful.
The projectionist running films from his high box looked like a good place to ask questions, so one Saturday I knocked very gently on the box door and found a kind looking man.
Continue readingLooking around the empty room, Cara and Helen were lost in nostalgia. The room still held the smell of lavender, their mother’s favourite polish. Clearing their childhood home had been heartbreaking, and now there was only the attic to clear. They climbed the stairs, their heavy steps echoing through the space. Neither had set foot there for many years.
The door creaked loudly, startling them. They saw a room with boxes packed neatly, cobwebs hanging from the rafters, and a chill air caused them to shiver. Both peered about looking for any sign of rodents. There were no sounds and their breathing relaxed. They checked the first box full of childhood toys, which looked forlorn and slightly grubby. They touched them, smiling, memories of happier times stirred.
Continue readingMrs Jane Hastings, aged fifty-three, felt nothing but childish envy for Ms. Julia Parkhurst. Ms. Parkhurst’s cardinal sin was being pretty. Very pretty actually. She was (to hell with delicacy) a bosomy, twenty-three-year-old, who’s bright smile and cheerful disposition made the acne encrusted boys of Roverbank Comprehensive grunt with longing.
Still professionalism had to be maintained, because today. something alarming had been brought to Hastings’ attention. And when she called Ms. Parkhurst into her office, (resenting how gracefully the young woman sat down) she coughed and said “Julia, we don’t pry into the staff’s personal lives, it’s just when a sex tape is leaked to the public, you may have to resign.”
Continue readingWill leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, steam from his green tea curling around his beard. With a theatrical groan, he tossed a stapled stack of A4 papers onto the table.
“They want a rewrite, Ben,” he sighed. “The script editor, a man with the soul of an old shoe, and the imagination of a month-old brassica, says the pacing is problematic.”
Ben Jonson took a sip of his espresso, suppressing a smirk. “Problematic, Will? What exactly did he say?”
Continue readingRejection emails are processed differently, Jade had learned. She scanned the text for the now-familiar key words, which leapt off the screen directly into her heart.
‘Re: Your screenplay, Tomorrow… whilst we enjoyed… unfortunately… highly selective…’
Jade slammed the laptop shut, as though the message couldn’t hurt her if it wasn’t witness to her tears. When the images of the Netflix parties she wouldn’t be hosting started flashing through her mind, she turned to red wine and The Beatles.
Continue readingHOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 22.01.26.
TASK: ‘The Movie’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘The Movie’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 22nd January 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 25.01.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.
Send all homework to Pat
Use the Contact Us page to get Pat’s email
