Noah was still taking a deep, pollen-filled breath beneath the wisteria when Carrie opened the door. He hadn’t yet manifested his Cat-Shelter-Worker persona, let alone pressed the doorbell.
He’d always thought the photos of Carrie in those speculative articles were filtered, but here she was, not a line on her sixty-year-old face. Her sharp blue eyes narrowed as she regarded him.
Continue readingThe pub door opened and a large figure, like a swollen keg of ale, rolled into the premises. Another equally rotund chap was at his heels. The first one, Huw ‘Jars’ Scanlan, spilt himself into the largest chair in the bar, the second, Hugh ‘Janus’ O’ Keefe, purchased two pints of stout. He carried them across to the table with the reverence of a court servant carrying an embroidered cushion for a monarch. The cream crowns atop the beer maintained unruffled dignity during their journey.
Continue readingThe management plan was never going to work, obviously. An NVQ in business studies simply didn’t cover these aspects of workforce management. By the end of the day the situation had descended into a plan for saving managerial face and finally releasing everyone to their homes and local pubs. The union managed to extract a promise of overtime at quadruple rates in return for waiving any right to begin legal action alleging unlawful, enforced detention in a workplace.
Continue readingJuniper loved the walk from the cottage to the battered blue post box at the end of her lane. Her steps took on a lightness as she padded barefoot, swaying with baby Violet tucked on her hip, high on the savoury aroma of wild garlic. Pale yellow primroses, cowslips and bluebells caught the bucolic spring sunshine. This corner of Dorset would always be home. Her mother and grandmother had grown up here. It was here that Juniper could better remember her mother Astrid – the arc of her nose, the daffodil chains they had made, the scent of milky rice pudding straight from the Aga.
Continue reading“Forgive me Father,” the boy’s voice whispered in the dark, “for I have sinned.”
“And what,” asked the kindly voice of Father McDonald “have you done?”
“I’ve murdered someone.”
A brief silence.
“I see, my child.”
“I poisoned Father McPhearson.”
Continue readingHOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 02.07.26.
TASK: ‘Confession’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘Confession’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 2nd July 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 05.07.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.
The dwarf realm of Barin-Ti had held strong for a thousand years but now it was dreadfully sick.
The native dwarves had resisted the attacks of the warriors of Am-Nor and An-Morn, defending themselves with axes and cannons, refusing to surrender.
Only now a more persistent and insidious threat had appeared. These new invaders method of conquest was importing huddled masses, coming to the dwarf kingdom in hopes of a better life.
Continue reading‘Trail my wife and get me evidence of hanky-panky. That way I can divorce the bitch cheaply.’ The guy, Ben Blaidd, had mean eyes that might have been filched from a rat. Then he hissed, ‘I want dirt, I want grubby.’
I’m Johnny Gumboot, private detective. Grubbiness, you could say, is engrained in my calling. Blaidd added that his missus was seeing an audiologist whom he referred to as Huw Jeers. Was that the man’s name or his affliction?
Continue readingPhil Moody crouched beside his daughter as she sat cross-legged on the wet sand, and tucked his coat around his knees. Jeez, he thought, the weather forecast wasn’t wrong about the change.
“What are you doing, love?”
Arabella had her palms pressed flat to the sand, head tilted, as though listening for something underneath.
“Saying goodbye.”
“Goodbye to what?”
“My friends.”
Continue readingHOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 28.05.26.
TASK: ‘Climate’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘Climate’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 28th May 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 31.05.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.
Send all homework to Pat
As Bella ripped the false lash from her eyelid, a hot salty tear slid down her cheek. An avalanche of smoky mascara followed in pursuit. Flannel in hand she began to scrub the orange skin on her face, enraged she ever thought she needed to be the colour of a carrot. Looking down at the cracks in her ornate gel nails, her anger flipped to exhaustion.
Continue readingThe door to the coffee shop tinkles as Charlotte opens it. At first glance, it bears no resemblance to the busy hairdressers it used to be, though there is something familiar in the warmth that envelops her the moment she steps inside.
It’s called ‘Froth,’ which Charlotte considers an appropriately shallow name for a place that was once called ‘Vanity Hair.’ On the surface, it was just somewhere you came to fix your hair. But the healing went deeper than that. People left feeling better about themselves on the inside as well as the outside.
Continue readingBob Hawkins nudged his empty pint glass across the beaten copper of the barroom table. Opposite him sat Jim “Kipper” Jones, whose weather-beaten face was an object lesson in why digging roads through West Wales winters was no career for an aspiring film star, especially not after thirty years. Bob was no picture himself, either. His lived-in face topped a scrawny frame wrapped in a Gannex mac two sizes too big, fished from the back rail of an Oxfam shop fifteen years earlier.
Continue reading09/04/2012
Mildred Addams is an eyesore! Did her mum marry a gorilla? She’s a girl from school, built with the size and dimensions of a stone boulder, so shave her head and plonk her outside a nightclub and you’ve got yourself a bouncer. I swear if I pull down her knickers I’ll see her willy.
Anyway, come lunchtime, whilst me and my girlfriends are hanging out by the picnic tables, she’ll be there, eating by herself, her miserable stink putting me right off my lunch. Delia tells me to ignore her but I’m going to give it to golem girl someday.
Continue readingHOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 23.04.26.
TASK: ‘Vanity’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘Vanity’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 23rd April 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 26.04.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.
Send all homework to Pat
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?’
/
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 reading