If you want to help me dedicate more time to writing please consider becoming a patreon (from $1 a month)
You’ll find longer stories on my steemit blog too. But this one is just 50 words long!
You can find todays 50 word story “Sorry” here: https://firstname.lastname@example.org/sorry-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge-told-in-precisely-fiftywords
I am currently posting stories (under the user name @felt.buzz) on thé blogging site steemit. Click here to find my latest posts
Or you can click on the individual links links below
Current Serialised Ghost Story: “Haunted”
A family move into a big old house. The house has history. The family have history. Spooky stuff happens.
**Very short stories (stories told in exactly 50 words)**
Miniature Tigers don’t belong in cages. You have been warned.
“The Lion’s Share”.
It is NOT his party, so why is the lion crying?
“Another Crime Involving Rhyme”
Someone is killing words. Inspector Poet is on the case
“When Rhyme Is A Crime”
Theft, murder, bad rhymes…
**Some more of my short stories**
Will we ever learn?
Some people are meant to be together
Some people only have their memories for company…
Don’t read this if you have mother issues.
Some big news for me! One of my steemit stories ([Reunion](https://email@example.com/reunion-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge) – told in 8 parts last month) has been selected to appear in the Isle of Write Anthology (see this post https://steemit.com/writing/@isleofwrite/isle-of-write-fiction-publication-week-1-roundup). I am so excited to be a part of this. [Please pay them a visit](https://steemit.com/writing/@isleofwrite/isle-of-write-curation-to-publication-update) and check out the other stories that have been selected too. You too can be curated: [so read the post and find out how!](https://steemit.com/writing/@isleofwrite/isle-of-write-fiction-publication-week-1-roundup
At two thirty in the morning everything in the street is calm.
There is a trash can overturned in the alley on the corner where the deli sits, and a cat sits beside it casually moving it’s paw through the contents.
It must have found something, because it begins to eat. It doesn’t look up as I pass, it doesn’t notice me.
Perhaps, I do not exist. It is a thought I have often, at this time of the night.
When the streets are clear of the noise and bustle of human activity.
Perhaps the world has ended and I am the last human on earth.
Or, worse still, I have died and the world continues on and I am alone, unable to communicate with those around me. It is my nightmare, my terror.
It reminds me of high school when my friends (or at least that is what I thought of them) stopped speaking to me.
They ignored me .
This story was written in 5 minutes using the prompt “it is what I do at 2.30 in the morning when I can’t sleep.”
If you don’t know what a freewrite is visit @mariannewest here is a link to the introduction post: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@mariannewest/writers-or-wanna-be-writers-wanted-be-free-freewrite
Check out my original post on Steemit
“You’re new,” the girl said, looking Maggie up and down. Not a statement, not a question: an accusation. The girl wore a sneer like Maggie’s dad wore his favourite jacket. It was ugly, but a perfect fit. And, just like her dad, this girl wasn’t about to take it off because Maggie didn’t like it.
Maggie considered all the various responses on the sarcastic spectrum, before settling on a neutral, “Yes”. This morning, over breakfast, she’d given Dad her word she would try her very best not to get expelled, not on the first day, anyway. It was a promise she intended to keep. This time.
The girl nodded, and continued to size Maggie up. There was a lot to take in, as Maggie was all too aware. She was tall for her age, and she felt as awkward as she thought she looked. Her size always drew the attention of people with something to prove, bullies and teachers alike. Being self conscious about it never helped: they could smell weakness, they thrived on it. Jenny, her last psychologist, said not to worry about it, she would grow into her body. Whatever the fuck that meant.
“Where you from?”
“Totnes, “ Maggie said.
“Do I sound Scottish?”
“I don’t know. Never met a Scottish, before.”
“You still haven’t. I’m from Devon. Totnes is in Devon.”
“Hey! Anna!” the girl called over Maggie shoulder. “This one’s a Scottish! From that place with the monster.”
Maggie opened her mouth to respond, but another girl – presumably Anna – stuck her head in her face. Bright green sparkling eyes stared into Maggie’s brown ones.
“Looks like they’ve mislaid the monster, to me,” Anna said. “You are fucking huge, Nessie.” There was something in the way she spoke, in her smile, in her general manner, which stopped Maggie from punching her. Despite the words, there didn’t seem to be any malice.
Anna’s smile widened and she stuck her hand out, like her dad did when he was introduced to someone for the first time. “My name’s Anna,” she said. “What brings you down from Scotland, Nessie?”
Maggie found herself duplicating the strange girl’s smile as she shook her hand.
“I’m not Scottish,” she said. “Your friend, here, obviously doesn’t pay attention in her geography lessons. I’m from Totnes. My name is Maggie.”
“Don’t pay no attention to Dips,” Anna said. “She thinks the world ends at the M25. Never been out of London, have you Dips?” Dips shook her head, nearly – but not quite – dislodging the sneer.
“I know Totnes,” Anna continued. “Spent last summer at my cousin’s house, in Paignton. Went to Totnes for a day. Full of hippies and crystal shops. You’re well out of it, Nessie. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others.”
They met at the vernissage of an art installation called “Mirrors in Scarlet”. Supposedly “a three dimensional critique on the use of reflection in The Scarlet Letter”, Dave thought it was actually just a load of bollocks. Red lights, scarlet ribbons dancing in currents of air (produced by two large men dressed as Pilgrim women each pumping a pair of massive bellows), mirrors of various sizes, and shitty atmospherique music, did not make what he considered to be art. There were, of course, the requisite number of beard-stroking hipster types, nodding appreciatively, as they quaffed the free champagne. And some dreary bloke (presumably the “artist”) wanking on about imagery, symbolism and other bullshit to a crowd of sycophantic hangers-on.
He watched Diane as she contemplated the scene. He couldn’t read her expression: did she actually like this crap? It had been her who had suggested meeting here for their first date: her friend had given her tickets. Dave hoped her friend wasn’t the dreary bloke or one of his simpering groupies. He really liked Diane: online chats, and the five minutes they had spent chatting outside, had shown she was funny, intelligent and cute. But he was fairly sure he would end up insulting someone if they didn’t leave soon.
Diane mouthed something. Dave raised an eyebrow, not quite sure if he’d understood. She moved close to him, and whispered in his ear.
“Let’s go to the pub,” she said, her breath tickling his lobe. “Before I end up punching one of these arseholes.”
Dave smiled, and they linked arms as they left the room. They were going to get on just fine.