Friday Flash Fiction - The Wedding

The Wedding

It was the worst wedding I had ever been to. Seriously, how were you supposed to enjoy watching your ex, who you’re still a teensy tiny bit in love with, say vows to a stick insect with perfect hair and still have a good time? Impossible, right? Right.

I don’t really know why I’d been invited. I wouldn’t have invited me if I’d been them. The ex-girlfriend? Not just someone he’d dated for a bit. No, I’m the ex he lived with for a couple of years. The ex who thought he was going to propose on that holiday in Greece. The ex who should bloody be standing up there instead of the stick insect with perfect hair.

Breathe. Breathe. You can do this. You can watch him get married and be the bigger person, congratulate them with a smile of your face and pretend you don’t care. You can.

I scanned the church and saw a man sitting by himself three pews from the back, more intent on looking anywhere than at the happy couple. He looks about as miserable as me. Oh! Wonder if he’s her ex.

After the beaming couple walked down the aisle, I made a beeline for “miserable man”.

‘Hi, I’m Penny,’ I said.

‘Josh.’

‘You look about as miserable as me if you don’t mind me saying.’

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘Yup. I’m the ex.’

‘Ah. Yes, well, me too.’

‘Kinda weird, isn’t it? Inviting us, I mean.’

‘Weird alright.’

‘Are you going to the reception?’

‘Supposed to be.’

‘D’you wanna go get pizza instead?’

He smiled. ‘Sure, why not?’ 

©2014 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

Snippets: A Collection of Flash Fiction is now available!  
Amazon UK/Amazon US

Many thanks to those of you who have already downloaded and read my collection of flash fiction. Also my thanks go out to those of you who have helped me to promote it by posting on facebook, twitter, sending emails or word of mouth. It's all much appreciated! 

I've had five 5star reviews, which have obviously made me extremely happy. 

"This is a wonderful collection of flash fiction and short prose. What I liked most was the variance of the storylines and their tone because I think they really complimented each other well. Some were humourous, others romantic, some dark and some topical (and relevant)."  Michael Diack

"If you like flash fiction, you're going to love Laura Besley's collection of stories in Snippets. If you don't like flash fiction or if you haven't tried it before, read Laura's book. She just may convert you." - Clint Morey

Friday Flash Fiction - Too Much Beer?

Too Much Beer?

Three young boys with fluff on their faces instead of real stubble sat down opposite us in the tent teeming with people. It was Oktoberfest and everyone was out to have a good time. And to get drunk on German beer, of course. 
The waiter, an older wiry man with a thick mustache and lines around his eyes, put our litre glasses down with a thud. He looked at the boys sitting opposite us and asked for I.D. 
The boys rummaged in pockets and produced three cards. The waiter’s brow scrunched up and then he handed them back. ‘What’ll be then?’
‘Three beers please,’ the boys chirped, eagerness showing in their faces. 
A few minutes later the same waiter deposited their beers onto the large oak table. ‘Drink up, lads,’ he said with a wink. 
One of the boys leaned over the table. ‘Our I.D.s are fake.’ 
His mate hit him on the arm. 
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ my mate said, taking a large gulp of beer. 
I just looked at them. They put one of the cards on the table. ‘See here?’ he said. ‘We’ve scratched off the last digit of the year I was born in and changed it from an eight to a four. Now, I’m almost twenty instead of almost sixteen.’ 
‘You don’t look twenty,’ my mate said, taking the I.D. card and studying it. 
He shrugged. ‘Who cares?’
Their beers were drunk quickly, greedily, and the boys staggered off. 
‘Only one, might be sensible,’ I said. 
‘Probably don’t want to push their luck,’ my mate replied. 
The waiter reappeared to clear away the glasses. 
‘You know those boys were underage, don’t you? With fake I.D.s.’ 
‘Oh yes,’ he nodded. ‘I gave them alcohol free beer.’ 

©2014 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

Snippets: A Collection of Flash Fiction is now available!  
Amazon UK/Amazon US

Many thanks to those of you who have already downloaded and read my collection of flash fiction. Also my thanks go out to those of you who have helped me to promote it by posting on facebook, twitter, sending emails or word of mouth. It's all much appreciated! 

I've had five 5star reviews, which have obviously made me extremely happy. 

"This is a wonderful collection of flash fiction and short prose. What I liked most was the variance of the storylines and their tone because I think they really complimented each other well. Some were humourous, others romantic, some dark and some topical (and relevant)."  Michael Diack

"If you like flash fiction, you're going to love Laura Besley's collection of stories in Snippets. If you don't like flash fiction or if you haven't tried it before, read Laura's book. She just may convert you." - Clint Morey

Friday Flash Fiction - The Price of Milk

The Price of Milk

It’s such a cliché, isn’t it? Man leaves to buy a loaf of bread and a pint of milk from the corner shop and never comes back. As much as it’s a cliché, that’s exactly what my father did on 16th October 1994. My mother didn’t notice for hours, or so she says, and possibly wasn’t even that bothered truth be told. I wasn’t sure what to think or feel, but my younger brother was distraught. 

And here we are ten years later and I’m looking at him on the tube with a woman sitting on his left and a child on his knee. He’s sitting diagonally opposite me and has glanced up a couple of times, looking directly at me as if he were about to say something. I doubt he recognizes me. The eight-year-old with blond pigtails has long been replaced by an angry teenager with short spikey hair dyed in various shades of black, pink and purple. Even if he did realize it was me, I doubt he’d acknowledge me, especially not since he appears to be playing happy families with somebody else. I hope for that little boy’s sake, he sticks around longer than he did for Josh and me. 

As I walk past them to leave the train, the boy grabs the hem of my skirt, which has small bells on it. I look at him and smile as his mother gently coaxes his hand loose whilst apologizing. My father just looks at me and that’s when I know he recognizes me. After a couple of seconds he looks away and I get off the train. 

©2014 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

Snippets: A Collection of Flash Fiction is now available!  
Amazon UK/Amazon US

Many thanks to those of you who have already downloaded and read my collection of flash fiction. Also my thanks go out to those of you who have helped me to promote it by posting on facebook, twitter, sending emails or word of mouth. It's all much appreciated! 

I've had five 5star reviews, which have obviously made me extremely happy. 

"This is a wonderful collection of flash fiction and short prose. What I liked most was the variance of the storylines and their tone because I think they really complimented each other well. Some were humourous, others romantic, some dark and some topical (and relevant)."  Michael Diack

"If you like flash fiction, you're going to love Laura Besley's collection of stories in Snippets. If you don't like flash fiction or if you haven't tried it before, read Laura's book. She just may convert you." - Clint Morey

Friday Flash Fiction - Turning Tables

Turning Tables

‘Boy, how the tables have turned,’ Bas said, and took a long draught from his dark ale.
Martijn stubbed out his cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray on the worn oak table between them. 
Bas put his glass down with a clunk. ‘It’s almost funny.’ 
‘It’s certainly not funny,’ Martijn said, raising his voice a little above normal.  
‘I said almost.’ 
‘Whatever.’ 
‘In the beginning she couldn’t get enough of you, sent you ten messages a day and you had to rein her in, afraid your wife would find out.’ 
Martijn lit another cigarette. 
‘Now, six months later you’re crying into your beer because she won’t see you anymore.’ 
‘I love her.’ 
‘Pff! Love! You don’t love her. You’re obsessed with her. With her youth, her beauty, her charisma. All the things you don’t have any more with your wife of fifteen years. You’re infatuated. You can’t maintain that level of involvement.’ 
Martijn blew out smoke through his nose. ‘It was never like this with Marie.’ 
‘Of course not. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But that could be a lie. You want to justify this somehow, but you can’t.’
‘You don’t know anything.’ 
I know she’ll never come back to you and even if she does, she won’t stay with you.’ 
‘Thanks for pointing that out again.’ 
‘I did say it from the beginning. No young, attractive, intelligent woman in her early twenties stays with a guy over forty for very long. Unless he’s filthy rich, and you’re not.’ 
‘What am I going to do?’ Martijn put his head in his hands. ‘I’ve lost everything now. Marie has kicked me out, won’t let me see the kids-’
‘Well, she can’t do that. You’ll have to get a lawyer.’ 
‘I know, I know. How did this happen?’
‘You couldn’t keep your dick in your trousers.’  


©2014 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

Snippets is now available!  
Amazon UK/Amazon US

Many thanks to those of you who have already downloaded and read my collection of flash fiction. Also my thanks go out to those of you who have helped me to promote it by posting on facebook, twitter, sending emails or word of mouth. It's all much appreciated! 

I've had two 5star reviews, which have obviously made me extremely happy. 

"This is a wonderful collection of flash fiction and short prose. What I liked most was the variance of the storylines and their tone because I think they really complimented each other well. Some were humourous, others romantic, some dark and some topical (and relevant)."  Michael Diack

"If you like flash fiction, you're going to love Laura Besley's collection of stories in Snippets. If you don't like flash fiction or if you haven't tried it before, read Laura's book. She just may convert you." - Clint Morey

Friday Flash Fiction - A New Home

A New Home

I don’t like it here. 

Mummy says this is our new home and we’re staying, but I don’t like it. It smells funny, not like our old house. I used to have my own room and now I have to share with my brother, Dan. We have new beds called bunker beds. I don’t like bunker beds because when Dan moves I can hear the bed creaking and I’m scared he’s going to come crashing down on top of me. I asked Mummy if I could sleep on top, but she said it was too high and I might fall out. Dan’s only one year older than me, it’s not fair he gets to sleep on the top. 

I find Bertie buried under my Angry Birds duvet and squeeze him a little to let him know I’m awake. He’s awake now too. I whisper to him that I don’t like it here and he agrees. He always agrees with me. He has fuzzy green hair and big black eyes. 

I’m thirsty, so I take Bertie in one hand and inch slowly down the dark corridor. I can see light from under the living room door, so I know Mummy is watching TV. I hear the strange voices getting louder and louder. 

…A new campaign has been launched today by animal rights activists who have been protesting against this barbaric practice for many years. Some viewers may find the following images disturbing. 

Just as I push the door to the new living room open, I see on the TV a whale being sliced open and all the blood and guts spill out of it. I drop Bertie and scream. 

‘Matthew,’ Mummy says, jumping off the sofa and putting her arms around me. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’ 

‘I couldn’t sleep. I really don’t like the new bunker beds.’ 

‘They’re called bunk beds. A bunker is…something else. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to get used to it.’ 

I look at the TV again. Mummy walks over and turns it off. 

‘And I’m thirsty.’ 

‘I’ll go heat you some milk.’ 

‘With chocolate in it?’

‘No, Matty, it’s too late for hot chocolate.’ 

‘But Daddy-’

Mummy does a sigh. ‘Daddy’s not here, is he?’

‘Is it because he’s living with Auntie Sharon?’

‘That woman is not your auntie. She’s, well, let’s not go into that now.’ 

I know I’m going to cry and don’t want to. Instead I look for Bertie, but can’t find him and that makes me want to cry even more. ‘I can’t find Bertie.’ 

‘Your tennis ball?’

‘Bertie’s not a tennis ball. He’s Bertie.’ 

Look, there he is.’ Mummy points to a wall in the living room where Bertie is lying facing the wall. 

‘Bertie!’ I race over and pick him up. 

Mummy takes my hand. ‘C’mon, let’s go get you some hot milk.’ 

‘Okay,’ I say, and slowly follow her into the kitchen. 

©2014 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

It's taken me a little while to get going this January, but hopefully this will be the start of regular blogging again. This piece was written for a competition and had to include the words: bunker, animal rights and tennis ball. Unfortunately it didn't get very far in the competition. 

My first collection of flash fiction, taken from the previously published 'Flash Fortnightly' collaboration with Artipeeps, will be available soon. Here's a sneaky peak at the front cover...

Friday Flash Fiction - The Mysterious Christmas Card

The Mysterious Christmas Card

Every year when I get the boxes of decorations down from the loft I wonder about the mysterious Christmas card that arrives addressed to a woman called Mavis Lockheart. I’ve tried my very best over the years to find out who Mavis Lockheart is, but no one has ever heard of her. She wasn’t the previous owner, or the one before that, and I even went so far one year to ask all the elderly neighbours whether they could remember anyone who had lived here by that name. The answer was a big fat no and the mystery continues.

There was no return address, so the first year I left the large envelope with loopy handwriting unopened on the little table in the hallway, where the downstairs telephone, the pot for keys and various other odds and ends are, in the hope that someone would come to claim it. It sat there for the weeks running up to Christmas and well into the new year. By the end of January I realized that no one was going to come and claim it, so I stashed it away with all my other correspondence.

The second year I did the same, but by the third year my curiosity was getting the better of me and I could no longer leave that envelope unopened. I slid my silver letter opener under the flap of the envelope like a thief in the night and in one clean sweep it was open. Afterwards I wondered whether I should have used steam from the kettle like you see them doing on the television, but we’re all wise in hindsight, aren’t we? For weeks I was worried that Mavis Lockheart would come to claim it and I would have to admit to my crime. There was a short message from a Dorothy, enquiring about Mavis, her black and white pet cat and her brother Arnold. Dorothy’s husband, Thomas, was still working, but hoping to retire in the next couple of years. I had been right: it was an older woman. I had guessed as much by the handwriting and had suspected that Mavis was a woman of around the same age. I asked around the neighbours again, this time asking about the brother Arnold as well. Mr. Peterson, at the far end of the road, thought that something rang a bell, but he couldn’t put a finger on what. ‘I’ve got such a terrible memory, these days,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s no grain of truth in what I’ve just said at all.’

But no one came to claim it that year, the year after or any year for that matter.

Every year when I take down the Christmas decorations – by January 6th, of course – I take Mavis Lockheart’s card and stow it away, wrapping it up with a Christmas ribbon along with the all the others. My husband tells me I’m overly sentimental, not to mention silly, keeping them. Over the years I’ve learned that Dorothy’s husband, Thomas, has passed away and now she lives alone. I can only begin to wonder at Mavis’ life. I really wish I could get in touch with either of them as in some respects they have come to feel almost like friends. But the most likely case is that these Christmas cards, along with their lives, will always remain a mystery.

©2013 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

This is the first of my NaNoWriMo_2013 pieces to see the light of day. It was inspired by a friend's post on facebook; she had received a Christmas card addressed to someone and she didn't know who it was. 

This will be my last post of 2013, so I'd like to wish you all happy holidays and all the best for 2014. 

Friday Flash Fiction - Another Christmas Abroad

Another Christmas Abroad

Daisy could never have predicted how many Christmases she would be away from home when she booked her first flights to New Zealand on the old computer in her dad's study. The plan was to do some fruit picking, possibly work in a vineyard or two, a ski season in Queenstown and then home via Asia, taking in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and wherever else she still had the funds for. 

She had had her arguments lined up like soldiers ready for battle, but to her utter surprise her parents were all for it. Go, they said. Enjoy yourself. You're only young once. With a backpack big enough to hold a small person in, they waved her off at London Heathrow two days after her twenty-third birthday. 

***

Daisy sighed as she opened the small box of Christmas decorations she had accumulated over the years. Her mother had at least three times as much and still insisted on getting a real tree. Stu had bought them an artificial one, with the lights already woven into it, the first Christmas they spent together in their small Auckland house. Every year she pulled it out from under their double bed and decorated it, sipping mulled wine despite the outside temperature being around twenty degrees Celsius.

She had met Stu in Queenstown six weeks before she was due to leave. She had been working as a ski instructor when she fell and pulled something that caused an excruciating pain in her back. He was also working the slopes that winter, and was finishing his physiotherapy degree the following year. Daisy went back to Auckland with him and never left. 

***

This time of year she missed England the most. Cold days, long dark evenings, candles, roasted vegetables, mulled wine, hot chocolate, Christmas telly. But she had Stu, who she loved, and her little girl, Skylar. As long as they were here, this would be her home.  

©2013 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

I wanted to write a piece on the theme of Christmas and as an expat living abroad (and not going home for Christmas this year...boo hoo), this is what I came up with. 

Friday Flash Fiction - Memories

Memories

She no longer really knows who I am. Every now and then I think I see a hint in her eyes, something behind the surface that makes me wonder whether there is a glint of recognition. It is so fleeting that milliseconds later, I doubt myself. 

I know who she is though. 

She is the woman I vowed to love and to hold in sickness and health till death us do part. 
She is the woman whose hand I held through three long, painful labours. 
She is the woman who pushed my wheelchair for six months when I needed a back operation after a car accident. 

I know who she is. 

©2013 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

This piece was inspired by this photo. "A man teaches his girlfriend the alphabet after she lost her memory." For more heart-warming photos go to this website. 

I've decided to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) again this year. The aim is to write 50,000 words towards a novel, or in my case towards a collection of short stories, within the month of November. 

This is the first week of December and NaNoWriMo is officially over. I'm happy to say that I managed to write 50,000 words! I've written about it here if you're interested in reading more. 

Friday Flash Fiction - A Fateful Trip

A Fateful Trip

Oliver, Olly to his friends, had been driving for three months and two days when he got behind the wheel of a car for the last time. His parents had and Audi A4, but that wasn’t the car he drove. Not on your Nelly, his father had said. Do you know how much we paid for that car? No, his parents had bought him a banger, a 1986 Mini. Not one of the cool new ones. An old one. And it was a dull red colour. 

The eldest in his school year, Olly had started learning to drive first. His father stuck the bright red L plates to the front and rear of the Mini and they went out two or three times a week to practice. First in an abandoned car park, then on quiet roads and finally on the busy town roads. Olly passed his theory test first time and the date for his driving test came through for January 6th, his mum’s birthday. They took it as a lucky omen and it turned out to be so as he passed with flying colours. 

Four days ago, on April 8th, Olly and his girlfriend decided at the last minute to go to the cinema. It seemed pointless sitting in on a Saturday night when they could be out having fun. There was a new Johnny Depp film showing that they both wanted to see. It was cold for April and Olly had put the heat on full blast for the first few minutes. He was getting hot, his hands sweaty and he reached over to turn the heat down. His other hand slipped on the steering wheel and the car careened into the central reservation. His side of the car scraped along, sparks flying and to try and right the car he pulled in the other direction. He pulled too far and smashed into the car on his left. 

Moments later he became conscious of a loud buzzing noise like an angry hornet circling his head. He tried to swat it away, but couldn’t lift his arm, or the other one. 

Mel, he whispered. Mel? He winced as he turned his head to look to his left. She was sitting with her eyes closed, almost natural, apart from the dull red blood seeping from her head and neck. He closed his eyes. No, no, this can’t be happening. He opened one eye again and screamed. He was still screaming when the paramedics arrived seven minutes later. 

Let’s get you home, his mother said the day he was discharged from hospital with three broken ribs and two broken arms. Four days in a hospital is enough, she said. He climbed into the passenger seat of the Audi and his mum started the engine. 


Mel lay in the morgue waiting for her funeral on Friday. 

©2013 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

I had the idea for this piece when I was on holiday in New Zealand last summer, but only wrote it this week. 

I've decided to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) again this year. The aim is to write 50,000 words towards a novel, or in my case towards a collection of short stories, within the month of November. 

We're in week four now. I had a major dip in week two, but week three was a bumper week. Hopefully week four will continue in the same way as I've only got until Saturday to finish. Fingers crossed and I'll keep you posted! 

Friday Flash Fiction - Nearing the End

Nearing the End

Every day this is one thing I look forward to. Do you know what that’s like? To feel like you have nothing to look forward to? Wait til you get to my age, then we’ll talk again. If I didn’t have this one thing worth getting out of bed for, I think I would just constantly live in pyjamas. I would only move from my bed, to the bathroom, to the sofa and then back to bed again. Some spotty kid delivers my paper and I get milk delivered, so I would just hide in this grotty little one-bedroom flat and read my paper. Food, you say? Once a week someone from Help the Elderly visits. She’s bloody annoying I can assure you, but she does my shopping for me, so I put up with her. Even make her a cup of tea when she gets back because she means well. It’s not her fault she’s annoying. 

No. Every day I get up, get washed, get dressed and take my paper to the local pub. I have lunch there and sometimes stop for a couple of hours depending on how I’m feeling. This isn’t any old local. They stock decent beer, which I allow myself on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, and cook organically-grown local produce. None of that stuff pumped full of god-knows-what rubbish. 

Another good thing about it is that it’s within shuffling distance from where I live. As you can imagine, I don’t walk very fast anymore and the twenty – yes, twenty – minutes it takes me to get from here to there is enough daily exercise for me. 

The young girls who work there are extremely friendly. The boss – an old bird called Sylvie – is a bit of a witch, I’ve heard between the lines. Never to the customers, of course, but I hear the girls whispering. Nothing wrong with my hearing, you see. Those girls are always so good to me, taking care of everything I need and sometimes stopping for a little chat. I miss my Alice who used to chat incessantly. At the time it irritated me, but the place isn’t half quiet without her. We never had any children, so there’s no one to visit me. All my friends listed on my birthday calendar, more of them are dead than alive these days. 


Yesterday. Yesterday I went and there was a sign up in the window: closing from 1st January to 1st February for renovations. What am I going to do?

©2013 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

This piece was inspired by a pub my sister used to work in. Every day there was a table reserved by the window for an older customer, but I don't know any details. Further details of the pub and the people who work there are fictitious. The style of writing was inspired by the book I'm currently reading, The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid.

I've decided to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) again this year. The aim is to write 50,000 words towards a novel, or in my case towards a collection of short stories, within the month of November. 

We're in week three now. I had a major dip in week two. Partly due to lack of inspiration, but mainly due to the fact that I was ill. I wrote nothing for four days. This week I've written a lot and there's still a glimmer of hope that I'll make it to 50,000 by the end of the month. Fingers crossed and I'll keep you posted! 

Friday Flash Fiction - In the End

In the End

I couldn't tell her. Didn't want to tell her. And now I haven't told her for so long I don't know how to tell her. She thinks I've taken up a new hobby, boules, with my old work colleague Tom. I should really tell Tom in case she ever sees him or his wife out and about and mentions it in passing. It was for her benefit, the not-telling. I didn't want her to see me any differently. I wanted to remain the husband I'd always been. To stay true to us and what we'd always been. But now, now I'm a liar. A liar with stage four cancer the doctors tell me they can't fix. 

©2013 Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

This piece was inspired by the book I'm currently reading, if nobody speaks of remarkable things by jon mcgregor.   

I've decided to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) again this year. The aim is to write 50,000 words towards a novel, or in my case towards a collection of short stories, within the month of November. 

We're exactly a week in and so far I've clocked up 11,121 words. I'm really happy with that result. I'm hoping to get a lot done today and tomorrow and be well on my way to the 20,000 mark by the end of the weekend. Fingers crossed and I'll keep you posted! 

Friday Flash Fiction - Waiting

Waiting

Standing in the shadows of the granite wall, Thomas was waiting. Maya was late. Her art class finished at nine-thirty and she should already be exiting through the heavy oak door of the local community centre. Others were streaming out with pads and pencils in their hands, chattering excitedly after their evening’s work had finished. But nowhere could Thomas see the tall girl with short curly hair. His tall girl with short curly hair.

Thomas pulled his mobile phone out of his trouser pocket. He pressed a button, illuminating the screen. Nine-forty. Where the bloody hell was she? He dialled her number. It rung once and then went to voice mail. No point in leaving a message. He debated with himself about going inside to get her, but he quickly dismissed that idea as she might reject him. Again. In front of everyone else.

Eventually, at nine-forty-nine she was there, in front of the building, her blue and green checked bag slung over her right shoulder. No doubt there would be another new sketch inside.

Thomas stepped forward into the pale light of the overhead streetlight. ‘Maya,’ he said quietly.

She spun round and smiled. ‘Dad!’ She hugged him in front of her classmates.

He felt a warm sensation in his stomach spread throughout his entire body. ‘Let’s go, honey. I’m double-parked.’

Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

This piece was originally published on Artipeeps in July 2013 (Flash Fortnightly #18).  

I've decided to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) again this year. The aim is to write 50,000 words towards a novel, or in my case towards a collection of short stories, within the month of November. 

Today is day one of Nanowrimo! Luckily on a Friday I only have one class, so this morning I'll be dedicating to getting those first 2,000 words written. If you write every day, you (only!) need to write 1,666 words. However, I have three heavy teaching days when I already know that I'll struggle to write much, if at all. Therefore, I really have to write more on the days that I am writing. Fingers crossed and I'll keep you posted! 

Friday Flash Fiction - Giraffes Can't Mate with Zebras

Giraffes Can’t Mate with Zebras

He’ll have to go. There’s nothing wrong with him per se, it’s just.

At primary school my group of friends and I gave each other animal nicknames. Mine
was the easy choice: giraffe, because I’m so tall. Always have been and although 
puberty gave the others a chance to catch up, no-­one ever did. 

Recently I’ve started dating someone shorter than me. He doesn’t seem to mind, but 
I think I do. I walk in the gutter when he’s on the pavement; stand on the lower step 
of the escalator, to be harshly reminded of the difference when we get to the bottom.
There’s the age ­old “there’s no height difference when you’re lying down” (nudge, 
nudge, wink, wink), but unlike ancient Romans who spent the majority of their time 
lazing on divans, I’m not sure that’s enough.  

‘Colin, we need to talk.’ 

Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

This piece is semi-autobiographical. I am very tall, one of my nicknames at school was giraffe and I did one try dating a man shorter than me. It didn't work out, but not for those reasons! 

I've decided to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) again this year. The aim is to write 50,000 words towards a novel, or in my case towards a collection of short stories, within the month of November. That'll be kicking off next Friday. Hopefully I'll still have time to also keep the blog going, but I'm not sure I should make any promises...

Friday Flash Fiction - The Newsroom

The Newsroom

We met every Tuesday night in the Newsroom, a tiny restaurant only ten minutes walk from where we both worked. It was quiet enough to have a conversation, but there was enough of an after-work crowd to not feel like we were on a date (although that's what all my friends called it). Dating, they said. You're dating. You can't meet a single man every week for dinner and it mean nothing. But that's the thing. I'm not sure it did mean anything. And anyway, I said, it's not dating when you share the bill.  

Roger and I worked in the same building, but for different companies. I worked in law and he as an accountant. We got talking one day in the early morning queue at the Starbucks counter two blocks away. We seemed to chat easily and agreed to have a bite to eat after work. But it wasn't a date. 

That first dinner was very pleasant; we both enjoyed our meals and had a glass of wine each, mine white his red, and after we shared a pot of tea. We agreed to do it again next week, same time same place. Oh so slowly we got to know more about each other, our families, our dreams and our realities. 

One Tuesday he told me, halfway through the main course, that he was getting married next month. I could feel a burning sensation in my eyes and in my stomach and realised in an instant that I had, subconsciously, been hoping for more than friendship. I was initially too stunned to speak and finally murmured something along the lines of 'best wishes', followed quickly by the fact that it was inappropriate for us to keep meeting. He didn't agree. I tried to put myself into his wife-to-be's shoes and told him that it most definitely was. He slowly wiped his mouth with his napkin as I stood, knocking my chair into the person behind me. I muttered an apology and left quickly. 

When I got home I realised that I had forgotten to pay for my share of the bill. 

Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to read and/or comment on my first FFF piece I had posted in three months last week. I felt very welcomed back. 

This piece was inspired by a real restaurant in Quarry Bay, Hong Kong, close to where I live. 

Friday Flash Fiction - Plum Lipstick

Plum Lipstick

As I tune into my surroundings, I hear the two young girls next to me talking in staccato French. The blond, slightly less pretty one, is obviously having some sort of problem. She's doing eighty per cent of the talking as her brunette friend listens, leaning in, nodding sagely and occasionally offering condoling murmurings. 

The blond catches me looking at them. 

'What?' she snaps, anger in the small lines set around her mouth. 

'Nothing.' I shrug and turn back to my book. (A Stephen King by the way, totally unputdownable. Nobody builds suspense like he does.)

But like a moth to the flame my eyes keep wandering from the page to her eyes, her face, her lips. She is wearing a pale shade of lipstick, paler no doubt than her natural lip colour. Why any woman would choose to do that is beyond me. Lipstick was invented to make a woman's lips darker, alluding to the fact that she's just been kissed, making men want her more. The paleness doesn't have the reverse effect, but I'm old-fashioned. I prefer darker, richer, plum colours. Tracey wore the perfect colour lipstick. 

Simultaneously the French girls stand up, pushing chairs back with slender tanned legs and leave. The blond turns, throws me a glance that I can't decipher and after slinging her cheap cotton multi-coloured bag over her left shoulder stalks off behind her friend. 

A waitress in a green and black polo shirt quickly clears away the debris of their afternoon rant. She wipes the table haphazardly and disappears back behind the counter. 

I could calculate how long it's been since I last saw Tracey, but I don't want to. I'll just sit here with my half cup of lukewarm black coffee thinking about her. 

Laura Besley

Flash Fiction Diary  

I'm back! Not quite from outer space, but from the non-writing/blogging world. I took three months off over the summer because I knew I wasn't going to have the time. To be honest it was quite liberating for a while, then I started to miss it and then I started to think I couldn't write anymore. I sat down to write for the first time at the end of September and realised within minutes why I absolutely love it. It's also been really nice to hear from people who've mentioned that they've missed my flash fiction, so thanks for those votes of support. 

Friday Flash Fiction - A Bright New Beginning

A Bright New Beginning

She wore bright, striped tights; the almost fluorescent rings going up up up her legs until they disappeared behind her oh-so short denim mini skirt. She wore flat black ballerina pumps which were pounding fast on the almost empty pavement in Aberdeen. A double-decker bus rattled past and stopped at the end of the road to let no-one off, and no-one got on either. Her ipod – on shuffle – jumped to Paolo Nutini’s ‘Pencil Full of Lead’, and with a smile on her face, she upped her pace yet again. Today is a new beginning, she thought, a bright new beginning. 

Laura Besley

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Flash Fiction diary

I've decided to take two-three months off blogging, so I won't be posting (apart from maybe the odd one or two things) in July, August and possibly September also. This is for a couple of reasons. The main one is time. Blogging, although I love it, takes up a lot of my time and I want to use this time to focus purely on new writing and improving old writing. Also, over the next couple of months I'm going to busy with Summer School, I'm going on holiday and my mum is visiting. 

So, thank you all for reading so faithfully. Hope you all have a wonderful summer, or winter if you're in the southern hemisphere!  

Flash Fortnightly will continue through July and August. FF #17 is kind of sad, but kind of happy too. I see it as an uplifting piece, so I hope you do too. Click here for The Great Escape. 

Friday Flash Fiction - The Nameless Saxophonist

The Nameless Saxophonist

Sometimes I wonder if I’d stopped that day how differently my life might have turned out. He saw me. Definitely. Our eyes met as he cycled out of the crowds of Saturday shoppers and I cycled to the market for cheese, bread and flowers. I’d seen him before, his mop of blond hair falling into his eyes and I wanted to tell him, amongst many other things, that he badly needed a haircut. 

The first time I saw him he was playing his saxophone on the cobbled streets of The Hague, eyes closed in concentration with a battered open case at his feet for passers-by to throw in the odd coin or two. Along with a small gathering of people I stood watching him as he belted out tune after tune, his lungs endlessly refilling to allow the delivery of strong round sounds. He saw me too, I know he did. I saw myself through his eyes: too tall, too skinny, arms too long for my tall, skinny body. I turned and walked away before he got the chance to talk to me. 


That time I saw him cycling I know he looked back because I did too and our eyes met again. But I kept cycling. I’ll never know if he spun his bike around and followed me. If he did, I was long gone. Stupid. Every time I visit my aunt in The Hague I think about him. I never even knew his name. 

Laura Besley

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Flash Fiction diary

Last week I got a mention in a local Hong Kong newspaper, the South China Morning Post! It was as part of a book review for the Hong Kong Writers Circle's latest anthology, Of Gods and Mobsters. Click here for the link. 

Flash Fortnightly #16 is a previously published piece from my blog. It was popular, which is why I decided to republish it with Artipeeps! Click here for Down the Hill. 

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The challenge to write a piece a day is officially over. I'm so in love with flash fiction that I'll keep on writing it and hopefully still have a piece a week to share with you (my wonderful readers). I would like to dedicate some time to reworking older pieces as well as more time to writing longer pieces. Watch this space!  

Friday Flash Fiction - Not a Day to Remember

Not a Day to Remember

She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried, it just wasn’t possible. She’d lost count of the amount of times she’d tried and then failed yet again. How was it possible that she just couldn’t make it work?

‘Sandra?’

She jerked her head up. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you in there?’

She could just picture him standing outside the bathroom door in his three-day old boxer shorts and grey vest. Soon he would rap the door with his hairy knuckles. 

‘Tap, tap, tap.’ 

There it is. Soon he’ll start shouting. 

‘Sandra. Come out this minute.’ 

She turned the taps off and the quiet filled the small dank room for a few seconds. 

‘Sandra!’

She pulled the dressing gown tight around her and felt inside the pocket for her mobile phone. She quickly splashed some water on her face and reached for the striped towel, hanging on the back of the bathroom door. 

‘Finally. For fuck’s sakes. What have you been doing in there?’ 

‘Just showering.’ 

‘Christ, woman, you’d think you hadn’t showered for a year the amount of water you’ve just used. Good job we ain’t on a meter.’ 

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. 

‘Well, piss off then,’ he said, pushing her out of the way. 

She stood in the hallway looking at all the closed doors, not knowing which way to turn. One day she would send that text, or make that call, to help her get out of this miserable situation, but today was not that day. She walked to the living room, plonked herself down in a tattered armchair and flicked on the TV. 

Laura Besley

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Flash Fiction diary

The challenge to write a piece a day is officially over. I'm so in love with flash fiction that I'll keep on writing it and hopefully still have a piece a week to share with you (my wonderful readers). I would like to dedicate some time to reworking older pieces as well as more time to writing longer pieces. Watch this space!  

This week I got a mention in a local Hong Kong newspaper, the South China Morning Post! It was as part of a book review for the Hong Kong Writers Circle's latest anthology, Of Gods and Mobsters. Click here for the link. 

Flash Fortnightly #16 is a previously published piece from my blog. It was popular, which is why I decided to republish it with Artipeeps! Click here for Down the Hill.