I’m walking to meet you, leaving a trail of lies behind me like confetti at a wedding. A doomed wedding. One that stinks of convenience and the fear of being alone. I’m risking everything yet you treat me like I’m nothing. And still I come. My self esteem so low that I’ll accept any scraps of attention from you. For a very short while I’ll feel like I matter. But we both know that I don’t.
He thinks I’m at Zumba. No, that’s not right. I think he knows that I haven’t set foot in a Zumba class for months but he’s like me, preferring to live in a fantasy world, it’s safer there, easier.
Later, I’ll go back home and we’ll lie to each other and avoid each other’s eyes. The ghost of you will be all around us but for a while we’ll pretend that we can carry on like this.
But for now, I’m all yours. And neither one of us has any idea of how lucky you are.
Yes, it's that time again. We're back and we're getting ready to flood the internet with flash-fictions to celebrate National Flash-Fiction Day on Saturday 16th June 2018.
The rules are the same as ever, we are open for submissions for just one week. Stories should be no more than 500 words (not including the title) and should be on whatever theme you fancy. You can submit up to three entries, and there is no cost.
7 editors (one each day) will read your work, and make their decisions, and then the deluge begins at midnight on the 16th.
I’m going to ask her tonight, definitely. Dad said, you’re not even twelve son, what’s next – extra pocket money for johnnies? Mum told him not to be vulgar, then smiled at me; that smile that makes me want to yank her to the knees by the hair: shout, I’m not a baby, Mum.
It’s in the sports hall like always, but this year they’ve got a proper DJ, not just one of the dads. There she is, all curled hair and sprayed-on glitter. I go to tap her shoulder, but James and Jeremy, in the opposite corner, look at me all, why are you going up to a girl? So, before she turns around, I jump on her back: mime a lasso at them one-handed. Dig my knees into her skinny hips and breathe in marshmallows. Then I’m falling forwards. I put out my hands but my landing is broken. I roll off. And her blood’s on my knees. More of it trapped in the grooves of my trainers.
What happened? says Mr Miller, with a face like a father’s instead of a Head’s.
And she looks at me through the bloodied fingers at her nose. …