My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the month “January, 2014”

Flash Fiction Friday 121: No Fun in the Snow by Chris Farley

Thank you once again Morgen. If ever there was a case of ‘murder your darlings’ then it was this – it was almost 1’000 words before your challenge. My hat (I have several) is off to you.

Morgen 'with an E' Bailey

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the one hundred and twenty-first piece in this series. This week’s is a 480-worder by Christopher Farley. This story will be podcasted in episode 37 (with three other stories / with two other stories and some 6-worders) on Sunday 22nd February.

No Fun in the Snow

The snow chains on the rear wheels were making for an uncomfortable ride home.  The snow had been falling for two days, a continuous, heavy fall.  However, the wind had got up over the last hour and sometimes threw it against the bus, as if trying to find a way into the warm.

Finally John heard the engine change pitch as it started up the long hill towards home.  The bus pulled in at the curb and he lowered himself to the pavement.  He waved to the driver as the doors closed with a mechanical hiss and the…

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Cold and Dark


gloved and hatted


Frosted breath,

then, finally

the warmth.

Then cold

that condences

on glass,

rivulets running.

The dark:

getting darker, and


by white.

The cold;

to the touch,

to the senses.

How I enjoy

a pint of Guinness

Broken Silence

The silence hangs like the first fog of autumn; denser than mist, more dangerous.  Blinding even, creating its own shadow.  A shadow falls across the newspaper that rustles at the table, struggling to break through the opaque shroud of silence.  The silence in the kitchen breaks as an oven dish crashes on top of the cooker whatever is inside now basted by metal on metal.

The newspaper, disturbed by the crashing metal, now lies flat and silent.  Its reader casts a last worn glance at the front page, frowns, gasps and smiles.  The smiling reader gets up, puts on his coat to protect him from the cold but not the silence.  The door opens, then closes with a thud.

The closing door is not heard in the kitchen, where knives are sharpened whilst thinking about the reader, with regret at how things have become.  The reader’s keys click and turn in the door which swings open, hinges crying out for oil.  His coat is off but his smile isn’t.

The smile continues as a few words are muttered in the kitchen, above the sound of the extraction fan.  The knives fall silent once again.

“Happy anniversary my darling.”

The cloak of fog disappears as a cork pops in the kitchen.

Sound Travels

In the cold January air flame and smoke disappear

but the sound goes on forever. 

The pistol crack; the victim’s gasp,

dead before his wide-eyed head smashes against the pavement;

the screams of the passers-by;

the shouting policemen holding them back;

the wailing ambulance;

the knock, apologetic, on the door;

the crying, desperate,

left without a husband and father;

the monotone of the priest;

the 12 clicking heels take the coffin;

the sobs of the veiled

and the final, definite scraping of soil,

thrown from shovel to grave. 

The shot was still ringing out.

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