Flash Fiction: I watch the rising and falling of her chest

I watch the rising and falling of her chest. She doesn't know I'm awake. Her gown is sheer, and she's half-illuminated by the moon. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. Her breath is slow and shallow, and I am mesmerised by the ridge of her clavicle. The faintest shadow of breasts. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I stare at her, unable to sleep. I remember running my lips along her neck, my arms around her. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I remember early mornings, breakfasts in bed, and furtive liaisons under the covers. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I remember the taste of her lips. Her lips. Her lips. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I can't wait for her wake up, for her to be mine again. The ECG beeps. I watch the rising and falling of her chest.


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Flash Fiction: Bubbles

I noticed the man as I walked home one day. He was partly balding, his unkempt grey hair straggled down to his shoulders in lanky twines. He was protected from the elements in the park by a beatup black duster, that looked like it hadn't seen clean water since the Carter administration. He sat on a park bench, his face like a wallet beaten repeatedly with a baseball bat. His scowl was fierce and all encompassing as he leaned forward, legs splayed.

In his right hand was a cheap cigarette, held between first and middle fingers yellowed and cracked with abuse. In the same hand, clenched fiercely to his palm, was a small, pink, plastic wand, the tip shaped like a star.

Repetitively, he would reach the wand into the small jar of bubbles in his left hand, swirl it around, and slosh some of the liquid on his finger. He'd withdraw the wand, a patina of film spread across it. Then, his right hand to his mouth, and a drag of his cigarette. One heartbeat. Two. Three. And out into the wand.

Bubbles would fill his little corner of the park, and when each popped, a small flare of smoke would escape. Once every tiny sphere and exploded into vapours, he'd reach his right hand over to the left and start again. And never stop scowling.




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Flash Fiction: "Zeke"

They always said smoking would kill Zeke. They were right. Zeke and I were the only two guys at the office who did smoke, but Zeke, boy Zeke was hooked. 3 packs a day, rain or shine. He was the politest guy possible about it. Only smoked on his breaks, had this little alcove out around back. Kept him sheltered from the wind and sleet. I’d join him out there for my one or two a day, but Zeke was a machine. Every day, break times and lunch, he’d rush out there like a madman, and suck down as many as he could. Breaks were the worst. He had 10 minutes to get as much smoking done as possible before getting back. It was like watching a vacuum cleaner. Light and suck. His lips like a seal around the filter. I swear to God I once saw him go through an entire smoke in one long drag. Then, as fast as you could blink, another was in his mouth, and he was dragging it as hard as he could. It could be raining, snowing, or the end of times and the sky turned red. But as soon as it was break, he’d be out there sucking down the cancer sticks with all the might of his lungs. And so, like any other day, afternoon break came round, and he was off. He didn’t come back. We all figured he might have nipped round the corner to pick up another packet, but after half an hour something seemed wrong. The coroner found an almost complete cigarette lodged in his throat. I quit the next day.