Tiny Fiction

Twitter throws up some lovely literary ideas and #smalltales is one of them. Each week Brooke Thomas (@LiterallyGeeked) invites writers to submit a story no more than 100 words in length, on a topic chosen by the last week’s winner. Small Tales attracts a varied and talented bunch of scribblers and the results are often highly entertaining. Below are a few of mine from recent weeks.



Father had objected. “Luxury flat my arse! Swanky fittings, yes, sea view – just – but a hutch, love! No room to swing a cat.”
‘Bullshit!’ I’d roared. ‘Deposit please.’
‘As if. Cat swinging potential zero.’
‘Prove it!’
So that’s where Milly’s gone, Mummikins. Carrier retrieved from the attic. Range Rover into town. Milly hissing at her reflection in the elevator mirror. Dad’s face red. Mine steely, set.
Got about eighty degrees into opening swing. Bloody shelf; sharp, final. Should have grabbed back legs, not tail. Lesson learned.
More open viewings tomorrow. Father insufferable.
Plastic bag on car seat.

– – –


1: Take one formless, empty mixing bowl and line with electromagnetic radiation.
2: Add 328 million gallons of water.
3: Now add 5973600000000000000000000 kg of assorted matter (ground).
4: Making sure that all is good gently knead mixture for 4.5 billion years, before rolling into a ball. Ensure stars, moon and sun are clearly visible.
5: Add dash of spirit and allow rolled ball to air until increase of life, making sure to keep moist and checking that all is still good throughout.
6: Add livestock and seasons to taste.
7: Leave to rest. Indefinitely.

– – –


“That’s with an ‘I’, Sir?” Her breath snags; an apology is mumbled. I swat at it, my grin stretching.
“Y. Hypnotist has a ‘y’. And these” – fingers circling sockets – “don’t worry. Barely miss them. Silly old puss did me a favour, truth told! Kind of you to fill out this blasted form for me. Think I’ll qualify?”
“I see no reason…”
“…private clients an impossibility after…”
“…certainly some form of weekly…”
“…I believe there’s a place you’ve to sign…”
“Done, Sir. Now is there anything else…”
“Plenty! But first – my pen, Ms Nickleby-Hodge. The cheque. And sleep.”

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