Flash fiction and bits of stories
The story that was longlisted for the Cambridge Short Story Competition in August 2025.
This is a flash fiction piece under 1,000 words
Stones and Sticks
So it’s happening right now. A bathroom cubicle in the town library is where it happens. Who’d have thought?
Hurry up in there! comes a shout, accompanied by a bang on the door.
Almost done! You try to keep your voice light and patient. The tiles are a murky yellow (they were probably white long ago) with grouting that could do with a scrub. It smells bad in here.
You’re staring at the plastic stick in your hand - the plus sign stares back. You’ve read the instructions a million times but now a flurry in your stomach that it’s a double line you should look for. But no. A positive result means a plus doesn’t it? A minus sign would signify subtraction. Another thump on the door makes you jump.
All right, all right. I’m coming. Your voice is tight. You shove the stick into your bag and open the door, give an empty smile to the woman who sighs and pushes past. You try to find a kind thought. Maybe this woman is in such a hurry because she has a urinary tract infection, Crohn’s Disease. Or maybe she’s just a bitch. Be kind, Julie, remember what Mum always said. Be kind.
You had sat on the checked picnic rug and rolled your eyes, got a snigger from one of the cousins. School was over for summer and the days were long, so boredom snuck up on you every time, cousins arriving from England and staying put for two months. It was fun, at first, to have company; playmates, races, counting freckles and giggling. But now, you wanted to be alone. Dad was still alive at this point, wasn’t he? Wrap that jam sandwich up properly, Julie, the wasps’ll get it. Was Mum always so tired-looking?
Later that night, you lay on your bed (linen covered in tiny flowers) with your walkman on (Michael Jackson) when a sound slipped between worlds. You lifted the headphones off your ears and, for a terrible moment, thought that an animal was howling next door. With a grip in your throat you slowly put the headphones back, turned up the volume and closed your eyes. Exams started tomorrow.
You should phone Mum, you think now, as you make your way home. How had she coped, those days? But you were fine then, and this is all still - well - fine. Exams weren’t important in life, really. You’ve been working as a waitress for the last eight years with some nice regulars, and no stress (apart from Creepy Joe in the kitchen). Your bag is on the passenger seat, the plastic stick lurking invisible within. The sky is grey and silent above the Larne hills. On a whim, you pull over near the Black Arch and switch off the engine. The sea is quiet and dull, a reflection of the sky. This is all wrong, you think. People will ask about the father. You could shrug mysteriously in response, lift your eyebrows, maybe wink; the fun-loving minx who’d got herself in trouble.
Dear God.
You close your eyes and rest your head on the steering wheel. Somewhere nearby a car door slams.
At school, you were convinced about all sorts of things. I’m having tons of kids when I grow up, Stacey was saying. Seriously. TONS. You all laughed. The future was never here, so your days were filled with nothing more urgent than the despair that ensued when Ryan McClure didn’t smile at you. Did you see that? He actually spoke to me? Like, actually said words to my face! You all cooed and playfully punched Stacey’s arm. Ryan and Stacey! Ryan and Stay-cee! You smiled at your friend. But later, you’d written in your diary that life wasn’t fair. Why didn’t Ryan notice you, too? That cow, Tanya, only got so popular because she shagged them all. You wrote the word, but it meant nothing. You hadn’t even been kissed yet. And already, you were sixteen. Sixteen, but not sweet. Maybe that was the problem. Be kind, your mother had said.
You lift your head off the steering wheel and let out a long sigh. The bag sits silent on the seat, in your peripheral vision. That tiny stick of plastic. You feel sick. Glowing, they’d say. The sky holds fast and the sea remains still. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a seagull standing on a fence. It is tall, bright white and completely still. For a mad moment you think it is staring at you, but its face is in profile. You look at it for a long time, ignoring the urge to root around in your bag for the stick, to check it’s still there. Soon, you get out of the car and make your way to the water’s edge. Traffic noise starts to feel distant as you reach down to pick up a pebble. It’s smooth, round and grey. I wonder what it is, you think. Basalt? Granite? John would know, you realise, annoyed that his name has arrived in your head. He knows everything, after all. Apart from this, you think, apart from this. You set your hand on your flat stomach, stroke the smooth stone and feel its weight, think about throwing it in the sea but find that you can’t possibly let it go. You feel suddenly, and completely, bereft.
But here is this lovely stone in your hand. Here is the silent sea, the grey sky. Here is the stick with its plus sign. You look around for the seagull. It’s still in the same position; calm and strong. Free, you think. Then suddenly, it lifts off and flies slowly, slowly over the water and away. It calls above your head. A song of sorrow that drifts across the sky. You hold on tight to the stone, look down at it in your small hands.
It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
The story that was shortlisted for the Flash500 Competition in May 2025.
The aim was to write a tiny tale in just 500 words.
Bog Man
Mammy's out again, working double shifts. She looks pale all the time, like someone hasn't coloured her in properly. I slam a plate down on the drainer and Charlie the cat lifts his head.
“Sorry, Charlie,” I look his way and he narrows his eyes. I put another plate into the sink, gently this time.
I thought being ten would be different. I thought I’d be taller, at least. But I'm still small and skinny with too many freckles. I thought Mammy wouldn't cry at night while I lay awake. I used to see her smiling face reflected in the mirror as she plaited my hair. Remembering that smile makes my chest hurt.
The back door opens and Mammy comes in.
“Oh, Roisin, honey, you're doing the dishes.” She looks dreadful.
“You look nice, Mammy.”
She tries to smile and sits down at the table. It’s quiet. I sit next to her, staring at the torn wallpaper, trying not to pick at it. I bite my nails instead. Then I stand up quickly, grabbing the small piece of wood that sits in the middle of the table, and pull on my boots. Mammy doesn’t look up.
“All shall be well,” Granny had said.
She stole the phrase from a saint, Mary says, but I don't care.
The sky is dark - rain is coming. There's a tree where the path ends and the river starts, and I love it. It's my favourite place to sit.
“Hello, Tree,” I say, loudly. The branches sway in the wind and I decide it is saying hello back. I smile and sit down. I breathe in - all shall - I breathe out - be well.
I look at the wooden figure in my hand, the size of a potato. It’s so old, pulled from the earth and carved into a human shape with a plain face. He doesn't have a name. Mary suggested 'Barry the Bog Man' and we laughed and laughed. I hold on so tight that he makes a mark on my skin. It might be magic, Granny had said.
“It’s raining!” I call out as I get back. Mammy is still seated at the table.
“Barry wants to say hi,” I set him onto the table with a thump. She laughs and reaches out. I feel a twist in my stomach.
“Ah, sure, isn’t he lovely altogether?” She strokes his face.
I see myself at fifteen, twenty, making Mammy smile. Maybe the freckles will have faded by then.
“I’ll get the kettle on.”
Charlie’s ears flicker. The silence settles. The rain stops. And all of a sudden I know that everything is going to be all right. I can feel it from my toes to my head. I glance over at Mammy and there’s a smile forming on her tired face.
So here we are, in a small, bright kitchen, grinning like loons (Granny again) as Barry the Bog Man looks on. Did I imagine it, or did he just smile too?
The story that was shortlisted for the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize in October 2023.
Printed with permission: Oxford Spires Publishing (21 Oct. 2023), ed. FJ Morris
It is a Far, Far Better Thing It’s better to give than to receive, they say, but surely it’s also better to have than have not. Who said that about giving anyway? And how do they know? They know because they have everything and can easily give things away. No. Giving something away is harder when you’ve got nothing. Isn’t it? I’m arguing with myself again, I know, but I can’t stop. I’m tired of wishing things were different, I suppose. I’m tired of losing the game and making excuses and failing, failing, failing. You’re a failure, Dad had said, when I dropped yet another cup on our stone floor. And it’s all you’ll ever be. And you know what? He was right. He wasn’t right. Was he? I’m using up my last bit of cash (no plastic payments here) to buy my little sister a birthday present. There’s bits of wrapper and fluff in my hands, too, and the gentle-faced man at the till pretends not to notice. He probably pretends not to notice the bruises too. Sure what can you do? Young family, single parent, and always - the drink. This man in the corner shop sees it all around here. But sure, what can you do? We hold each other’s gaze for a moment too long, before I fake a smile and leave. The door closes with a dull thud. Home is where the heart is and home is where my treasure is - my little sister, with her tight red curls and pale skin and a hundred freckles spread like butter on her cheeks. She’s a jumping jack and a happy puppy all rolled into one, and is always smiling. How does she do it? She arrived in a tiny bundle six years ago and I immediately fell in love. I was almost ten and had never known light like this. It was as if a whirlwind crashed into the kitchen and grabbed hold of my heart and blew it open. She hears the door and flies into the kitchen, all un-contained energy. Sometimes I think she’ll burst through the walls and just keep going. Hey monkey, I say, and pretend that I’ve forgotten what day it is. She laughs and looks in my pockets and hangs onto my arms and stares into my eyes with such trust that it stops my heart. What? Oh yes, picked up a little something for a certain someone’s birthday didn’t I? She breaks into a huge smile and runs to jump onto a wooden chair at the table. Then she rests her arms out and closes her eyes. Little sis. I want to put my arms round her and never let go. No. I want to put my arms round her and take her far away from here. Fly off (I’m a dragon in this fantasy) and land somewhere beautiful and quiet and empty. Just us two. We could forage for food, swim, rest. Hold each other on dark nights. She peeks one eye open and her smile somehow gets even bigger. My little sis. I reach into my pocket and take out the paper bag. It crinkles as she gently takes it, looks at it as if it’s made of gold or as if it might explode at any moment. She takes the gift out reverently and sighs with wonder. The little bracelet is made of tiny sweets and she’s always loved them. When Mum was still around we would both get a necklace every week and see if we could make the sweets last for seven whole days. I managed it (of course) but little sis had crunched her way through them all before we even got home from the shop. Mum smiled and ruffled the red curls. Then little sis kept the empty elastic band round her neck and counted how many sweets I still had left on mine, without a hint of envy. I pinged the elastic and laughed at her shrieks as I nibbled my own sweets one at a time, luxuriating in the taste and ceremony, showing off, probably. The necklace would cling to my throat all week, ridges forming on my skin, little sis with a thin red line around her small neck. As the months passed, I started to feel strange when my neck was empty, would reach up to clutch at nothing, would search for a line on her skin. At the table, little sis has closed her eyes and I know she’s remembering. The bracelet was a little cheaper than a necklace, and she knows this too. I come to sit next to her and she opens her eyes and looks at me. Memories float in this room more than anywhere else, they cling to our necks and throats, they smell sweet, then sour. I reach out and catch a glimpse of a new bruise on my wrist. Little sis follows my gaze and frowns, lifts her small chin slightly, clamps her jaws together. I realise that she’s stronger than me and feel a catch in my throat. Suddenly she grabs my arm and pulls down my sleeve, then takes the sweet bracelet and places it round my wrist. It holds the sleeve in place, clings tight, hides what shouldn’t be seen. My vision blurs and I swallow loudly. Little sis simply nods once and looks into my face. We’ve got each other, so what else is there? Her voice is so grown up. And thanks, big sis, best present ever. She leans her head into my neck and we stay like that for a long time. Soon, our breaths match, our hearts fall into rhythm. Maybe everything’s going to be all right, I think, staring at the line of pastel sweets, like rosary beads, on my wrist. I twist and turn the beads, breathe in and out, pray. No. It’s not better to give than to receive.
For Colin and Ashlin on Their Wedding Day 9th July 2023 Hidden Depths At the in-between there lies A drawing office Plans and schemes to design and dream of ships That rise higher and higher to reach Ceilings made of gold Dreams were bright on the horizon Those days At the top there lies An empty dock Thompson called it his own and filled it with Water deeper and deeper to fit Liners made of steel Work was held on the horizon These days At the middle there lies A slipway That launched the ship of dreams into Belfast Lough faster and faster to fly to The brighter New World New life shone on the horizon That day At the bottom there lies An ocean liner Shadowed, sheltered and shattered yet falling Deeper and deeper into memory Of stories we tell Stars shone bright on the horizon That night At the convergence there lies A new marriage With vows exchanged and all promises made Higher and deeper and holding fast With hearts that are full Love is alive on the horizon This day
Ben “Sure you’re named after a mountain. It can’t be that hard.” I lift my new walking boots into the air and swing them round, narrowly missing the dog who growls and shuffles away. “I’m just saying, I don’t think my legs are strong enough.” I look down at them, skinny things they are, knobbly knees and thin ankles and pale, pale skin. I think I take after my dad. His knees were horrible. “Come here,” says Mum, reaching out her arm. I hesitate for a moment but soon I lean towards her and settle in. She smells of soda bread and soil and the lily perfume Granny got years ago. The dog comes back and sits down heavily next to us. He’s getting old now. “I miss Dad,” I say, annoyed that my voice wobbles. “Me too.” The fire is glowing and the dog lies down, starts to snore. It makes me smile, and even though I can’t see her face, I know Mum is smiling too. I can always tell. If the whole class from school are doing the climb together, then maybe it’ll be okay. No-one will notice me. I close my eyes and imagine standing at the top of Benbulben, planting a flag, multi-coloured and fluttering without shame. If Jimmy isn’t going, I’ll be fine. “I’ll do it.” Mum leans away to look into my face, her eyebrows lifted. Then she nods, once, and pulls me into her arms again. “Good. That’s good.”
Flash Fiction with some Irish Crows
The Crows The old woman comes here every day and sits on the grass, looking into the distance. Her long grey hair hangs over her shoulders, as if apologetic, and she never moves or makes a sound. But every day she comes to this place and folds her thin legs underneath her coat. Her silent stillness has an energy all its own, lifting from her frame into the sky. Is she not uncomfortable at her age? I think, stopping at the edge of the field. The shape doesn’t move. I glance around at the fading grass and tall beech trees and wonder if the rain will start again soon, despite the late evening sun. This field has some sort of history. My grandmother used to point in my face and say in a low voice, Don’t go there, Saoirse. And when I asked why, she would just shake her head. Dad laughed but I caught Mum’s expression. Locals spoke of hidden holes, mournful wailing, even a sacred standing stone that fell one stormy night. There’s a well that swallows children, Fred the butcher said, eyes wide, You mark my words, he said. We did. Us sensible kids avoided this place and I took to shining my torch all night on the way home, just in case. Mother and baby home around here, I heard, at one time. In all the years since, I would walk a little out of my way to avoid this gate but lately I’ve been coming every day. My terrier, George, has come to know these pauses in our daily walks and sits at my feet, sanguine. The trees are still. There are crows gathered at the top of one of the trees and they are quiet too. When a brief gust of wind lifts my hair, a shiver runs up and down my back and for a moment I wonder if this old woman is even real. The crows all start to tilt their heads and then, in one fluid motion, they all slowly turn to look at her. George lets out a small growl and stands up. I shiver again and George starts barking. The crows are shouting now and two of them are stretching out their wings. It happens quickly and without sound. She disappears. I blink several times and my heart races. Then, as if at some silent cue, George and the crows set off at speed across the field. George gets there first and scrambles around where the old lady had been, that back and forth digging he does when he’s trying to find something. The crows land beside him, pecking the ground and continuing their noisy chatter. I can’t make my legs move. And then all at once it grows quiet again. George sits down in the old lady’s spot and the crows surround him, close him in. The wind picks up and this time it strokes my face and settles there. It feels as if a hand is nudging me forwards. I’m dizzy and walk unsteadily towards George and those silent dark shapes, wings now outstretched and forming a perfect circle. George is sitting so still that I wonder if he can see me, if he recognises me. I want him to run away from those terrible birds with their long and dangerous beaks, watchful and focused eyes, outstretched wings. Their black feathers have a blue sheen that catches the low sun. I reach the circle, out of breath. For a moment nothing happens. I wonder if my heartbeat will get their attention. I need to get to George. I take a step, notice too late that there is no ground beneath my feet. The centre of the circle is a deep well of nothing. George barks once. Twice. I fall.
Van Life and The Year Out
May 2018 until April 2019 was the year of years as the Bennetts (finally) took off in Hans the Van. Still haven’t settled back to be honest. Who wakes up in the same place every day? Oh, most people. Gratitude beyond normal levels for all we experienced on the road. Our health was stable, any adventures (I’m looking at your engine, Hans) were sorted out, and our hearts were reborn. Watch this space for more travel tales and photo essays.
