We’re busy beavering away at CAHQ, with all sorts of things lined up to introduce and announce over the coming weeks and months.
The first thing that regular visitors to the site will notice is that we’ve had a bit of a revamp and a new look. We think it looks much more crisp and clean and, as you can see, with the addition of a sidebar, readers now have much more information readily available to them.
Another thing that may be of interest is a slight change to our Short Story Page. Go on – have a cheeky little look!…
In fact, why not take a few minutes to browse around the whole site – and then use the new contact form in the sidebar to let us know what you think!
But not before you read this latest crop of microfiction from our Fiction 123 submissions. Please spread the word if you enjoy them, by sharing the page or talking about them on your social media…
Bad News And Good News
by Ros Levenson
So you’re asking how I am today.
Do you want the good news or the bad news first? OK, so the bad news is that every bone in my body aches, I’ve got tadpoles swimming across my eyes, I can’t reach to cut my toenails and they’re ruining my socks, my kitchen cupboards are somehow getting higher on the wall and the TV volume controls don’t seem to be making the sound any higher. Oh yes, and there are hairs sprouting on my ears and they’re making my favourite chocolate digestives smaller.’
So what’s the good news, you say? Ah well, I’m still here, aren’t I? And as I always say: ‘mustn’t grumble’.
Ros is a keen writer of micro fiction and is often inspired by eavesdropping on everyday life. She also writes short stories and is working on a longer piece of fiction.
Like Clockwork
by Christine Dubuc
Margaret checks her reflection in the hallway mirror. The days when she would have blown herself kisses are long gone. Incognito. She likes that word. Likes to go unnoticed.
Today, at ninety, she’s off to the supermarket. She picks up her essential items and then some fancy ones; a silk bra, belgian chocolates, a bracelet in the shape of a snake and some kitten slippers, in black. These she stuffs at the bottom of her caddy, only bringing out her ‘old lady’ items. Her plan works like clockwork. She smiles sweetly at the cashier.
When she gets home, she unpacks, heart racing. So much better than sex, she muses giggling.
Christine writes short stories and poetry. She attends a weekly writing class.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
Crimson Snow
by Angela G. Williams
London, 1888. A chilling fog blanketed the city, muffling horses’ hooves and cries of street vendors. It was the perfect hunting ground. They called him the “Crimson Collector” for how he displayed his victims, drained of blood, arranged like macabre works of art.
Tonight, Inspector Davies followed crimson droplets on cobblestones. They led to a narrow alley, shrouded in unnatural silence. He found her there, posed against a wall, a single red rose clutched in her lifeless hand.
Davies felt cold dread. This wasn’t another murder; it was a taunt. As he leaned closer, a whisper slithered from the fog, chilling him. “She was an appetizer,” it hissed. “The main course is yet to come, Inspector.” The fog swirled, something unseen. Then, silence.
Angela G. Williams is a South African genealogist currently residing in Illinois, where she channels her passion for history into writing gothic and supernatural fiction. Her stories often explore the dark corners of the past, weaving together folklore, mystery, and the haunting echoes of forgotten lives.
For The Pyre
by J Agombar
Hair hangs. Hands bound. Manacled feet trail as they drag you. Enraged crowd toss rotten vegetables. Silhouetted pitchforks and profanities mingle. Your demise seems inevitable. Rope hoists you upon the pyre via branch of ancient oak.
Should you fight? because you could, despite your dishevelled state.
No. They need to witness truth.
Flames rise, skin blisters, flesh melts. You remain persistently silent. The crowd becomes uneasy. Something changes. Skin subsides for a darker, squamous hide. Ropes are severed by newly sprouted wings. Eyes darken. Vision enhances. Sharp fangs. Claws. You take flight into rising embers. Your angered cry promises return.
J Agombar resides near the treacherous waters of Southend-On-Sea, Essex, where visions of the speculative, criminal, and supernatural have taken over his mind (usually alongside a bottle of whisky). He holds a BA Hons in Humanities where the creative writing module inspired his first published work with Luna Press.
Follow the author on X/Twitter.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
These Are All The Things I Think When My Sister Tells Me She Is Pregnant
by Fiona Dignan
That she is Sunday’s child, and I am Wednesday’s. That she glides through life with the grace of a swan. That I am the swan’s feet desperately flapping beneath. That I despise the fullness of her, the flatness of me. That it’s my fault my womb is a burst balloon. That it was she who accompanied me to the clinic when I was barely sixteen. That it was she who held my hand as the doctor said complication, infection, scarring.
That she is offering me the chance to love the nearest thing I will ever have to my own child.
Fiona Dignan is a stay-at-home mother of four and writes to keep herself sane.
The Importance Of Being True To Yourself
by Heather Boncey
She turned around to view the congregation. They had their heads bowed, mainly wearing black, looking solemn. Some visibly upset.
In contrast she was dressed in bright purple with lime green shoes, a huge lime green floppy hat and matching bag. Straw like bleached blond hair cascaded down her back. Theatrical make-up applied, making her look like Barbie.
People gasped shaking their heads in disgust. Her siblings signalled for her to move away from the family. Upset by the lack of respect she was showing towards their departed mother.
She felt lighter, happier and free. The big black cloak of despair she had worn like a second skin for years had been cast off and left by the coffin.
Bio: I enjoy writing flash fiction. I belong to Retreat West, Westword and my local Wokingham writing group.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
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