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‘And do you often let yourself into the flat without your tennant’s permission, Mr Scott?’
The landlord shuffled grubby slippers on the threadbare carpet. ‘Single parent families on benefits. Always trouble.’
Segeant Flynn thought of the bedroom with its peeling wallpaper, the wax like figures tucked neat and still as mannequins under the bedclothes. He shot the man a bitter smile. ‘Well, they won’t cause you any more trouble, will they?’
Written for Three Line Tales. See here to join in and to share a story of your own.
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A strip of black, ashy sand, white breakers above – a grey sky, heavy with sea mist that rolls in and out of the shore like a living thing.
Many would be driven insane by my monochrome world, by the endless crash of the waves, the screaming dip and soar of the gulls – but not me.
Inside me burns a fire of anger so fierce it will turn the sand to glass, boil the seas until they vapourise, leaving nothing but a crust of salt behind. The world will know me.
Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
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Feathers flutter in the wind – a parade of crow’s wings, a pair nailed to each fence post, blue black dancing over the churned earth.
Daw knows the farmer who owns the land, who shoots the crows. Grover his name is. The man never could bear to see anything beautiful fly, his instinct always to capture, to cage, to kill.
Grover had a wife didn’t he? Nancy. Not seen her for a long while.
Written for Three Line Tales. See the prompt pic and write a tale.
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It was the freedom of movement Reem valued the most. She would walk to the top of the hill overlooking Burnley, the grass hushing her steps, the breeze hushing the grass.
Raising first one hand then the other, she wriggled her fingers, allowed the breeze to wrap around her, pass over her, bringing the smells of the city – petrol fumes, the local chip shop, crushed vegetation.
Adnan laughed at her ritual. ‘Why up there of all places?’
She just smiled, pulling him close. ‘Because I can.’
Written for Three Line Tales. See the pic and write a post. See here to join in.
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Watching my small son sing was the best – he’d inhale so deeply, the force of his own breath would make him stand on tiptoe, gradually sinking to the ground as he sang, like a deflating balloon.
The sound wasn’t good – he’d sing whatever came into his head, regardless of the tune – but his grinning enthusiasm, that was what I loved.
I watch his chest rise and fall now, the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator in place of his own puppyish gasping. I long to take him in my arms but he’s attached to the bed with lines and drips, all the things that keep him alive.
I wish I could hear that tuneless song just once more before he goes.
Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales. See the pic and hone a tale. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
*The title comes from the Prince of Denmark’s last words in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
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The front room stank of beer, the armpit smell of stale kebab meat. Gingerly, Sandy stepped over discarded food wrappers, knocking over a bottle that gurgled lager onto the rug.
A muffled cry from the crumpled duvet on the sofa told her Dave hadn’t made it to bed last night.
‘You’re a pig!’ Why did she still flat share with this loser?
‘Didn’t find it,’ he mumbled.
Dave always claimed his night’s picking up girls in clubs wasn’t selfish gratification, but a quest for the ‘spark’, an indefinable moment of connection that would tell him when he’d found his soul mate.
Sandy pulled back the duvet, revealing a mass of tangled brown hair, lids firmly shut over what she knew to be dazzling blue eyes.
‘You can’t even see in front of your face, you idiot.’ She let the duvet drop.
Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales. See the pic and write. Visit here to read the other stories.
photo by Dev Benjamin via Unsplash
The bell went for break, the children’s whoops and laughter receding along the hall as Shona set to tidying. She’d been showing them simple origami swallows, training their faltering, stubby fingers to create sharp folds, the table scattered with a rainbow flock of creased paper wings and torn beaks. The tap of shoes in the hall made her turn.
Poppy. Sensitive, more likely to be found talking to the dolls than her school mates. ‘Miss, the birds – they’re falling!’
Shona smiled, sent the paper rustling with her hand. ‘We made them, remember? They’re not real.’
Poppy shook her head, pointing to the window. ‘Not those. Those.’
The sunlight flickered, dimmed. A sound like hard rain falling. The children screaming.
Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See the prompt pic and just write. See here to join in and to read the other tales.