A Short Collection (1)

DSCN6653Time for another new segment for my blog, although this one does not follow a set schedule.

I have many a notebook, and almost all of them are used for a specific purpose.  One such purpose is the writing of micro-fiction.

Every now and again I’ll pick up a pen and decide to do a short piece of writing.  I might do several in one sitting, I might not.  It depends on how the mood takes me.

There’s no restrictions in terms of content; it can be about anything.  But there is one rule.

It can only be a page long.

Having written a number over the past few years, I’ve decided to share them on here to try and gather opinions on my work.  Writing micro-fiction like this isn’t something I do very often, but I’d still like to know whether I’m any good at it or not.

Each post will most likely contain 3-4 short pieces of fiction under their respective titles, and will be easy to find from the ‘Creative Writing’ page on the top menu.

With all that said and done, here are the first few pieces…

Cruel World

Two heartbeats beating together.  The silence in the darkness and the emptiness of it all.

Hopeless.  Tragic.

The leaf falling in the storm.

They watch, two glittering eyes in the warmth of light.  It hurts, their ruthless stare; eyes burning with the scorn of pity.  They close.


How much longer, this nightmare?  Falling forever in the pretend; my forgotten imaginary, my needless life.  The alarm is silent, swimming in the depths where it can only drown.  No wake-up call.

Trapped.  Still.

In the raging war the trenches fill with bleeding hope.  The cries of many screaming out in one voice.  Bruised and broken, full of suffering.

Carry on.

It’s out there somewhere.  The urge.  The will.  Death comes to those who never give up.


Golden on the lips.  Bleeding in through the window, broken on the skin.  Peering through the blinds, full of voyeuristic pleasure at the emptiness of the driveway.  One button undone.  The tease of one’s touch against the collarbone, to risk excitement too soon.

Patience.’  His soft, unmuttered breaths warm against the neck.


He would be here.  Just wait.  That husky voice of his, speaking in the silence once again.


The wind, like a disturbed child, howling on the other side of the glass.  All the sound that still cries out.  The sand falling in the hourglass – stopped.  To wait is to endure.

A suffering.

Disruption.  The wind died down to the roar of an engine.

Another button undone.


That moment.

In the silence, two beating hearts falling to the rhythm of one.  A life slowing down.

A life switching off.

Cold sunset turning to night.  One bed, illuminated in a dying crimson, drenched in hysterical tears.  A soft voice, whispering hope of tomorrow, of a million more sunsets, and the rise of every new day.  All falling upon deaf ears.

Knife wound.  Deep in the chest.

Few breaths left in the life that will wake up again.  Six am starts in a bed losing its creases.  Memories the only air left to breathe.

Time ticking away.  The clock doesn’t stop, the world doesn’t slow.


But what is there to say?  Nothing worth saying can be said.

Whispers.  Mutters.  A dying light.

Crumpled covers in sweaty hands.  Too afraid of the cold touch of another’s skin.

One final breath.

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