short stories & flash fiction

 

After Angie came back from the workshop, she wasn’t quite the same. I heard them lay her down in her room, next door to mine, and at first it was so quiet, I figured that she must have been turned off. But after I had sat still for a while, focussing all my energy on my ears, I could hear her humming. No one had been in to check on me, so I carried on with my sewing, half my brain wondering why Angie wasn’t doing anything. 

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Do you ever stand, toes at the threshold of that yellow line and imagine some nutcase is going to push you in front of the train? I always do. Every time the warm assault of air whips the hair against my cheek, I cast a furtive glance over my shoulder and judge.

Charcoal suit; not crazy. Blow-dry; not crazy. Skinny, pale, dressed head to toe in leather; maybe crazy.

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Black Market

Londonist

Cambeth is a tall man, cool as a cucumber (his wife says) and with eyes as green (she has not said that for a long time). He cuts a solitary figure amongst the closing stalls of Brixton Market. He runs his fingers over the woollen gloves, but a close observer would notice that he is actually looking sideways at the woman in the doorway; the colour of her skin obscured by tattoos and the dark of the night.

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