Flash Fiction

Desperate Measures

The pretty woman is clearly distressed. Her thin jacket is soaked from the storm, her bare hands red raw and she has no stockings. An emerald ring is her only possession. The dishevelled young man wearing a battered raincoat hopes to pawn his handgun. They both need cash urgently. The grizzled old pawnbroker behind the counter sneers while squinting at the perfect green stone through his eyeglass. The young man makes a decision that’ll put them all on the evening news. He takes the gun out of his pocket, fingers the trigger and says, “What’s it worth now, old man?”


Piece of Cake

Ordinarily, she didn’t mind birthdays. The cards, the presents, the cake, the champagne. She hadn’t resented turning thirty. Forty had been acceptable. Fifty was tolerable. But sixty was utterly beyond the pale. It felt like only yesterday she was ‘sweet sixteen and never been kissed’.
As she browsed in the library a post-it note fluttered from a book. She
picked it up. “As you grow older, you find pleasing everyone is impossible; however pissing everyone off is a piece of cake”. As she read the words she burst out laughing. Maybe turning sixty wouldn’t be so bad after all.