What am I up to on this here website? What’s with all the flash fiction entries, Graham? What’s the difference between those and the short stories? Well, the flash stuff is the result of briefs and first lines set by different people and groups I follow, like and respect online. The shorts are the ideas, the seeds of somethings, that I need to get off my chest, after they pop into my head and drip on down there into the sternum area. Sometimes when I write them, it’s to see if they have the fuel tank to go somewhere interesting and become something more. They’re sketches, really. Doodles. Scribbles. Don’t judge me. Please. One or two them might be verging on kind of shite. But, nothing ventured and all that.

Then, of course, there’s the therapeutic stuff, the stories that are true or at least based on them. And sometimes, just sometimes, there comes a rant or something thought-provoking, enough to provoke a thought or two in me, anyway.

Please, come in. Have a read. It’s what the words are there for.


“Okay, what’s your problem?” said Sonya, coming to a dead stop on the sidewalk and wheeling around.
A tall guy in a black trench coat, five paces behind her, pointed at his chest, looked over his shoulder and then back again. The universal “Who me?”
“Don’t come the innocent,” she said. “I clocked you ages ago, been following me all night.”
He shrugged.
She stepped forward. “And this isn’t the first time, is it? I saw you last night.”
The look of puzzlement on his face gave way to a smirk. “Extraordinary,” he said.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means you.” He just stood there, smiling at her. Vacant.
“What are you? Some kind of God botherer?”
He laughed. “Oh. That’s a good one.”
“Why are you following me?” she said.
“It’s my job.”

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Andrew reached across the workbench and took the axe down from where it hung on the pegboard. He peeled the protective sleeve off its head and regarded the blade, took in how the light glinted on the steel.
This would make a great story.
He had nowhere to write. He didn’t have a place to call his own, in which to summon the muse. He knew she was there, waiting to descend upon him with the inspiration and the words he craved, but it wasn’t going to happen at a place as mundane and distraction-filled as the kitchen table, was it?

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My short stories are what they say on the tin. Short.
Sometimes, really short.
A few hundred words. Maybe fifteen hundred on a good day.
And they are also stories. As in made up.
Often I write about creepy, freaky, scary kids.
This story is about a kid.
But this one is true.
It’s about one of my kids.
And it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever written.
From my point of view, anyway.
Let me tell you a story.

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They were coming back.
Hadn’t they had enough?
Didn’t they get tired?
I was exhausted, physically and mentally. The last few weeks had left me spent. And yet here they were back to wring the last of my reserves.
Their feral eyes glinted in the orange evening light reflected in the fresh puddles. I’d hoped, prayed, the afternoon rain would have driven them away for the day. But as soon as it stopped and the sun tore a hole in the cloud overhead, they tore a hole in the silence, howling, squealing, growling and nipping at each other as they returned to dish out more of their onslaught, the very thought of more of this torment a torment all of its own

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Monday morning.
There’s nowhere I need to be.
And nothing I have to do.
Once, this was the dream. But seeing as I never got round to putting something by for the proverbial rainy day, it’s the farthest thing from.
No matter how much I might have hated the day job, at least it gave me purpose. I’m not going to find much of that strolling along on this actual, non-proverbial rainy day in these depressing, gray woods, but maybe the fresh air will do me some good.
Yeah, right.
It’s not fresh air I need; it’s a job. And quick. The shitty severance I got isn’t going to last pissing time.
I’m laying the ground work for another sleepless night or ten, doing the mental arithmetic of just how much time pissing time amounts to, when I step ankle-deep into a mud-filled puddle.
Well, of course I do.
Cake, have some icing.
I squelch-limp over to a long-fallen tree and take a seat on one of its broken boughs. I don’t bother taking the shoe off. What’s the point? It’s forty degrees outside. Not like waving my sock around is going to help it dry any. I sit there long enough for it not to matter anymore. Long enough to drift off into my own little world of opaque pointlessness, a world so sealed off from this one I do not see or hear the little boy in the brightly colored raincoat until he’s standing right in front of me.

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You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. That’s what my mom used to say. No idea where the hell it comes from, but I know what the hell it means, believe that. So when Flash Harry glides up alongside me in his two hundred thousand dollar ride, the right-hand side of his S-Class overstepping rudely into the bicycle lane, the gleaming black bodywork so close all I have to do is move my knee a bit to the left for it to touch me, I know what I gotta do: tumble to the ground screaming and crying like a soccer player in front of the opposing team’s goal. I tangle my legs up in the frame of the bike as I roll, for optics you understand, as I hear his brakes apply. The car stops on a dime, right the way you’d expect, and Mr. Mercedes climbs out, jogging up to me in his nice blue suit.

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My name is now Fintan, it would appear.
I’ve always hated that name. Puts me in mind of unwitting, socially awkward dorks who sit up the front of the class and bring the same sandwiches to school every day in aluminum foil. In other words: sad, boring bastards.
To you and me.
So, for a day or two, until I find someone better, a sad bastard is what I will have to be.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I’ll do all the other Fintans out there hiding in plain sight a favor and stick with it for longer than usual, just for the sake of injecting some personality and life into their insular little lives, maybe increase the stock price in their awful moniker.
Really. Come on. Christen your kid Fintan and you’re basically condemning them to a life of tedium. Not saying calling them Bruce would mold them into an automatic action hero, but it would be a step in the right direction.
If your name is Bruce, you have no choice but to lead an interesting life. The name demands it.
But anyway, look, suck it up, my friend. Fintan it is and Fintan you are.
I tuck the driver’s license back into the wallet, and then the wallet into what is now my new jacket. I tie his backpack around his ankles, fill it with rocks and push him off the ledge into the river below.

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I’ve avoided him, since the first day I clocked him, the second time I climbed on to this piece of shit bus, on my third day in this piece of shit job.
And I’ve seen him on board every day since. In the same seat. With the same empty seat next to him.
Because everyone else on this thing avoids him too.
Like a Jehovah’s Witness.
Maybe that’s why he’s laughing, because Jesus, or whoever it is they bang on about, is by his side filling with him the good word, and it is as good as he had hoped. And instead of knocking on your door relentlessly, wanting to share it all and read to you from his good book, he’s decided to keep all that goodness to himself.
That would be one reason why he’s laughing.
But all the time? This guy, he’s laughing every day, every time I see him.
All the goddamn time.
Nobody, including me, looks or stares for fear of making eye contact.

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Been watching a lot of amazing video essays breaking down screenwriting, screenplays and writing, as of late – big shoutout to Nerdwriter1 and Lessons from the Screenplay – so inevitably the gravitational pull of Christopher Nolan and the millions of theses produced on his films reeled me in like a Corellian corvette into the belly of an Imperial Star Destroyer.

Now, I am a Nolan fan, but his movies do have flaws. Okay maybe not flaws – let’s call hang-on-a-sec moments. As in, “Hang on a sec, how can the entire police force of Gotham become imprisoned in the sewers beneath the city for months (the entire police force, not even a desk jockey is left behind), only to emerge with the same amount of facial hair and body fat when Bruce breaks them out again?” Hmmm, maybe they lived on rat burgers like the underground dwellers in Demolition Man.

When you’ve got an intricate narrative going on, it can be difficult to keep all them plates spinning. And as a viewer, I am very forgiving. But, great as it is, and I do love the movie, there is one aspect of The Prestige that leaves me scratching my head. Now maybe it’s the dent in said head from using it a brake in a cycling-related fall a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, and I’m missing something as a result of a latent brain injury.

But maybe not.

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