Ubinox was patient.
Ubinox was smart.
Ubinox was lithe, agile and keen.

High above the Grand Hall she waited; fingers and toes gripping the light fittings as she sank silently into nothingness.

Shadows stretched across the empty room as the wise old grandfather clock, standing as it always had by the ornate double doors, beat out a steady rhythm for them to dance.

Ubinox watched.
Ubinox waited.
Ubinox didn’t flinch, not even when the chimes signalled 8pm and the doors burst open with a surge of gay abandon and a chorus of cheers.

At 8.05 the cheers were silenced.

I have my doubts whether you’ll see what I see, but perhaps after reading and looking again you’ll find Ubinox lying in wait. This piece was written for Friday Fictioneers. 100 words per story, 100 stories per week.


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Soap and water

“Let the plug out, Michael,” mum would say.

My brother would groan. He enjoyed the splashing; drenching mum as she knelt by the side of the tub, flannel in hand and a tired look upon her brow.

“Michael, I won’t ask you again,” she would say next. It would always be me. I was the older of the two so I constantly got the tap end. It wasn’t so bad though – mum couldn’t reach with me with the soap.

The third and final call would be the same every time. “Michael,” she’d snap, “don’t make me call your father.”

This piece was written for Friday Fictioneers. A group of writers aiming to fulfil the promise of writing 100 words against a weekly prompt. You can find the prompt over at Rochelle’s blog. Go on, take a look.


Sam rests his case

“What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

Sam had often thought about the words his grandmother used to whisper to him, time and time again – often whilst he’d lay with his head upon her lap as she ran her frail fingers through his scraggly mop of blonde hair.

Many moons had passed since those prepubescent days. Business meetings had replaced after-school kick-abouts, glasses of wine usurped juice cartons and the train window had become his grandma’s lap. He wore his hair differently now; all heavily gelled and styled. She wouldn’t have approved.

The train tracks faltered and Sam’s head was displaced from the cold glass with a startling bump. He looked down at the pile of papers in his lap and began to build his next defence.

A piece inspired by the Monday Finish The Story Challenge. Click here to find out more!


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“What is it?”
“What do you mean, ‘what is it?’ Don’t you like it?”
“It’s… well, I mean it’s, erm… it’s unusual.”
“You don’t like it.”
“No, no. No I mean, I didn’t say that. It’s just… different is all.”
“You hate it. I should have known.”
“I don’t hate it. But I don’t not not-like it.”
“This is just like Christmas ‘08 all over again.”
“What is?”
“This is.”
“Is it?”
“It is. God, this is so you.”
“Wait, what? It’s supposed to be me?”
“What is?”
“Typical! Why do you always have to make everything about you?”


Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the freshly published Rochelle. Join in the 100 word flash fiction fun or simply go read the other entries here.

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He shuffled in the bed. A calculated shuffle; just wiggly enough and just noisy enough to wake his sleeping partner.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.
“No,” came the muffled reply, deep beneath the winter-thick duvet.
“The tap is doing it again,” he said quietly.
“The what is doing what? Shut up. Go to sleep.”
“The dripping thing. The tap. The…” he paused, grasping in the night for the foreign word native to this land.
“…faucet!” he exclaimed.

Silence followed.

It was dark. There was no way he could see it, but boy could he feel “the look”.

faucet-21-224x3001Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the freshly published Rochelle. Join in the 100 word flash fiction fun or simply go read the other entries here.

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