BackStory: Five Questions with Bronwen Griffiths Author of No More Than an Eggshell What inspired you to write this ‘No More Than an Eggshell’? I was inspired to write this piece after attending a poetry workshop with Jane Lovell at…
No More Than an Eggshell
No More Than an Eggshell by Bronwen Griffiths (Rye Harbour, November 1928) I pin up my sheets and see how tomorrow the weather will turn. Autumn is almost gone. Winter is soon to be upon us. The dock plants lie…
Black Two
Black Two by PJ Stephenson “Next time I looked, he…” My voice catches, like someone releasing the R/T button too quickly. My lower lip quivers. What’s wrong with me? I’ve lost sprogs before. I fumble to light another cigarette and…
Stones Heavy in Their Pockets
Stones Heavy in Their Pockets by Gina Headden When Beatrice leaves the house, Daisy is asleep and Ted is blacking boots. ‘Give my love to Dolly,’ Ted calls. She keeps her mouth shut. She isn’t seeing Dolly, something Ted does…
The Writer’s House
The Writer’s House by Caroline Greene The great man is in the drawing room sitting for a portrait. We’ve had to roll up the rugs, but there’s sure to be paint for me to scrub off the parquet. He’s had…
Comfortless Cove
Comfortless Cove by Linda Walsh I grip the sides of the swaying rowing boat, my face scorched by a cold-hearted sun. Ahead is Ascension Island, Queen Victoria’s lonely outpost, lying between Africa and the New World, a desolate rock in…
It’s Raining Today
It’s Raining Today by Mark Left When I dream it is raining. That is normal, that is what it does in Poland. Rain falling in sheets like wire mesh stretched to the four horizons. Keeping me in, shutting me out…
Freedom Pass
Freedom Pass by Tamsin Cottis Jackie and me on the bus. Front seat, top deck. Number 38. Hackney Central to Victoria. Memory of this bus came with me to Hospital. German Doodlebugs screaming through clouds. Stop. Wait. Boom! Doctors said…
Down the Long, Long Line
Down the Long, Long Line by Mary-Jane Holmes Dark to light, the tunnel births the train and there’s the river’s head damned blue to reservoir, the ore rakes Da hushed lead from since the valley was drowned, the best sward…
Bedlam
2019 FlashBack Fiction Microfiction Competition: Moon First Place Bedlam by Jo Withers I sit rigid, body taut as wooden chair. Physicians unleash freezing water against flesh, hoping to exorcise hysteria. They blame the moon, say its phases corrupt menstrual cycles.…