Category Archives: flash fiction

I Have A New Yarn At Near To The Knuckle

Check out THE DOMINANT HAND: 

‘I met him on a Monday and although my heart didn’t stand still, per say, it certainly skipped a beat or two, I can tell you,’ said Martyna. She giggled. ‘But then that was Philly Bailey. He was a charmer, alright. Not to everyone’s taste I know, a bit rough around the edges and that. But he always had something about him. A twinkle, you know?’
Martyna finished her gin and tonic. She sucked on an ice cube.

‘He was certainly a hell of a ladies man,’ said Ryan. ‘I’ll give him that.’

Read the rest HERE.

Fiery Jack at Spelk Fiction

I’m flashing again at Spelk Fiction. Fiery Jack goes a little like this:

Jack walked across the pub carpark and found Sidney Round’s BMW. His bony hands shook as he took a petrol canister from his backpack. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. Tried to control his breathing. He was dripping with sweat. He emptied the canister’s contents over the car and then took out another petrol can.

Read the rest here.

I’m at the Flash Fiction Offensive

SNAPSHOTS AT THE FLASH FICTION OFFENSIVEWith a little yarn called The Contender:

‘It was a Saturday night and The Cobble Bar was only slightly busier than it was midweek, which really wasn’t very. Indeed, if the place hadn’t been useful for the local criminal fraternity–money laundering, distribution of contraband and the like—it would have closed down years ago.

A big screen television was silently showing a 24-hour weather channel though no one seemed to be watching it.  Status Quo’s ‘Paper Plane’ blasted out as I walked up to the bar and took off my raincoat.’

Read the rest here.

I have a Twist Of Noir

I’m up at the all-new A TWIST OF NOIR with a little yarn called THINGS I USED TO LIKE.

‘I used to like playing football when I was a kid. Loved it, I did. I could spend hours kicking a ball around a muddy field or up and down a dirty back street. When I got older, I even played in goal for the local pub’s Sunday league team. But I put on weight because of all the beer and pork pies. I liked that bit too much, and it became hard work. A slog. No fun at all.

That was another thing, too. I used to like spending a few nights a week and the odd afternoon down the pub but heartburn, indigestion and ulcers soon put paid to that. Sitting sipping a mineral water when other folk got pissed wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, so I lost interest.  I began to fear I’d lost my capacity for joy, I really did.’

Read the rest here. 

Keep It Simple. Keep It Short.

4 picsI think I’ve always liked singles more than LPs. Preferred the short, sharp burst of a 45 rpm vinyl to 33 and 1/3 rpm of a few decent tunes padded out with fillers. And maybe that’s why I was drawn to flash fiction.

I started off my crime writing ‘career’ – arf – submitting yarns to the late lamented Six Sentences website – short stories in just six sentences. Indeed, my first writing to appear in print was in the 6S volume 2 anthology.

Here’s an example of a 6S yarn:

A Cold Day in Helsinki

The January night had long since waned when Mika blasted Aki’s brains over the snow covered street, producing a more than passable Rorschach test. A murder of crows sliced through the whiteness as the purr of the passing motorcycle grew to a roar, masking the sound of the shotgun. When day eventually melted into night, the moon hung fat and gibbous, the bloodstains now black in the moonlight. Mika draped Aki’s cold, dead skin over his own pallid flesh as, shivering, he breathed in the scent of cheap aftershave, cigarettes and booze. Sour memories trampled over his thoughts with bloodstained feet. Together forever he rasped, as tears filled his bloodshot eyes.

Or:

Snap, Crackle & Pop! 

Snap went Larry’s index finger when Mo bent it back. Crackle went the cigar that Mo slammed into Larry’s face. Pop went the pistol that Mo shoved under Larry’s chin. Snap went the paparazzi when Mo was led into court. Crackle went the electric chair when Mo was sent to meet his maker. Pop went the champagne cork in Curly and Shemp’s hotel room.

And I’ve also enjoyed writing a few other forms of flash and micro fiction too, such as 6word stories a la Ernest Hemingway.

Quentin.

Blah blah. Bang bang. Ha ha.

Or there are stories limited to fifty words for magazines such as Blink Ink.

Old Town, midnight.

The moonlight oozed across the dank cobblestones like quicksilver; creeping between the cracks, crawling into the gutters. Howls sliced the silence. Lara shivered, pulling the fur close to her flesh. Each heartbeat was like the tick of a clock. As the limousine growled into view, heavy footsteps shuffled closer.

And flash fiction in 100 words, which is known as Drabble.

Swamplands

Elvis awoke in a cold, dank sweat, hungover from bourbon and bad dreams. The nightmares had consisted of him being hunted through a swamp by the murderous spectre of Jesse, his stillborn twin. His pounding heartbeat seemed to echo through the mansion. He stumbled into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror, only to be confronted by his own ashen reflection and that of his grinning doppelganger. Jesse tightly wrapped the umbilical cord around Elvis’ throat and pulled it until Elvis breathed no more. The king is dead, long live the king, he muttered.

Indeed, if you feel the urge to take the plunge into writing but just want to test the water, there are plenty of flash fiction sites online. Spelk Fiction, for example,’ limit you to 500 words and Shotgun Honey have a 700 word limit.  And it’s a great way for more experienced writers to practice disciplining their writing too.

So why not get flashing!

This post first appeared over at Debbi Mack’s blog.

Train In Vain at Pulp Metal Magazine

PULPLOGO (1)I have a new yarn up at Pulp Metal Magazine.

It’s called TRAIN IN VAIN:

Seatown train station was certainly a lot better looking than I remembered it but it still smelled of puke. And shit, And sweat. Well, it did now that Smiffy was there. He’d spruced himself up a bit, slicked back his hair, put on a double-breasted pinstripe suit. But his rancid stench still oozed out. I hadn’t really seemed to notice it when we were boozing together in The Cobble Bar but out here in the fresh air it seemed overpowering.

A small group of football fans, watched by an equal sized group of bored policemen, snaked out of the station, through the streets and toward the town centre. They were quieter than I expected but then I’d never been much of a football fan, even as a child. I assumed supporting a football team was something you just grew out of although a few of the fans looked as if they’d grown a bit too much. Especially around the stomach area.’

Check it out, if you fancy.

Small Town Creed at Shotgun Honey

shotgun-honey-5-yearsI’m over at SHOTGUN HONEY again with a little yarn called SMALL TOWN CREED.

‘A golf club slammed into the side of Sammy Lee’s face. He fell to the ground and looked up at Crispin.

 ‘Is that the best you’ve got? You soft Southern shite,’ he said through broken teeth. He spat blood as he spoke and laughed, although he really felt like screaming.’

YOU CAN CHECK OUT THE REST HERE.

#FRIDAY FLASH: STOP ME IF YOU’VE HEARD THIS ONE

The Last Laugh paperbackGINGER RONNY HAD told Burkey about the murder towards the bitter end of one of their occasional raucous Tuesday night drinking sessions, as the dawn had desperately begun to grasp for life and Malcolm Duffy was grumpily getting ready to close up Le Duffy. But it wasn’t until the cusp of Wednesday evening—as Burkey struggled out of bed to start his night shift at the slaughterhouse—that the reality of the situation finally melted into his consciousness, like ice cubes in a glass of Jack Daniels.

‘Jude Walker,’ he groaned, as he sat on the stained and wobbly toilet. ‘Jude friggin’ Walker.’

He put his head in his hands as he pebble-dashed the inside of the toilet bowl with the residue of the previous night’s boozing session and tried to force a tear or two with the same passion that he’d shat. But he couldn’t. Despite all Jude had done for Burkey over the years, the man had been a nasty twat who’d had payback coming to him for donkeys.

Burkey showered, dressed and left his flat, a hovel that was above a closed down dirty book store and had been advertised as being a ‘loft-style apartment’. He started to have a nagging feeling tugging at him as he limped down the stairs, and it wasn’t just the need for a little eye opener before he started work.

As he shuffled into Le Duffy’s dimly lit bar, adjusting his eyes as he negotiated his way through the closely stacked tables, he realised what the problem was. Ronny had confided in him, Burkey. Or Gimpy, as Ginger Ronny usually called him. Of all of Ronny’s dodgy cronies and neo-incestuous family members he’d confessed a murder to Burkey.

Although they occasionally got drunk together, Ronny and Burkey had never been friends, as such. Even back in school he’d been worse than most of the other kids when it came to cruel jibes. Ronny had taken great pleasure in taking the piss out of Burkey’s limp. They were bound together by a love of the booze, though.

Malcolm served Burkey his usual pre-work shot of peppermint schnapps. He hated the taste but it didn’t smell of booze, they said. He sat at the bar, knocked it back and ordered another. This Ronny situation was a quandary and a conundrum, as his old granddad used to say. What the hell was Ronny up to?

He ordered another drink and tried to piece together what Ronny had actually told him about killing Jude.

It went like this: Ronny was in his Ford Granada in the car park outside The Bongo Club getting a blow job from Skinny Minnie, one of the club’s barmaids, who gave extras when it came close to her rent day. She was dressed as a schoolgirl since, although she was forty if she was a day, she had the skinny, petit body of an anorexic teen which boosted her earning capacity.

After she eventually swallowed his load, Ronny loosened his grip and allowed her to come up for air. He pulled a wad of notes from his Wranglers and peeled a few off. Most of the cash he used to pay her was counterfeit but there was so much of it in the town these days that it was becoming accepted currency.

He sat and smoked a joint while Minnie cleaned him up with baby wipes and there was a knock on the window. Well, more of a bang. Ronny wound down the window to see the massive form of Jude Walker shouting and screaming about something or other. Ronny had no idea what he was on about. Not that it mattered since Jude had a tendency to completely lose the plot over any old thing when he was snorting the crap coke produced by the same Russians that made the fake cash.

Ronny knew that there was nothing he could do to placate Jude and began to wind up the window when Jude stuffed a massive hand through the gap and grabbed Minnie by the throat. Well, Ronny, ever the gentleman, couldn’t allow that to happen so he pushed open the car door sending Jude sprawling backwards until he crashed his head against the breeze-block wall that everyone used to piss against when they went outside the club for a cigarette. Ronny walked over and saw that Jude was out for the count. And then, before he could do anything about it, Minnie turned up with a brick and proceeded to smash the shite out of the unconscious Jude’s big fat head.

Ronny apparently grabbed the brick from Minnie and slapped her till she calmed down. Then he started to hyperventilate. Jude Walker was an old school-friend, for sure, but he was also the off-white sheep in a very dark family. A very loyal family indeed.

Burkey looked up at the cracked triangular clock that hung behind the bar and realised that he was going to be late for work if he didn’t get a move on. Fuck it, he thought. This was serious stuff. He ordered another drink. A proper one this time. A double Jack D.

The bar had started to fill out without him realising it and he was in his pots, singing along to the Pina Colada song when someone tapped him on his shoulder. He could almost taste the sour breath.

‘Burkey, I need you,’ Ronny whispered in his ear. Burkey turned and saw Ginger Ronny, high as a kite, wearing a cagoule and covered in all sorts of mud and shit.

‘What do you…want?’ said Burkey.

‘I need you to help me bury him.’

***

‘Get a friggin’ move on Gimpy,’ said Ronny, as it started pissing down.

Ronny must have thought that using Burkey’s old school nickname would motivate him. Far from it. He was starting to realise that Ronnie was just manipulating him. Using him to do his dirty work.

Burkey forced a smile. He was getting soaked to the skin in a vandalised cemetery after spending the last half hour digging a grave, and Ronnie was going on and on at him like fingers down a blackboard.

Burkey stopped, the pain in his bad knee getting worse and worse in the cold and wet weather.

‘Give me a minute or two,’ he said.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Gimpy, I friggin’ told you…’

Burkey swung the shovel without thinking about it and it smacked Ronnie square on in the head. Ronnie just stood there, an unlit cigarette in his hand. A blank expression on his face that reminded Burkey of a cartoon character.

So Burkey twatted him again and Ronny fell forward, joining him in the open grave. There was a flash of lightning, followed by a rumble of thunder as Burkey managed to drag himself out. He paused to catch his breath and got down to covering up the bodies with renewed enthusiasm, safe in the knowledge that he’d make it back to Le Duffy in time for last orders. But he’d keep himself to himself tonight, that was for sure.

(This yarn first appeared at PULP METAL MAGAZINE and is included in my collection THE LAST LAUGH)

#FRIDAY FLASH: EVERYDAY PEOPLE

13 shots2Brendan Burke was a creature of narrow habit and come rain or come shine, come hell or high water, he always ate meat on Fridays, even though, around the time of his seventieth birthday, it had begun to play havoc with his digestion.
‘Rebellion,’ said Brendan to Tony Amerigo. ‘Rebellion against the shackles of my Catholic upbringing.’
‘Power to the people,’ said Tony, raising a clenched fist.
Tony had been a butcher since leaving school, as were his father and grandfather, but business hadn’t been so good since the influx of supermarkets selling cut price cuts of meat. Curmudgeons like Brendan were a godsend for Tony.
Brendan put the meat in his tartan shopping bag and headed off.
‘Post office, next?’ said Tony.
‘As per usual,’ said Brendan. The social services kept trying to convince him to have his pension paid into the bank but Brendan had dug his heels in, stuck to his guns. He hated banks and enjoyed his trips to the post office, the centre of the local tittle tattle. ‘And then I’m off to the naval club, though I still don’t know if I’m an inny or an outty’.
He chuckled to himself and was still chuckling when a lime-coloured scooter jumped a light and knocked him arse over tit.

* * *

‘Jeezus, don’t send for her!’ said Brendan. Skye, the featherlight social worker that hovered over him – looking like a delicate flower next to the mountain of a man-  had suggested phoning his daughter, Sue, who lived in London and getting her to come and take care of him for a while. He’d barely been in the hospital a week, discharging himself after complaining about missing two drinking sessions at the club.
‘She’s worse than her bloody mother was for fussin’ and fannying around,’said Brendan.
‘Well, you do need a carer, Mr B,’ said Sky.
Brendan shook his head as he looked at her. She was sparkling and fresh, from somewhere down south – home counties, maybe. How could she possibly  have a clue about anything?
‘Do you know anyone?’ she asked.
Brendan just stared at her nose stud with disgust.

* * *

Barry Sweet had ducked into his flat as soon as he saw the social worker enter the building. He’d seen her before in the record shop where he hung around. She’d bought a Janis Ian CD and had tried to made conversation about it but it wasn’t exactly his cup of cocoa. Neither was small talk.

Barry was a bit off a mouse, who kept himself to himself, although it would have surprised most people to know that he loved to listen Sly Stone, Bootsy Collins and Funkadelic. These were what blew his skirt up. Along with taxidermy – his flat was cluttered with pigeons,rats, even a leathery black bat -collecting funk on vinyl was the centre of his life.
When Brendan moved into the flat opposite, Barry was a bit worried that the old man would complain about the noise but after talking to him a couple of times he relaxed . Brendan was as deaf as a post.
He was listing to Sly Stone and changing into his ASDA uniform when he heard the scream and the bang. He stuck his head out of the door and saw that Brendan’s door was was open. And then he heard coughing, choking.
‘Are you alright Mr Burke?’ he said. No reply.
He went to Burke’s door and knocked.
‘Mr Burke?’ said Barry, louder this time. He went into the flat and saw Brendan doubled over and red faced.Barry  ran towards him.
‘Are you alright?’
Brendan looked up with tears in his eyes. Tears of laughter.
‘Sorry … Sorry, Sweety,’ said Brendan. Barry blushed. He hated that nickname.
‘Couldn’t resist.’ He wheezed. ‘I just wanted her to piss off, so…’ he coughed. ‘So, I grabbed her knockers. The stuck up little cow soon scarpered then.’
‘So, you’re okay,’ said a blushing Barry.
‘Aye,’ said Brendan. ‘Do us a favour and pass us that bottle of vodka from the mantelpiece and get two glasses from the kitchenette.
Barry wasn’t much of a drinker but he thought needed to calm down before heading off to work.
He poured the drinks.
‘A toast,’ said Brendan.
‘Na zdrowia, as Polish Andy used to say. To your health.’
Brendan downed the vodka in one and Barry did the same but it burned like molten lava.

* * *

After a week or two it was decided that Barry would be Brendan’s carer. He’d do the shopping, cash his pension and pop in now and again to keep an eye on him.
Barry started to like drinking with Brendan and the carers’ allowance that he received meant that he could give up his job at  ASDA. In fact all was tickety boo until November.

* * *

Tony Amerigo’s voice had been like a dripping tap to Barry and the woman at the Post office was even worse. Still, he endured the shopping trip and managed to pop in to the record shop before lunchtime to buy Parliament’s ‘Up for the down Stroke.’
‘Pricey stuff this,’ said John, the owner of the shop. ‘Been saving up your pennies, Sweety?’
Barry ignored him and headed back home.

* * *

‘The Post Office was packed again,’ said Barry to Brendan, as he put the shopping bags on the orange, plastic, formica table.
Brendan said nothing, of course. He’d said nothing since he’d broken his neck falling out of the bath on Bonfire Night. Barry still liked these evenings, though. Steak, vodka and a bit of Bootsy playing in the background. He glanced over at Brendan’s massive body  as he unpacked the rest of the shopping and thought that he really should have bought some more formaldehyde.

(EVERYDAY PEOPLE first appeared online at A TWIST OF NOIR and is included in my flash fiction collection 13 SHOTS OF NOIR.)

#FRIDAY FLASH: The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Living well is the best revenge, or so they say, apparently. And, for most of my life, I did live very well – once I’d broken free of Seatown’s umbilical cord, which was strangling me like a noose.

Fame. Money. Drugs. Travel. Fast cars. Faster women. All of the above.

And it felt good. Bloody good.

Or, at least, it used to.

***

The taxi crept along the coast road, past the worn-out Bed & Breakfasts, half-empty amusement arcades and deserted kebab shops. A shabby looking Santa Claus pissed against the side of a mangy looking Christmas Tree that stood shaking in the wind outside the public toilets.

“Do you get home much these days, Mr Stroud?” said the crumpled tissue of a taxi driver with the big, bushy eyebrows.

“Not so much, these days,” I said, half yawning.

The radio was playing a medley of Christmas carols at a volume so low it was sending me to sleep.

“Bet it’s a fair bit different to life down the smoke, eh?” said the taxi driver. “Bright lights, big city and that.”

He slowed down as a raggle-taggle group of rat boys staggered across the road.

“Vive la différence,” I said.

The taxi pulled up at a red light. It was early evening and allegedly rush hour but there weren’t too many cars on the road. The granite sky was filling with black storm clouds.

I gazed out of the window at Booze n News, Seatown’s popular chain of newsagents and off-licences. Booze n News had been the brainchild of Frank Griffin, a local Conservative Councillor and father of Nigel, my childhood tormentor and font of all of my bile.

Outside the shop was a familiar looking woman being hassled by a whining toddler as she struggled to put a buggy into the back of a Renault Espace. Karen Griffin, Nigel’s wife.

Once she’d been the glam of glams but now she was looking more than a little shop soiled. I smiled to myself with satisfaction. This is what I really came “home” for. Bathing in the misery of the people that had caused me so much unhappiness during my youth. Taking pleasure in seeing any spark of life that they’d had dampened by the drab hand of domesticity.

Karen locked eyes with me and smiled but I just turned away and looked at the torn billboard outside the shop.

In red marker pen it proclaimed:

“Best-selling thriller author Julian Stroud to host Rotary Club Christmas Charity Lunch”.

“Bet it’s gone downhill since you came here last time, eh, Mr Stroud?” said the taxi driver.

“Plus ça change,” I said, as I slowly let out a silent fart.

“Aye,” said the taxi driver, winding down the window.

***

I used to lay awake at night thinking of my childhood humiliations. How much I was ridiculed. Laughed at. And over the years I let my hatred marinade. And congeal.

And then the doctor told me about my body’s uninvited guest. The plague that crawled through my veins. And then I had an idea.

For revenge.

***

“So, you never heard about Fast Eddy then?” said Karen Griffin.

She downed her fifth Baileys with a gulp. Her face flushed red and her eyes sparkled.

“No, I hadn’t,” I said. I looked out of the Carvery window. Out at sea, a fishing trawler adorned with Christmas lights bobbed up and down on the waves.

“They say he met a lass on the Internet. Was getting on really well, too, until he sent her his picture, that is, and then she blocked him,” said Karen.

I remembered Fast Eddy and could understand the girl’s consternation. He was once described as being like an uglier version of Shane McGowan. Without the charm.

“And what happened?” I said, almost interested.

Karen was looking good, I had to admit. She’d dolled herself up pretty well. Her idiot husband had apparently been in a drunken sleep on the sofa and hadn’t even noticed her sneak out.

The fatigue was behind her eyes, though, and I almost felt sorry for her. I was starting to wonder if I could go through with this nasty little plan that I’d hatched.

“Well, he had an idea of where she lived. Some village in Scotland. And so he started to spend every weekend going up there on the train and walking around the place looking for her. Until he got picked up by the police for being drunk and disorderly. Thing is, though, he’d got the wrong village, anyway!”

And then she laughed.

Karen Griffin’s cruel cackle hauled me back to my teenage years and the agony of just living. And made up my mind for me.

***

The motel room was dimly lit. Outside, I could hear the heavy bass of an old Public Image song. I finished my brandy, popped a Viagra and crawled into the bed.

“Speak French to me Julian, you know it really turns me on,” said Karen, as she pulled me towards her.

I took out a condom that I’d earlier pricked with a pin, and put it on.

“Le Petit Mort,” I said with a smirk.

Well, Christmas is a time for sharing, after all.

The End.

(c) Paul D. Brazill

 

Christmas Wrapping at The Flash Fiction Offensive.

SNAPSHOTS AT THE FLASH FICTION OFFENSIVEOver at OUT OF THE GUTTER ONLINE they’re celebrating THE TWELVE DAZE OF CHRISTMAS. A different flash fiction story is posted every day until Crimbo.

It’s my turn today with CHRISTMAS WRAPPING.

‘‘It’s child abuse, when you think about it,’ said David Ryan. He nodded toward the television screen, which was filled with McCauley Culkin’s screaming face.

‘It seems to me like poor old Joe Pesci is the one that’s being abused,’ said Niki.

She wrapped more duct tape around Mark Shaw’s wrists, just to be on the safe side.

Shaw was still unconscious and strapped to the kitchen chair. He was a big man.’

READ THE REST HERE.

#FRIDAY FLASH: HE’LL HAVE TO GO.

Frankie fidgets on the wobbly bar-stool.  Takes a swig of Guinness, then a sip of Jack Daniels. Grimaces. Shuffles his shoulders. Feels a joint crack. Sighs.

‘Me and my big mouth, eh? Another case of foot in mouth disease,’ he says.

He chuckles to himself.  Takes a pork scratching from a half empty bag. Stuffs it in his mouth and crunches.

‘Well, we’ve all been there, Frankie,’ says Big Pat, the barman.

Sweat soaks his white nylon shirt. ‘We’ve let our tempers get the better of us, and that.’

Pat picks up a remote control and switches on a plasma screen television that is hung askew on the back wall. He flicks channels until he finds an old James Bond film. A Duran Duran song suddenly blasts out. Pat grimaces.

‘Bugger that for a game of soldiers,’ he says.

He quickly turns off the sound and puts in a Jim Reeves CD.

Frankie catches a glimpse of himself in the dusty Johnny Walker mirror that hangs behind the bar. He brushes dandruff from a shoulder. Messes with his dyed black hair.

It’s late evening and The Blue Anchor’s only other customer is an saggy old man that is sat at a table in the corner nursing a half of bitter. He’s playing Sudoku and squinting in the wan light.

‘Look at that old fucker?’ says Pat, pointing at the television screen. ‘He’s still getting away with it. Jammy twat. ’

Frankie looks up and sees Roger Moore in a romantic clinch with a much younger woman.

‘Still, I don’t mind getting old so much,’ says Pat. ‘Beats the alternative, eh?’

He chuckles.

Frankie goes grim.

Pat leans over the bar and looks Frankie in the eyes.

‘So, have you told Wolf yet?’ he says.

Frankie avoids Pat’s glare. He looks up at the television.

‘Well, not as such …’ says Frankie.

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, not at all.’

‘Best get it out of the way, if I was you. You know what he’s like … remember Harjit?’

Frankie knocks back his whisky.

‘I most certainly do remember Harjit Singh. The grass. If I remember correctly, Wolf nailed Harjit’s turban to his head, inspired by a documentary he’d seen about Vlad The Impaler. To make his point even clearer, Wolf decapitated Harjit and put his head on one of the spikes outside Singh’s Essex home for his missus to see when she got up,’ says Frankie.

He forces a grin.

‘He never does things by halves, does Wolf,’ he says.

‘Well, then,’ says Pat. ‘So …’

Pat’s mobile buzzes. He glances at it and heads outside the pub to answer it.

He listens, nods and sighs. Sighs and nods. He goes back behind the bar,

‘Yeah but, you know, me and Wolf, go way back. We’ve got history,’ says Frankie.

‘Yeah, but history repeats,’ says Pat. ‘Like a Poundshop pork pie.’

He smacks Frankie on the back of the head with a baseball bat. Frankie collapses to the floor.

Pat leans under the bar and pulls out a machete. Hopes that Wolf remembers to bring the bleach with him this time.

(c) Paul D. Brazill

(This yarn first appeared at The Flash Fiction Offensive.)

Yesterday’s Wine at Pulp Metal Magazine

PULPLOGO (1)I’m over at PULP METAL MAGAZINE with a little yarn called ‘Yesterday’s Wine.’

Pauline Williams really hadn’t wanted to talk to her brother. Not for a while, anyway. She’d been giving him the cold shoulder recently. She’d had more than enough of Billy’s shenanigans over the years, so she started to ignore his text messages and calls. She’d even unfriended him on Facebook. But when she found out he’d been in an accident, her resolve soon wilted. Family was family, after all.’

Check out the rest here.

J J Toner Reviews 13 Shots Of Noir

13 shots2Over at Amazon.co.uk, author JJ Toner says:

5.0 out of 5 starsA master of the noir genre.

I read these stories a year ago. I loved them all. Paul’s writing is to die for. I thought I wrote a review at the time, but can’t find it, now. A rare find, a kick-ass collection of noir stories told by a master of the genre. Highly recommended. Five stars. JJ Toner.’