A small selection of my Flash

Evergreen

Without its glittery ornaments the small pine tree looked sad, its now-sparse branches drooping under the last string of fairy lights. I can take it from here, I said, stroking the yellowing needles.
The mantel clock chimed the half hour; nearly midnight. Nearly time. Outside, snow fell on the silent night, streetlamps bathing gold across the white. The rectangular glow of a front door as it opened across the road. 
I gently unwound the tangle of wires and tiny bulbs, only losing a few more needles in the process. The moment the last strand came free the tree breathed out, a brief puff of resiny mist. 
The clock chimed the three-quarter hour. Movement out in the street as several of my neighbours carefully shuffled their own trees down to the kerb. 
Mine wept, oozing fragrant tears as I pulled the nails and the boards from the base of its trunk. It quivered as I smoothed off the rough bark around the base. Hefting it over my shoulder, I carried it down the front path.
Together we stood, waiting and watching. A whistle, which meant a minute to midnight. Wordlessly, we all stepped into the road and lined up our trees. Bedecked artificial versions stared back mutely from behind frosted windows. 
See you next year, I whispered against the drifting snow, and my tree shook a branch—already lusher and almost glossy in the lamplight—to drop a single green needle into my hand.  
On the stroke of midnight, limping on its weeping stump, it joined the silent procession of pines, spruces and firs moving through the snow-bright night, heading home.

Published in the Flashflood, National Flash Fiction Day, 2026

Portal to the Primary

The Void wasn’t always named The Void. Originally the kids named him Sirius Black for the colour of his fur. We assumed they were being wildly unoriginal – but the joke turned out to be on us. Our offspring took great joy in abbreviating his name to Siri. They’d shout this out from dawn to dusk, causing every i-device in the house to spring into illuminated, helpful life.
The electronic Siri didn’t know what to make of gleeful instructions to fetch a ball of foil, chase a spider, or eat a piece of cheese. Neither did feline Siri. He’d simply sit, statuesque in his stillness, staring down his handsome black nose at us all. I’d seen memes about cats having a Primary human and Spares, however Sirius regarded our entire family as Spares.
Reportedly cats sleep for eighteen hours a day. We didn’t know where Sirius slept, because he’d just…disappear. One moment he’d be right there, drinking from his water fountain and then – gone. I’d search every room of the house, under beds, in closets, under every bush in the garden, but nada. 
Between the general distaste he showed for our household of Spares and the continuous vanishing acts, it was puzzling. That is, until I figured out what was really going on. A truth so outlandish that I didn’t believe it myself for weeks, let alone tell the family. 
Sirius has been leaving us and travelling to another dimension. Not only that, but I believe that occasionally he takes items with him. One pearl earring. My left AirPod. The white Queen from the chess set. My best theory is that when he curls himself up into a tight black knot he forms a void, unfathomable and yet portable. Portable through a Portal, that can take him to another house, a better house. 
The cat — whom I no longer think of as Sirius — is in the Void, he is at one with the Void, he himself is The Void. Inscrutable, elegant, dismissive. Black as night, sleek as a midnight seal, and as unknowable as the language spoken by tweens. 
The exact location of the Portal utilised by The Void has never been located. I do know two things. 
One: upon his return he materialises instantaneously, either on the bed or in the kitchen, twisting around ankles yowling for food. 
Two: at the other end of the Portal is a very fortunate Primary human, the one who presumably gets all The Void’s loving head bumps and adoring dribbles, not to mention my bloody AirPod. 
                                                  ___________________________________________
Meanwhile, at the other end of the Portal-
“Dear Cat Shelter. We are seeking to rehome a male cat, who not only hides from us for sometimes days on end but is incredibly unfriendly. Last week he brought a venomous baby snake into our bed, which seems impossible as we live on the 20th storey of an apartment block, and he’s an inside cat. Please help.”

Published on Trash Cat Lit ~ Read here

Let Down Your Fettucine

This story begins with the reassurance that they all live happily ever after. When I say ‘they’ I of course mean Rapunzel, her husband and their seven plump children. After all, one hundred years in a remote tower doesn’t bode well for a romance story. But for a while there, it didn’t look like our girl was going to ever leave her turret…

Day 36,251
Dear Diary, I am bored out of my skull. Since I ran out of embroidery projects I’ve made literally hundreds of mosaics from my toenail clippings and stuffed cushions with my belly-button lint. It’s very mindful, very demure, but all so cringe.

Day 36,297
Dear Diary, today a hot knight on a white horse totally came to rescue me! I heard him crashing through the forest and there he was, a totes rizzler — big blonde hair and a smile whiter than my mosaics. He’s coming back tomorrow with a ladder.

Day 36,298
Dear Diary, fully devastated. His ladder was way too short. He shouted to me that no one has ever said his ladder was short before, then told me to let down my hair. So I did but he took one look at it, yelled that he was gluten intolerant, and ran off into the trees. No sign since.

Day 36,524
Dear Diary, something special happened today, which I totally knew it would because it’s been nearly one hundred years since I was trapped in this bloody turret. A man came through the forest, so quiet I nearly didn’t hear him. Average looking (maybe a six) and his old horse was a drab brown. His accent was strange; he said he was from a floating city where one travels by boat. I let down my hair, which he admired and said he would be back. I totally believe him.

Day 36,535
Dear Diary, he came back! He climbed to my window holding a bunch of roses in his teeth. He kissed my hand and told me he loves pasta. I’ll keep this short because I have to pack. He’s no hottie but I’m doing it for the plot.

Day 36,586
Dear Diary, I was wrong. My new husband, Prince Antonio of Venice is a TEN.

I’m entering my gondola era.

Winner of the September 2024 round of Right Left Write ~ Queensland Writers Centre

The International Crab Race, run in conjunction with the Parenting Olympics

I blame the Coco Mojitos and the hermit crab known as Bula Boy for the following: a sulky child, a marital disagreement, and a $200 gambling debt. In my defence, it was our first night at the resort.

It’s universally accepted that on your first night of holidays you let loose. Pop on the sundress and the good thongs, turn a blind eye when your spouse decides to live in tog shorts 24/7 and your child turns feral. Unpack, snap a few braggy pics for your socials and then hit the bar.

Most resorts are cash-free, this equals: carefree. No one is driving and the feral child is at kid’s club, so you cluster with the other carefree parents and indulge in exotic, happy-hour drinks.

A brief interruption in the form of a seafood buffet dinner. Sunbaked offspring are released back to their family groups in the dining pavilion and the whispered observations begin.

Look how poorly behaved those two girls with the braids are.

I can’t believe they let their kid pile up a plate of oysters and then not eat them.

Those ones haven’t been off screens the whole meal!

Your child, screen-free and looking adorable in a cowrie-shell necklace, is positively angelic. So well-behaved that he gets two runs at the dessert table, before being shepherded off to collect hermit crabs in a bucket.

Husband heads back to the bar, you return to the bure to freshen up, the resort blurrily magical as you weave along the timber pathways. You don’t reach the bure, because you find the Beach Bar first.

A big blackboard is propped out the front: “International Crab Race: Hermits of the Globe” scrawled across the top and a list of crabs underneath. It starts in ten minutes, just enough time for another quick Coco Mojito!

Your sandy child finds you, he’s beaming, holding a green plastic bucket of scrabbling crabs. He needs to enter his fastest crab in the race, he says. Of course, my darling, you say, anything you want, we’re on holidays.

Meli the MC has the children sit on the floor around a chalk ring he’s drawn. He stands at the board and takes bids from parents to “buy” a racing crab for their children. The bidding is immediate and fierce. The insufferable braided girls are shrilly bidding for several crabs while their mother watches on indulgently.

Your golden-by-comparison child smiles up at you. Husband is still at the other bar. Your mouth is sticky with coconut liqueur as you shout out Fijian dollars for the last crab, uncertain of the conversion rate. It’s cash-free anyway, not real money!

Meli is shaking his head– Bula Boy is not yours yet. More dollars! Smug success! But your crab crawls feebly across the chalk, last, just as your husband arrives. He’s had enough Vonu Lagers that his math skills are next level, he tells you that Bula Boy cost 200AUD as your child throws his shell necklace into the ocean.

Longlisted in the Australian Writer’s Centre Furious Fiction Showcase July 2024, and published online by RUJoking?

Reader Discretion Advised: Course Language and a Strong Sex Scene

The two flash fiction judges sat back in their seats, stunned. In a twenty-four-hour reading frenzy, they had devoured sketches of sadness, tales of triumph, and yarns of youths misspent.

Ted rubbed his eyes. Too much caffeine and not enough ocular yoga during the process had turned him into a jittery, nearsighted lump with a cricked neck.

Next to him, Miranda was defogging her designer spectacles and fanning herself.

‘I’ve found my wild card Ted, this one called “Girth” is smutty in all the right ways.’

‘Hmmm. I did see that on the list but assumed it was about horses or saddles or somesuch.’

‘It is.’

Ted cleared his throat and busied himself tidying the table. Spreadsheets jostled for space with messily notated comment cards, many adorned with coffee or wine stains.

Miranda discreetly moved “Girth” into a special folder on her laptop to read again later.

‘I have my wild card,’ Ted filled the silence. ‘Not a jot of punctuation, no dialogue, just a five-hundred-word stream of consciousness called “A Date With Desertification A Treatise On Climate Change”.’

‘More like a date with dullness - that sounds like my literal worst nightmare. Glad that was on your list, not mine.’

They rose, groaningly, from their chairs. Miranda attempted a few stretches while Ted looked for his shoes. He preferred reading barefoot, could always think better when making fists with his toes in the carpet.

A piece of blank white paper sat under his sneaker. Retrieving it, Ted saw it was another story, which he waved at Miranda.

‘Did you print this entry out? I thought we agreed to physically print only the longlist tomorrow?’

‘We did. And I didn’t. What is it?’

Miranda pulled her chair around next to Ted’s, and they subsided into their still warm seats. Mindful of the fact that both of their natural deodorants had ceased to be effective twelve hours ago, they kept a small distance whilst reading the mysterious new entry.

It was a revelation. A gently quirky tale with a lyrical turn of phrase, which met all the prompts in a clever yet delicate way. Evocative and descriptive without turning purple, it had the appropriate allocation of four-letter words and ended with a shiveringly intense sexual encounter.

‘Yes!’ Miranda jabbed the page with her finger. ‘Now that was worth the wait!’

Ted was rubbing his eyes again, this time in frustration.

‘We have a huge problem, in that we don’t have a clue how this got here, or who wrote it.’

‘F*ck.’ 

‘Yep.’

And so it came to pass that the true winning entry could never have its name pronounced on the podcast, make its way to the website, or be exclaimed about on X. The baffled judges dove headfirst into an obsessive quest to find more stories by the anonymous author, turning the quarterly competition monthly, then weekly, then daily, until finally they were existing on just caffeine and words.

Longlisted in the April 2024 round of The Not Quite Write Prize, and recipient of the very first DIShonourable Mention!

The Long Wait

The second best part of Bevan Horton’s death was the freshly vacated position of President of The Merry Valley Yowie Committee. I anticipated hot competition for the role, especially given the suddenness of the situation; usually candidates would have months to prepare for their campaign.

Glancing at the clock above my office desk, I calculated that because I’d finalised my reports in record speed I’d now have nearly three hours to perfect my speech. Opening a previously saved file on my desktop I pulled up the list of other prospective presidents, their experience and qualifications in dot points next to their names. Mary I had notated as a ‘slim chance’ – too new, too green. Trevor was labelled as an ‘old-timer’ – stuck in his ways, not tech savvy. Sanjay, oh dear poor Sanjay – definitely an obsessive, I had an inkling that too much time making yowie traps in the bush could make anyone loopy. All signs pointed my way, a respected local professional, excellent public speaker and one of the few who could claim a true sighting.

 Later that evening, I prepared to wrap up my rousing speech by first taking a moment to glance at each member of the assembled group sat before me under the harsh lights of the draughty town hall. It’s no riddle why I stand here before you tonight, ready willing and able to take the MVYC into its next chapter, I stated in my most authoritative tone. For too long the yowie community has not achieved the respect and recognition it deserves and I’m the only one who can change that, beginning tonight! I pounded the lectern with my fist for emphasis and the hall erupted into cheers and applause, even a raucous catcall from Sanjay.

Straight afterwards Clara Horton approached me, her right hand outstretched to shake mine, instead I clasped it warmly between both of my hands and gazed deep into her clear grey eyes. Her usually pale complexion instantly flushed as I watched, a deep rose blush that swept across her cheeks endearingly. Congratulations, she said, it’s what Bevan would have wanted. Thank you for accepting me so readily as your new president Clara, I said cosily. You really must allow me to take you to dinner sometime soon, to pick your brains so to speak - I’m sure you were the beauty *and* the brains behind the scenes of Bevan’s long reign. She blushed again, and after a long moment nodded her assent. I silently congratulated myself. Twenty long years of waiting and finally she was within my reach. The first and absolute best part.

Originally published in the Australian Writer’s Centre Furious Fiction Showcase April 2023

The Last One

Dawn held no promise of beauty in these streets. The early light of the day only served to illuminate the truth of Whitechapel, where filth and sadness clung to each cobble and brick like a foul miasma. It pleased me to pull the front door closed upon it, to shut out the chill of early November, and to muffle the sound of the city beginning to stir.

Savouring for a moment the welcoming stillness of my hallway, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. It had certainly been a long and intense evening, and at the very thought my hands trembled as if I were a jumpy, callow youth in the first flush of love. However, a deep fatigue threatened to engulf my bones, perhaps my very spirit, yet there was still work to be done and time was of the essence.

 The kitchen had been prepared in advance; a sink of fresh, boiled water, a new cake of soap, and an empty sack waiting on the floor. Carefully shrugging off my overcoat and laying it over a chair, I began to remove my gloves. There was a delightful crackling resistance as I peeled off each one in turn, the fine leather catching on the not quite dried blood liberally covering both hands. As a reward to myself I pressed the gloves to my face and savoured the scent, an intoxicating aroma of tanned hide, cheap perfume, and the very essence of Mary.

Time to bid them farewell. They had served me ably, however the risk in keeping them was too great. Dropping them into the sack, they were followed by my boots, breeches and felt hat. My formerly pristine dress shirt and waistcoat I briefly displayed upon my table in order to admire them now, the bloodstains like a lavish bouquet of crimson and russet blooms.

From the pockets of my coat I retrieved two knives, which I placed into the suds. A small lock of blonde hair, snipped from her fringe, neatly folded in a clean handkerchief, was transferred into the pocket of my new greatcoat. And now, time to wash myself clean, a ritual I found I much enjoyed, watching the water turn pink whilst reflecting upon my endeavours.

By the time the clock struck nine I was stepping from my threshold once more, this time a dapper gent briskly joining the workaday throngs, carrying a suitcase and a sack. It was but a short stroll to the docks, and but the work of a moment to release my heavy burden into the Thames, timeless keeper of secrets.

As I strode up the creaking gangplank of the ship I could hear the noon bells clanging, and closer still, many voices shouting in cacophony:

‘Another one! The Ripper has struck again! They say it’s the worst yet! They’ll get him this time!’

I smiled like the sun rising over an idyllic tropical paradise. Do your best, Peelers. Let’s see if you can find me in Australia.

Originally published in the Australian Writer’s Centre Furious Fiction Showcase May 2023

Perfect Pairing

My earring was caught up in the blindfold. I was paused on the top step attempting to untangle it when a body bumped into me from behind. From the distinctive snort-giggles I could easily identify my friend Jules sight unseen.

‘Move it along, Becks! A room full of delectable men awaits!’ She pushed me through the doorway, feeling foolish as my hands groped the empty air in front of me.

‘They’re probably all horrid’, I hissed back, ‘I agreed to a blind date, but this is beyond ridiculous.’

She took my arm reassuringly. ‘Well, the food will be delectable, I promise.’

A silhouette loomed in front of us.

‘Welcome, let me escort you to our Sensual Singles Salon, please each put a hand on my shoulder.’

The said shoulder was solid and well-muscled. Jules whispered loudly: ‘Is this one on the menu?’

There was no response forthcoming, but his silent bulk was reassuring as he walked us through what felt like a labyrinth of tables, chairs, and other diners. Without sight my other senses were on overdrive, I could hear silverware scraping, crystal clinking, and smell the heady aromas of food.

Shoulders was depositing me brusquely into a chair. I reached out for Jules but she’d been escorted off to another table, not without incident though as I heard a glass smash and an accompanying snort-giggle. Okay, so here I was. Finally freeing my earring from the blindfold I ridiculously considered touching up my lipstick. Instead, I used my hands to explore.

A linen tablecloth, a rough placemat, a wine glass and – another hand! I pulled my own back as if I’d been burned, and as I laughed at my reaction I heard an echoing sound from across the table.

‘Red or white?’ Shoulders had returned.

‘Red’. My dinner date, owner of the other hand, and I spoke at the same time.

The soft glug of the liquid hitting our glasses was very welcome, and as if we’d planned it, our waving glasses managed to clank together midair - ‘Cheers!’

An amplified voice crackled into life.

‘Welcome, Sensual Singles, to the newest sensation in Sydney, where serious sustenance leads to spectacular spouses! Where will it lead you? An hour of happiness? An evening of euphoria? A night of naughtiness?’

I was sinking into my chair, trying to escape the pretentiousness. This was turning into my worst nightmare. My idea of a good dinner out was just my friendly local Thai place.

I was feeling around for my glass again when my companion’s hand grabbed mine.

‘I’m cringing too much to eat. Want to do a runner with me?’ His voice sounded delectable. I peeked under my blindfold. Yes, he was.

‘Sorry, Jules’, I whispered into the air as I abandoned my blindfold (along with one of my earrings) and snuck out with my date; there was a Tom Yum Goong with my name on it, and perhaps if I was lucky, more than an hour of happiness.

Winner of the January 2024 Flash Fiction in‘Hearts Talk’ MagazineRomance Writers of Australia

After The Undoing

There’s not enough Pinot noir in the world to dull the pain of what’s coming. Foolishly, I’ve worn a new frock and taken care with my makeup. I take a gulp and steel myself.

This can’t be avoided any longer.  

“I’m so sorry, it’s not you…” I begin, hoping he’ll somehow jump in and save me. With his flirty banter and witty repartee, he always has the right words. Please, don’t make me do this alone. 

Silence. 

The wine bottle empties. Time to say goodbye. 

“You’re my favourite—” I choke out, chest tight, tears threatening. Deep breath. How could I have predicted that Chloe’s flatmate – a musician with a neck tattoo and a thumb ring – would become my favourite person in the world?

Xavier Michaels isn’t generically handsome. One dark eyebrow sits higher than the other, and his spiked labret piercing looks like it would hurt to kiss him. His default expression is a scowl behind his two-day growth, but when he laughs it’s like the sun coming out. 

I run a finger down his jaw. It’s smooth, and that jars me into action. It isn’t real. He isn’t real. 

“So, my publisher said if you’re not in Chloe’s love triangle, you’re extraneous. Ryder the bartender will take your dialogue. I hate myself, but I agreed—to get the deal done. So, I… need you to go.”

Now the ugly tears arrive. The delete key is no longer a tiny silver square on the top row of my keyboard, but a glowing malevolent force, a big red button that, once pressed, will end a life. Thankfully nobody is here to witness my blubbing as I slash chunks of my manuscript and every shred of Xavier’s existence. Even his precious guitar.

It’s done. I’m bereft, knowing I’ve hollowed out my soul for a publishing contract. I pick up his character sheet and study the AI-generated portrait. Perfect, right down to the eyebrow and the chipped tooth. I kiss the paper gently, leaving a smear of lip-gloss and wine. It does hurt, but not how I’d imagined. 

“You’re going to be a short story one day, I promise.” I have to be certain I won’t weaken. I feed him through the shredder, then crack another bottle of Pinot before falling into an uneasy sleep on the couch.

A rough hand to my shoulder wakes me. The room is hazy in the half-light. When I see a man standing there I rub my eyes. I’m dreaming. 

“Surprise.” Xavier says. His leather pants are just as I’d written them, but he has rings on every finger, and…

“You’re Scottish?”

“Surprise again, ma darlin’,” he drawls. “Sorry ah’ve nae banter for ye. Just a wee message.”

“A message? What?!” I pinch my arm to wake myself up, as Xavier raises a gleaming guitar into the air. His inked muscles ripple as he steps closer, preparing to swing. 

“Ah dinnae want tae be reduced tae a bleedin’ short story,” he says, and deletes me instead. 

Winner of the Queensland Writers Centre ‘Right Left Write’ August 2025. Originally longlisted for Not Quite Write.

Throuples Retreat

Welcome back, I’m your host Blake Blakely, and it’s Day Six here on Never-Never Island, where our three loved up trios are competing for a palatial mansion and three personalised Porsche Macans. Stay tuned as we find out where Bazza’s been since storming out on Day Four, the real reason Isabela tied Taj to a tree, and who’ll be leaving us in the Canoe of Shame!

First, let’s check out what’s been happening on East Beach with Luke, Duke and Cecil. Things have been frosty since Duke drew the short straw and had to fix the toilet pit. Here we can see they’re still trying to crack open the fresh coconuts they’ve had since Day One. We’ve got a drone dropping in a surprise parcel, they’re ripping it open, yes it’s a 24-karat gold single-use face mask. Oh dear, things are getting violent, let’s cross to our next throuple.

Over in West Cove are Isabela, Todd and Taj. Our freshest throuple, they'd only been together a month before arriving, definitely still in the honeymoon phase, which led to some boisterous lovemaking in the sand dunes. But then, we saw Isabela strap Taj to a palm tree, leaving him there for the night. Why? Taj lost his contact lenses snorkelling and mistook Isabela’s estrogen gel for after-sun lotion. Don’t worry, our production team released him and fortunately they’re back in those dunes.

On Northern Beach, we have Shazza, Kazza and Bazza. So far these three have been the most relaxed of our contestants. Even through the offal challenge and the artificial monsoon night, they’ve said “She’ll be right mate”. Astonishing! However, on Day Four an argument over the memory foam pillow led to Bazza being barred from the king-sized sleeping bag. He took the last cask of wine and left. Where’s he been? Find out after the break.

*

Welcome back, you’re with Blake Blakely – I’ve been described as an engineer of chaos, but this series I’m bringing you triple the shenanigans! Duke enjoyed the face mask and all is well with the boys, tomorrow we’re gifting them a machete for those coconuts. Our loved-up trio in West Cove have been supporting Taj through his emotional outbursts, tender nipples and chocolate cravings.

Since Bazza’s disappearance, Shazza and Kazza have been happily braiding each others hair and singing Sabrina Carpenter songs. It turns out that Bazza had been sleeping rough near the South Cliffs but he’s being warmly welcomed back into the king-sized sleeping bag. That’s a relief.

However, join me now as I enter their camp to tell Bazza that his prolonged absence has deemed him ineligible to continue the challenge. He appears strangely happy in spite of his eviction.

“Expect two little bundles of joy in about nine months”, Bazza tells us, as he’s towed out to sea in the Canoe of Shame.

Join me, Blake Blakely, this Sunday night to see how Cecil copes with a machete, and how Isabele is getting on without her HRT.

Showcased on the Australian Writers Centre Furious Fiction November 2025