Another example of the great work produced here at WMC in the Creative Writing courses. (click here for course info)

 

Remember the beauty of simplicity. Great power resides in all those one-syllable Anglo-Saxon words.

Sebastian’s story uses only one-syllable words:

 

The Lone Shoe

by Sebastian Kola-Bankole

On the night of the full moon, I see the man in front of me get hit by a big red bus. I lean on the bus stop sign and hold my breath. My heart pounds in my chest and I know I should try to help him. I try to move but I freeze. I try to run from the scene but my legs say nay.

I watch as a pool of blood, the hue of good red wine, seeps out from the back of the bus. I heave and retch as the ooze spreads, slow and thick. I think I can see a shoe, his left one. It is brown and its heel torn. It lies on the side of the road, this sad lone shoe, right next to a bare foot, ripped from its leg. I can’t tear my eyes from this dire sight. I want to leave but I stand there, fixed to the spot, dead still.

 

Here are some more fantastic examples of the Flash Fiction task from the Creative Writing classes here at WMC (click here for course info)

 

Waiting. I’m waiting. Always waiting.

The automated, robot voice on the end of the phone explains its dizzying array of options.

I’m waiting for my details to pop up on the monitor of a remote, invisible, call worker who just wants to go home.

I’m waiting to hear my personal details read back to confirm who I am.

Yes, I am me.

Twenty minutes later, the monotone, script-reading voice, finally asks for my payment details.

I’m going for a coffee I tell him.

He can wait for me.

 

Mark Bloom

 

It was that time in the festivities when bad dancing was rife on the dance floor. Perched on a spindly chair, I sipped at my cocktail. He loomed over me, red faced, swaying wet lipped:

“Wan’ dance?” he said extending a plump, pink hand.

“Rubbish dancer,” I said through gritted teeth. His hand descended, grasping my arm, forcefully lifting me, simultaneously spilling my drink and overturning the table.

“Oops!” he said. Now level with his chins and about to let fly with some righteous indignation, I suddenly registered his identity and saw over his shoulder, huddled in a corner in a froth of white netting and sobbing, the Bride. 

 

Sue Higgs

 

**

 

He smiled at me from platform 3, then the 10.30 Express passed and he was gone.

 

**

 

White dress and veil. Black suit. Ring. ‘I don’t,’ he said.

 

Kate Emmett

 

**

 

After the first day of the Creative Writing course she saw a light in her future. She was changing into a beautiful butterfly and flying into the sky.

 

Vincy Kam Wai Lau