Tonight, I arrogantly entered a contest for a flash fiction slam, having never written flash fiction before and having never entered a slam before. Not only that, but I wrote my three requisite pieces, within an hour after coming home from the jobcentre, before having a right nice nap. Needless to say, I didn’t do very well. However, here are my three pieces. The first is restrained to 100 words, the second to 150, and the final to 200. Enjoy. 

December 21st. (100 words)

Do you remember? It was December and we went listening to the carol singers, huddled up around our cups of Gluhwein. Your thumb peeking out of a fingerless glove with a papercut from wrapping presents. 
Then Santa Claus comes round shaking a donation box like sleigh bells. We put our quids in and did our bit for Marie Curie. 
It had been four weeks since we fell in love, and yet we sang without joy, or bliss.
It had been two weeks since he died, and now all we can do is wear daffodils on our lapels. 

Lunch With Will Self (150 words)

Will Self looks quite simian as he sits opposite me, alternating sips of a macchiato with sips of tepid water. Will Self struggles with a rare blood disorder which means he has to have his blood letted once a week because his body makes too much of it. He said he hasn’t had it done in about a month now and he’s feeling fine. I glanced at the lunch menu and told Will Self I didn’t know what to order. Will Self said, “Indeed, the cynics are correct. The sense of free will is only that feeling which we have, when we take the necessitated option that appeals to us”. 
“I know you are,” I said. “But what am I?”
Will Self ignored me and decided on steak tartar. When the waiter took his order, Will Self exploded into majestic, crimson fireworks. 
I’d heard this can happen, sometimes.

Eight Weeks (200 words)

They think it’s okay to sell the fish whole but they don’t do that with the other animals. In the supermarket, we saw trout on ice with clear, glass eyes so we knew it was fresh. It looked stoic, and proud, and I wondered if when I die, I’ll look that dignified. “We’ll take it” I said, and slapped £3.50 down on the counter. 
I could feel it cold and firm in the foil-backed plastic bag, all spine, and gutted of all inner processes. It looked so unflappable. By the exotic fruits I took the fish out of the bag and waved it around by its tail, smacking it with my hand, attempting to revive it. I passed it to you with great care, and I selected four pomegranates to put into our trolley. Everyone was staring but you didn’t seem embarrassed to be with me. “Four pomegranates” you said, “that’s actually not that many pomegranates”.
It’s probably a good thing it turned out I wasn’t pregnant, in the end. We’ve enough on our plate, as it is. 


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