Prose Writing

Short Story | Flash Fiction | Writing Prose

Prose Writing: Short Stories & Flash Fiction

She Wore Blue Velvet

The ceiling is covered in paintings, with no theme or substance or style but woman, and they flow down the walls like all of history…

The Air Spoke

She places her cigarette on the edge of the desk and watches it smoulder. The sunlight catches the smoke in its hands…

Battery Tea Lights

‘You’re not romantic;’ she said, ‘you’re too sarcastic to be romantic – you just laugh at anything I say’.

Got Wrong (Dream 16)

St. Christopher’s driving a 4by4 down the rattling madness of a mud-baked highway stone sweating pathway and Cain holds him up with Excalibur in one hand and a burlap sack with his brother in the other. Chris and a kid who looks like Jesus help him dump the body in the backseat and they go flying off down the East Lancs road with American optimism in their...

Ler’ ‘Em In (Dream 15)

Dark long subaquarian death like Franco-Irish still birth – cutting fence wire like shaving pubic hair and writhe in foreign riverbeds to avoid the dogs – they climb into Humvees with 50 Cal poetry strapped to the wheels and you can see them sniffing out of the window with white petrol fumes. Hammers clawing stone like dead things at gravestone graffiti...

Reading Dossie (Dream 13)

‘You know, the trouble with the whole cog in the machine kind of resignation is that it still justifies inactivity or, rather, a kind of distant activity. It suggests that your existence, that your continued servitude, is essential to the operation of all things; that you have the power to watch it all crumble down, if you wished it. The truth is that...

Idiolect On The M6 (Dream 11)

Y’know, we started calling him St. Mina, cos’ of his long, morose face which adopted this weighed down, grey kind of look. His shoulders were slumped, like a scholar’s, and his hands moved in a heavy motion, turning the wheel like he was steering a cruise liner down the long, lazy lines of an African river. We didn’t really see the back of his head, only...

In Gettin’ Paid (Dream 8)

My leg twitches to its alternating self between a gentle vibration and a violent momentum. I try to hold it still and, for long moments, I succeed, until the cold of the broken boiler forces my body to rebel against me once more. I am sat on a shrink-wrapped plastic cube of hay shavings, and it sets me lower than everyone else. It’s like group therapy;...

Saturday Bleedin’ Into Saturnight (Dream 7)

Have you ever done what we did, and taken a drunken walk down Hope Street to capture art in a no cameras allowed zone? Cos’ we caught what we had left there beneath a suspended girder metal roof in aging marketplace with empty stalls amongst the kitchen refurbishments and competing sitcom butchers beside horse fool knock-off brands like Ike and Didass. And...

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Writing Prose

Writing prose of any kind, whether it is a short story, piece of flash fiction or even the hesitant nature of my longer novellas, is a great opportunity for self-reflection, narrative structure and a kind of exploration which is often difficult when compared to poetry.

When I was young, my heroes were all writers and heroin addicts. By and large, authors and not poets. While I long to be a writer, I’m not. I don’t have the conviction; the mad belief in my own ideas. Every concept I have can be disproved and every theory relies on abandoned equations. These are my attempts at writing prose; sometimes in the form of short stories or flash fiction, and sometimes longer novellas. I write in prose, what I cannot come close to saying in my fumbled attempts at poetry.