Falling trees: Eight incrediably short stories

Previously published as ‘status stories’ on Facebook


It was a grey rainy morning. Vic blamed Dave and shot him dead. Then the clouds cleared and in the afternoon it was sunny again. Boy, Dave sure knew how to piss Vic off.


The tap cast blue light over the sink when the water ran cold and red light when it ran hot. Now Trevor never uses water any hotter than tepid water because it clashes with his wallpaper.


The anonymous applicant had claimed that it was a story, this white piece of paper with an ‘X’ written in the middle. The character was made so heavily that a channel had allowed the expensive ink to pool and dry with a metallic sheen. You pass it too-and-fro under the anglepoise lamp. Except, on the base of the ‘\’ stroke it gently tails off as if, perhaps, the author was struck by some other thought at the moment of execution. The street lights outside flare red. A siren wails in the distance. And you wonder if this isn’t all part of what you now see is a complex story.


Foot … stuck. Can’t … move. Train … coming! So Geraldine’s foot was stuck in her hiking boot after the muddy walk and she couldn’t move without spreading dirt on to the carpet. The 15:33 to Berwick was passing through the landscape, framed by the comfortable stoop.


I held Rosie’s hand really tight so we could cross the road safely. When we reached the other side I realised that her arm had come off and there was a trail of blood leading back to a gushing arm hole. It was then I saw my face like it had been photo-shopped or something. I looked proper fit.


He hit me with a word. I hit him back with vernacular. He reeled, not expecting something so demotic. A twist and sudden segue and to my surprise my arms were being held behind my back, I was literally prescribed. My last breath went unwritten, this must be a clause.


A tree fell in a forest. There was no one there to see it. For information, it was called Derek.


They said it was filth. And it was. I found it really uncomfortable to write. But filth is just one of many tools of the writer, the artist. When they forced me to enact it, the words gave way to something completely different. Inexpressible.



Get involved in my writing and leave a comment...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s