Friday 14 February 2014

100 Worder Lost Valentine

100 Worder

Janet Bunce

Lost Valentine

A single shot

Valentine’s Day 2014
James feels the phone in his pocket deciding whether he should text or not. He hates arguing with her but in the last few weeks it had become a bad habit. Everyday she had done things to inflame his temper. Shouting, screaming, slamming doors, a sulky drive followed by conciliatory texts.
            Today he decides will be different.  No texts – a quick return home – make her see that the arguing must stop.
Opening the front door he calls out softly, “Hello.”
            Then he sees Ruth’s ashen corpse propped in a leather chair and remembers what he has done.

About the Author
Janet Bunce lives in Epping Forest with her husband and is a Director in Financial Services. She hopes to find more time for writing in 2014.


Tuesday 11 February 2014


Susan Eames


Weak tea

The city sizzled in a heat so intense, spontaneous combustion seemed plausible. Banjo eased the damp waistband of his pants away from his sticky skin. He flapped his shirt, showing flashes of whiskery milk-white belly. A woman passer-by harrumphed.
“Sorry, lady.” Banjo looked at his dog. “Smell like you, I reckon.”
An Aboriginal family had overflowed from the burnt-grass verge to lay sprawled across the pavement. Their buckled supermarket trolley stood guard. Banjo stepped off the kerb to skirt around them.
“Hey, feller.”
Banjo kept his eyes down.
“Spare a dollar?”
He kept walking, eyes averted. Their spiteful cackles pursued him. The familiar depression settled on Banjo like a bruise. He should find a kinder town.
His stomach rumbled. The dog pricked its ears. Banjo’s face creased into a smile. “Tucker time?”
The dog grinned back.
They kept to the shady side of the streets. Banjo didn’t attempt to enter the Mall and the allure of its air conditioned aisles. He knew he’d get thrown out quicker than a blind wallaby. Instead, he meandered through the pedestrian area, checking the bins. The council had put little cutesy tin roofs on them, making it awkward to do a quick rummage. Banjo sighed and sat on an empty bench outside the hamburger outlet. The dog busied himself, snapping at flies and nibbling at fleas biting his rump.
It was a good spot and before long a whining child had thrown her polystyrene burger box in the bin. Banjo scooted along the bench and reached into the bin. Bingo! He shared the flabby half eaten burger with his dog; it tasted good. He tilted his crumpled hat forwards and closed his eyes. The dog fell asleep first.
Banjo snorted when a foot nudged his leg. “You can’t sit here, mate.”
Without opening his eyes he guessed it was someone from the hamburger outlet. The police would have addressed him differently. Banjo knew better than to argue. The dog knew better than to growl. They rose and shuffled away without looking up.

It was now late afternoon and the heat hadn’t abated. Banjo drifted towards the Drop-in Centre. He didn’t like the place; the sour smell of people without hope made his depression spiral. But he knew he wouldn’t be hounded out. And he was hungry.
Pete handed him an egg and beetroot sandwich. “Hotter’n hell out there today.”
 “Know something? I’m leaving. Heading south before I go troppo. Bloody rat-trap place.”
“Holy Dooley, I wish,” said Banjo.
“Ah look, no offence mate, but if you clean yourself up a bit I’ll give you a lift.”
Banjo froze.
Pete poured tea from the huge aluminium pot, giving him time. Panic scrabbled at Banjo. With an unsteady hand he scooped too much sugar into his tea and stuffed the sandwich into his pocket.
He finally spoke. “I’m a bit busy right now. Thanks anyway.”
“No worries.” Pete swabbed the counter with a raggedy cloth.
Banjo wandered out into the stifling heat to share supper with his dog.

About the Author:
Susan Eames left England over twenty years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. She is currently arranging a move from Fiji to Ireland.

Thursday 6 February 2014

100 Worder Awareness

100 Worder

Roger Noons


Latte to go

‘… anyway, I told her to …’
    ‘Hey you, turn that thing off.’
    ‘… it’s just some bloke who …’
    ‘If you don’t turn that phone off, I’ll stick it so far up your arse, you’ll only be able to make internal calls.’
    ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’
    I stood up and although I’m the wrong side of seventy, at six feet two inches and seventeen stone, people tend to take notice of me.
    He ran along the carriage and I could smell his fear and subsequent relief, when he realised that it was a sliding door.

About the Author
Roger is a regular contributor to the site and is featured in the Best of CafeLit 2012.

Tuesday 4 February 2014

100 Worder Stump Road

100 Worder

David Hook

Stump Road

  Stale black coffee, no sugar

The forest. Stump Road. Leafless trees copped and skeletal slumber and dream of spring.

A rabbit, bloated and mouldered. Flies feasting from above and worms, likewise, from below. 
A bench, rotted and decayed, cloaked in a shroud of ivy sits beneath an ancient oak. Initials carved within a heart. 
A squirrel chatters a warning and a crow reciprocates with a mournful caw.  The man places a single rose upon the recently disturbed soil beneath the bench as a Muntjac bears witness from a thicket. Clouds obscure the watery sun banishing the man to shadow. 
A susurrus breeze, one word, 'Murderer!

About the Author
David lives on the edge of Epping Forest having been raised on a council estate in London. Recently resigned from a stressful job after twenty years he finds that his mind is decluttering and is now able to concentrate on hobbies and interests. He hopes, despite a crippling fear of grammar and punctuation, that writing will become one of them.