An Incendiary Grievance by Pat Wright, hot toddy

The shattering glass, as it splinters the frosty stillness, interrupts the creaking slumber of the venerable old hall. A smouldering missile, symbol of so much pent-up anger lies inert. Fortified by the artwork, hastily abandoned when the claxon sounded, the flames find their bearing.

Licking and slithering the fire comes sneaking across the polished floor. In a flash it catches on to a stack of chairs and is on its way up the faded velvet, quickly obliterating the achievements of bygone scholars that line the walls. With simultaneous surges the blaze lays siege to the stage and finds an easy victim in the scenery. A terrifyingly different truth to the illusion it was designed to create. 

The crackling flames give way to a roar as they race around the wings and arch over the stage. The successes and failures, the ambitions and apathies are ingrained in these timbered walls. The friendships and the rivalries are rooted here too. 

Amid the falling rafters the two grand pianos come to life as the wires snap in the intense heat: summoning the music of all who have played under this roof. The infernal concerto reaches its climax as the balcony gives way and plunges to earth.

There is no way back! The roof can hold on no longer and the explosion that brings it crashing down alerts the neighbours to the devastation that is in progress.  

Like a phoenix another building will rise in these ashes and this night of wanton destruction will have done nothing to resolve this incendiary grievance.

About the author

Pat’s creative talents mainly focus on Art. However, In common with the themes she chooses for her paintings, her adventures into Flash Fiction aim to create narratives which are abstracts of ideas that have irregular angles or perspectives.

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Eddie Loved Christmas by Peter Eckblad, hot toddy

Eddie loved Christmas. He especially liked putting up his miniature Christmas village in the dining room. The town square was on the chest in front of the window. The fishing resort, bait shop, and pond were on the buffet. The village drive-in and McDonald’s were on the bookshelf, and the residential section with houses and a small gas station were on top of the piano. He let the lights stay on all the time.

Tonight, Eddie sat at the dining table and smiled as the little village snuggly glowed while the snow and wind beat against his window panes. His eyes began to close as he listened to soft Christmas carols and hugged a warm cup of hot chocolate.

“Hey! Lead-ass! Get over here!”

 Eddie opened his eyes and looked around. Eddie lived by himself and, even if he had a roommate, he didn’t know why they would have called him lead-ass.

“Hey! Put down the *blanking* hot toddy and help me here!” said the voice.

Eddie got up and went over to Grandma’s Cottage where he thought the voice was coming from.

“Can I help you?” asked Eddie, slightly shaken.

“Aren’t you in charge of this piece of *blanking* town?” the voice asked.

“Well, I guess you could say that,” said Eddie. “Who are you?”

“Don’t worry about me. Help me get this tree off the car. Grandma wants her *blanking* Christmas tree up.”

Eddie looked at the car. It was the VW Beetle he had set in front of Grandma’s Cottage with the Christmas tree on the roof. He could see that he wasn’t going to be able to help.

“The car and the tree are all one piece of plastic,” said Eddie. “The tree is not coming off of the car.”

“Well, then what am I supposed to do, you useless *blank*?! Grandma is yelling at me, my wife is yelling at me, the *blanking* kids are yelling at me, and I can’t get Christmas at Grandma’s put up! There’s no place to put the presents. Where do you get the *blanking* presents anyway?”

“Well, there’s the drug store on the square,” said Eddie, although he was pretty sure that there wasn’t anything in the store. Eddie was really puzzled.

As Eddie backed away from Grandma’s Cottage, he could hear the yelling and the foul language.

“I told my daughter not to marry you, you son of a *blank*. Can’t you do anything right? “Where is the *blanking* tree? Where are the *blanking* presents?”

Eddie started back to the dining table, thinking, “Oh my God. Tenants.”

Then more yelling and vulgar language.

“Hey! You!” The voice came from the gas station. “Yeah, I heard your name was lead-ass. It’s more like dead ass! How am I supposed to make any money?”

“What?” said Eddie. “What’s the matter?”

“I got a gas station and a shop. But this village, it’s got no *blanking* cars! How am I supposed to make a *blanking* living?”

“Well, there’s the VW Beatle,” said Eddie.

            “It don’t go anywhere. And it’s the only car in the whole piece of  the *blanking* village,” said the voice from the station.

            “Well, maybe others will show up,” said Eddie.

            “Not unless you go get some, Einstein.  And get some VW parts, too. And while you’re  at it, pick up some *blanking* customers. Some *blanks* who are having car trouble

“Ok,” said Eddie. “But, you know, I really wasn’t expecting you.”

            “What do you mean you weren’t expecting me, you *blanking* genius? Why did you put up the *blanking* gas station?”   

            Eddie decided to sit at the table and have some more hot chocolate. He rubbed his forehead and again wished these tenants hadn’t moved in. This isn’t the way he wanted to spend Christmas. He just wanted to enjoy his Christmas carols.

            Music and loud drunken voices emerged from the bait shop. It was too late for carousing, thought Eddie.

            “Hey! Stupid ass! Get us some beer. And make sure it’s in tiny *blanking* cans to get through the windows!”

Eddie needed to evict his unwanted tenants. He brought up the boxes from the basement and started packing up the buildings in their styrofoam packages in spite of the protests of the increasingly vocal and inebriated inhabitants.

Eddie bagged them up and went to the gift shop where the village was purchased. He set the pieces on the counter. The saleswoman was startled as the little buildings shook with muffled cries and obscenities.

“How may I help you?” she said, still looking at the trembling boxes.

“I need to return these.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Well, they’re rude for one thing.  And they’re loud and crude and they yell at me. And I didn’t ask them to move in.”

The saleswoman picked up a box, shook it, and heard protesting, profane language from inside.

“I can’t accept these,” said the saleswoman, setting the box back onto the counter.

            “Why not? Eddie asked.

            “I can’t resell them in this condition.

            “Why not?” Eddie again asked.

            “Who would buy them? You’re returning them yourself. They have to be in the same condition in which they were purchased. Clearly these are not.”

            Eddie shook his head in frustration but another building caught his attention.

            “Well, then, let me have that one there,” Eddie pointed at the piece over the woman’s shoulder.

            “This one?” she asked.

            “Yes,” said Eddie as he took his credit card from his wallet.

            The saleswoman packed up the village piece, handed it to Eddie and said, “OK. You have a Merry Christmas!”

“Thank you,” said Eddie. “I think I will now.”

            Eddie walked off with the mumblings from the bags he was carrying. He began whistling “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and enjoyed the falling snowflakes and the crisp chill in the air.

When Eddie got home he hung up his coat, returned the buildings to their places, and turned on the Christmas music.

Voices came from the village. “Well it’s about time we got back here ya box a rocks! I still got no customers!”

Other voices yelled out, “Did you get the *blanking* beer? Did you get the *blanking* car parts? Did you at least get us Merry *blanking* Christmas trees?

The words of a cheery Christmas song came through Eddie’s speaker. He smiled as he plugged in the lights for the new Village Funeral Home and Crematorium.  

About the author

Peter Eckblad is a social worker in Racine, WI. His poems appeared in Pudding Magazine, The Archer, Voices International, and Wind. He has decided to try writing again and has published pieces of flash fiction in Flash Fiction Magazine and CafeLit Magazine. 

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The Post Box Topper Outrage by Dawn Knox, hot toddy

The sender of the email was A. Godbin.

Vera Twinch didn’t recognise the name. She was most particular about emails. If she didn’t know the sender, she simply consigned the unopened message to the bin, having learnt all about spam and the germs they carried. She’d twice clicked on links in a strange email, resulting in an infected computer–and a large bill from her IT guru-ess, Amrita.

But the email from A. Godbin had the subject line, ‘Post Box Topper Outrage’, and Vera hadn’t been able to resist opening it.

As she read, a slow scream gathered in her throat. How dare he… or she… or in this society with its surfeit of political correctness… how dare they?

A. Godbin certainly had a nerve, whatever his, her or their gender. Vera rummaged through her well-organised brain, but she was certain there was no one in Creaping Bottom by that name. It was only a small village, and she knew everyone, as well as members of their extended families. She even knew the names of their houses and their pets. Unable to believe it, Vera reread the message.

Dear Mrs Twinch,

I am emailing regarding the recent outrage that you and your club, The Creaping Bottom Post Box Topper Society, perpetrated on the letterbox in the High Road last weekend. I understand from passers-by that it is supposed to represent January and that you intend to commit a similar outrage on the village’s only letterbox each month for the rest of the year. I have no idea what a cow pat, a squashed insect and sleeping chicken have to do with January. I suspect this owes more to an inflated idea of your artistic abilities than to a desire to serve our community. I dread to think how you might massacre February and subsequent months.

I have reported the disgrace to the local constabulary; however, I do not feel they have treated my complaint with the seriousness it deserves. Be assured, I will not rest until the matter has been fully investigated and dealt with to my satisfaction. The police inspector is a member of the local golf club of which I am a committee member, and I am confident he will agree with me that the offending article must be removed with all haste.

Of course, you could save me the trouble and simply remove the eyesore yourself and desist from further installations. I would be most grateful.

Yours,

A. Godbin.

Vera stared at the email for several minutes. Yes, it definitely said what she’d thought it had said the first time she’d read it. She pressed the forward button and entered the names of the four other members of the Creaping Bottom Post Box Topper Society.

Petronella Asquelch, Stuart McPhail, Sally Bobbin and Levi von Regenschirm.

She pressed the Send button. A. Godbin’s offensive email left her inbox with a whoosh.

The club had started as a knit-and-natter group, the members of which had grown bored with knitting squares. When Petronella had seen a blog about Christmas post box toppers, she’d suggested they make one to decorate the letterbox outside the post office in the High Road as a Christmas project.

Vera had crocheted the bonnet, which fitted snugly over the top. After purchasing a hardcover copy of The Anatomy of the British Pillar Box, she discovered the top was referred to as the ‘roof’ by post box enthusiasts. Now, she was now thoroughly conversant with all anatomical terms relating to post boxes.

The other items for the topper–two snowmen and a Christmas tree–should have been fixed on the roof. However, although the crocheted bonnet had been straightforward, the other items proved to be infinitely more complicated. Eventually, after they’d produced eleven mutant snowmen and five Christmas bushes, they’d agreed their effort wouldn’t be ready in time.

Nothing daunted, Vera knew there were months in which to hone their skills before next Christmas to ensure the snowmen and Christmas tree looked… well, as realistic as woollen snowmen and trees could be.

Levi von Regenschirm had practised knitting a menorah for next December, creating a multi-faith theme. While Vera offered Levi encouraging platitudes, she consoled herself with the knowledge there were still months for him to practise. She certainly didn’t want to discourage him for fear he’d think she was discriminating against Hanukkah. But he was going to have to find a way to stiffen the arms of the menorah candelabrum. His earlier attempts had given poor Sally quite a turn. Levi had flapped it up and down, demonstrating the drooping arms of the candelabrum. He’d done an admirable job of exhibiting their floppiness, but had been completely unprepared for Sally’s response. Her scream had reached the Creaping Arms pub, where patrons had hurried into the High Road, fearing a murder had taken place. As Sally had explained after they’d picked her up off the floor and Vera had wafted smelling salts under her nose, Levi’s menorah had looked remarkably like a hairy-legged spider.

Vera was determined that by the end of the year, the group would be able to create convincing snowmen, Christmas trees and a menorah. Possibly even some holly, crackers and an angel. She’d wondered about an entire nativity scene, but perhaps that should wait until the following Christmas… In the meantime, they’d concentrate on her latest project.

Such had been the enthusiasm, the January post box topper had been finished rapidly–in fact, it had probably taken longer to decide what to make than actually creating the pieces. They’d planned to knit the letters to spell out January, but ‘J’, ‘A’ and ‘N’ had proved so tricky, they’d decided to stop there.

Stuart had suggested that since Burns Night took place in January, he’d like to make a set of bagpipes and a haggis. Petronella had done her very best with a cockerel on a weathervane and a puffy, rain-bearing cloud to show the storms that were often experienced during the month. And the entire topper had looked splendid.

So, how could he–Vera was certain that A. Godbin was a he–how could he possibly have confused the haggis, bagpipes and weathervane with a cow pat, a squashed insect and a sleeping chicken? Although, to be fair, the cockerel listed to one side and didn’t look too lively. Had the stupid man thought the cloud was a pillow? No, surely not. It was obviously a cumulo-nimbus. Everyone knew gales blew in January. As for the cow pat… Vera had never seen one so… well, so well-formed. On the other hand, she’d never seen a haggis either. But a tartan insect? No, A. Godbin obviously didn’t possess even a modicum of imagination.

And anyway, what else could they have chosen? January didn’t contain many major events. And it wasn’t even many people’s favourite month. Even the dismal grey wool she’d chosen for the bonnet–which she noted with satisfaction, A. Godbin hadn’t criticised–told its own story.

Ping.

A reply to the forwarded email arrived in her inbox from Levi. It contained a single word–not a word she approved of, or ever used. She wouldn’t fill up her computer with vulgarity. Vera deleted his email. She’d got the message.

The others would reply soon. Well, if A. Godbin thought she’d give up, he’d better think again. February’s post box topper was going to be an extravaganza.

If A. Godbin wanted a fight, Vera was ready. Let the Creaping Bottom Post Box Topper Wars begin. She rubbed her hands together. Bring it on…

 

About the author

 Dawn’s three previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’ and 'The Crispin Chronicles' published by Chapeltown Publishing. You can follow her 

here on https://dawnknox.com 

on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox 

 

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Foe’s Lament

 by Jamie Gergen

honey-bourbon hot toddy

                The king had died. That’s how these things always start, don’t they? After a reign of forty human years, the King’s heart wore out. I didn’t really mind, as the affairs of men are rarely my concern, and I only saw him one or two days a year when he went on his campaigns and adventures.

                No, the death didn’t strike me particularly hard. There is always another King, Queen, or one of their little brats to step into the vacancy and declare themselves the new King or Queen. This one, of an age somewhat advanced for humans in his line of work, had managed to marry a younger Queen. She’d now rule the kingdom until one of their children grew old enough to replace her. In my line of work, I can appreciate stability in leadership like that. That’s why I always let their leaders flee.

                So, the king and I had this yearly ritual. He’d make some speeches in his castle, rally some knights to his banner, and they’d all ride across the valley to sally forth against the ‘evil’ residing in my lair. It really was the highlight of the summer, though I did take some minor offense to being considered evil. Maybe the goblin welcome committee had some shady types within its ranks, but I really didn’t think my place was shabby enough to be labelled as evil. Dingy, perhaps. Maybe even a tad bit dangerous. But evil? Perhaps a bit of propagandic hyperbole there.

                The real trouble began that Fall, when the queen died. I had to break the news to the trolls and goblins that next year’s celebrations might be called off. And Grigtooth had brewed up a special grog for the occasion! His little green heart was beside itself. You see, the problem with humans is they take so long to grow up. The Princess was eight years old when the Queen died, which meant it might be ten years before she brought the knights forth, as was tradition.  How do you keep goblins, spiders, trolls, orcs, and a host of other lair-dwellers entertained for ten years?

So that’s how the professional goblin-tossing league began. If I really practice in the coming weeks, I might be able to win the title in the Behemoth Division for the seventh straight year. As the lair’s only resident dragon, I think I have a good shot!

About the author  

Jamie Gergen resides in Springfield, Virginia. He writes free verse Poetry, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction, and Creative Nonfiction. His poetry has appeared in The Front Porch Review and the Williwaw Journal. His prose has appeared in Volition at George Mason University.

Ekeko

 

by Jenny Palmer

hot toddy

‘I’ll start with the dusting today if that’s okay,’ the girl said. ‘And then do the hoovering.’

            ‘That’s fine,’ Dorothy said. She was just thankful that someone else was doing the cleaning, other than herself. If there was one thing she hated, it was cleaning. It got harder as you got older, that was for sure. Lugging the vacuum cleaner up and downstairs was a strain on the back and shoulders. It took hours to dust all the objects she’d acquired over the years, not to mention the books.

            So, she’d employed the services of a cleaning girl. Of course, she’d had to pay. The days of the local council providing such a service were long gone. There was a time back in the eighties when you could get a home help. Her aunt’s home-help service had been cut at a time when she’d needed her most. She hadn’t lasted long after that.

            Dorothy was cooking in the kitchen when she heard this almighty crash. She rushed upstairs to find the girl sprawled on the floor, surrounded by shelves and pieces of broken plaster. She wasn’t hurt but the bookcase was demolished and along with it Ekeko.

            Ekeko was the little plaster figurine she’d brought back from her travels in the Andes. He’d taken his place of honour on the shelving unit ever since. He was celebrated every year on 24^th January in La Paz in a festival called Alasitas.  In the Tiwanakan, pre-Columbian culture, Ekeko had been considered the god of good harvests. In his modern incarnation, he had come to represent luck and prosperity. He didn’t particularly look like a god. He looked more like a contemporary indigenous man with his jet-black hair and moustache. He wore traditional Andean clothing, complete with knitted woollen hat and poncho.

            ‘Why is his mouth always wide open?’ The girl had asked when she’d first come across him.

            ‘It’s a tradition,’ Dorothy had explained. ‘People place a cigarette in his mouth as an offering. If the cigarette burns right down, it’s good luck. If it only burns halfway down, it’s bad luck.’

            The girl had taken it all in. And now Ekeko lay smashed to smithereens on the carpet.

            ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow and fix it.’

            She might be able to reassemble the Ikea shelving unit, but there would be nothing she could do about Ekeko. It wasn’t really her fault, Dorothy thought. Over the years she’d piled so many books on the unit. It was no wonder that it had finally given way. The girl seemed perturbed.

            ‘Don’t worry,’ Dorothy reassured her. ‘I’m not superstitious. He was just a memento of my time in Bolivia. That was all.’

            She could recall the day as if it were yesterday, the day she’d gone to the Alasitas festival which had been packed with Aymaran people. They were all looking to buy miniatures of the things they lacked, hoping they would materialise in the year to come. The market stalls were decked out with tiny sacks of flour or sugar, small television sets fashioned out of plaster, along with cars, houses and wads of fake paper money. The Ekeko figurines were the star of the show. There were hundreds of them, all loaded up with miniature goods.  Dorothy hadn’t been able to resist buying one, even if it had meant lugging him halfway across the globe in her suitcase.  He had accompanied her every time she’d moved house and taken up his place on the shelf, gathering dust.   

            ‘I’ll be off now,’ the girl was calling from the door. She’d hardly been there five minutes and she hadn’t even started on the hoovering.

            I’d better have a chat with her next time she comes, Dorothy thought, reassure her that there really is no need to worry.  Ekeko was a legend invented a long time ago. He came to the fore at the time in the agricultural calendar when people needed to believe their efforts would be rewarded by a good harvest. It was no more than that.  But the girl never come back. She’d been spooked.

            Christmas came and went. There was still no response from the girl. It had been impossible to get any kind of domestic help over the festive season.  The dust piled up and there was this rotten, acrid smell coming from under the stairs. A mouse must have got in to escape the cold. It wouldn’t have been able to get out and must have died in there. No amount of air freshener could get rid of the smell. Before long Dorothy stopped inviting people round.  She was in danger of becoming a recluse.

            When January 24^th came around, Dorothy found herself thinking about Alasitas again. She turned to Google for further information. It turned out Alasitas was a significant day for indigenous people for another reason. It was a day of remembrance for Aymaran people.  It commemorated the time when they had held out against the Spanish colonial forces who had been holding their capital under siege. Ekeko had become a symbol of national pride and had risen in stature as a result.

            But then a stone effigy of him had been seized by a Swiss colonialist, who had traded him in, for a bottle of cognac, to a Swiss history museum, where he had remained for the next hundred and fifty years. Recently after a lengthy campaign by the government, the stone effigy had been returned to Bolivia and along with other national treasures, was being considered for World Heritage recognition, as part of an intangible inheritance.

             She’d try one more time. She’d ring the girl again. This time she would explain how the figurine of Ekeko might well have been broken but the legend was alive and kicking. Maybe that would coax the girl back.  

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poems, memoir and family history. Her stories are on the Cafelit website. A59, Fatal Flaws and The Visitors were in the Best of CafeLit anthologies 3,5 and 7. Her collection Keepsake and other stories published by Bridge House in 2018 is available on Amazon.

Midnight Mass

by Geraldine McCarthy 

hot toddy

Fairy lights adorned the trees in the churchyard. They shone silver and white, like pearls on a thin piece of string.  Myself and Mick mounted the steps to the church door, sure-footed, despite the coffee-brandies we’d downed in Murray’s to fortify ourselves against the cold night air. Elderly neighbours murmured ‘Happy Christmas’, while teenagers skulked at a distance from their parents. It was too late for children to be out; bar one little girl, in a pink woollen coat, with rosy cheeks and an inquisitive turn of the head.

My heels clicked on the tiles as I made my way up the centre aisle.   I went half-way to the altar, before sliding into a seat. Mick followed, scowling. He was a back-of-the-church man, but made an exception for tonight. I sat on the hard pew and plunged my hands into the pockets of my faux-fur coat.  We weren’t weekly Mass-goers, or even monthly ones.  I clenched and unclenched my fists, while Mick fidgeted with his handkerchief.  

The choir started up ‘Away in a Manger’ and the priest glided onto the altar. We responded to the prayers on auto-pilot, years of childhood conditioning kicking in. The little girl in the pink coat squirmed between her parents three seats ahead of us, playing with a baby doll, giving her a bottle. If she were mine I would have had her tucked up in bed, waiting for Santy. 

The priest began the homily and I tried to clear my head of brandy fumes, and disappointments, and unease. He spoke of the Holy Family, of their unity, of the perfect love between them. My mind wandered to the party at Wilson’s afterwards, the hot whiskeys that would be drunk, the jokes that would be told. Myself and Mick could stay there until morning if we wanted. We had no one to rush home to.

We didn’t go to Communion. Mick jigged his right leg, gave a small sigh. At last the choir sang ‘Silent Night’ and we were free to go. As I genuflected at the end of the pew I noticed the small girl run to the crib with her parents, her right arm outstretched, pointing to the baby Jesus.  I turned around but Mick was gone for road. A tear ran down my cheek, and I followed in my husband’s wake, as I had done these past twenty years.  

About the author

Geraldine writes realistic flash fiction, fiction and short stories and occasionally YA. 

Shooting Stars

by Matthew Roy Davey 

a hot toddy

We’d heard on the radio or read in a paper, I forget which, that there was going to be a meteor shower so a big group of us decided it would be fun to go and watch it far from the lights of town.

Emyr and Lawrie drove up and met us at the hotel after the dinner shift finished.  We took some bottles from the bar, piled into the cars and headed for the Cotswolds.  Lucy couldn’t come, she had the breakfast shift the next day and made me promise to be quiet when I came in.

We got to Nibley, parked and headed up the muddy path that led to the Tindale Monument.  It was cold November and the ground was wet.  Some of us had torches and Emyr had a head lamp.  Bella held on to my arm, to stop herself losing her footing she said.  I didn’t mind.  She was a year younger than me and the previous Spring I’d helped her prepare for her A Level English in a pub garden.  She was a friend of Lucy and Lucy hadn’t been too happy when she’d found out, she thought Bella fancied me which I’d thought ridiculous.

At the top of the hill we emerged from the trees to find the sky a mass of cloud.  We hiked up to the monument, took beers from our bags and someone lit a small fire.  Our breath billowed as we stared skyward, hoping for a break in the grey canopy.  Below us stretched the scattered lights of Gloucestershire and the Severn Estuary.  No one really minded that we had nothing to wish on, we were laughing too much at what we were doing, we’d never climbed a hill in the middle of the night before.  I sat on the stone shelf around the base of the monument and stared across the flood plain.  Bella came and sat next to me.

“It’s cold,” she said and moved closer.  I put my arm around her and squeezed.  It was very dark and no one said anything but after a little while I got up and moved away, smiling at Bella as I went. 

The way back down was harder, slippier.

In the car I sat in the middle of the back seat, Bella on my right.  She leaned in and put her head on my shoulder.  She felt soft and warm and I could feel her breath on my neck, her hair tickling my cheek.  No one could see us in the darkness and no one was interested.  I felt her hand next to mine, our skin just touching and then our fingers as though with minds of their own interlaced, tightening around each other.  It felt good, it felt bad, it felt warm.  I wondered where on Earth it was taking me and right then I didn’t care, I just smiled in the darkness as the night rushed past outside. Above the clouds the sky lit up with a million wishes.

About the author 

Matthew Roy Davey has won the Dark Tales and The Observer short story competitions, has been long-listed for the Bath Flash Fiction award, Reflex Flash Fiction competition, Retreat West Quarterly competition and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize.  He lives in Bristol, England and has no hobbies.