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Jonathan Hill



Jonathan Hill Merits

4 most prolific3 most esteemed1 top drabble

Missing the Point

Mildred hummed a tune as she rinsed out the orange juice carton. She filled it three times with water. The second time the water ran clear, but the third time was to satisfy her the carton was properly clean. Leaving the tap running, she reached for the milk carton, and repeated the process.

The tin of soup she’d had for lunch was more stubborn and it took a good couple of minutes, rinsing it over and over with the crystal clear water which flowed generously.

Finally she was done, and she dropped all the cleansed containers into the recycling bin.


In several months the judges would be here, admiring his carefully plotted garden – a rainbow of colours, a myriad of exotic plants. The crown had been his for the previous three years and he wasn’t about to give it up. And again he’d employ his secret weapon, to ensure his greenery would come up trumps!

“I’m honoured to see how an award-winning garden starts out,' one of his rivals said, poring over the area. “But why such a deep trough?'

He stabbed his competitor in the back, pushed him into his grave and started to pile on the compost.

The Slow Cooker

His slow-cooked meat was nearly ready. He pored over his meal like a god, stirring occasionally and salivating at the prospect of the flavours which would soon fill his mouth.

Steam rose from the hot liquid which tenderised the meat and allowed it to absorb the herbs he’d added. Under the meat was a bed of sage, and on top he’d liberally placed sprigs of rosemary and bay leaves.

It was time to eat. Pulling the plug out of the steaming bath, he allowed the water level to drop before starting to carve just above the dead man's thigh.

The New Sofa

Laurence loved his new sofa. It had been pricey but it was heavenly to sit in.

The only downside was its tendency to eat up things that fell out of his pocket. A pound coin here, a pen there... insignificant things, admittedly, but when his new mobile phone slipped down the side, he drove himself frantic trying to retrieve it. He just about stopped short of cutting into the leather.

It was only when he watched his girlfriend being sucked inside the upholstery, her hands clawing at the air, her screams bloodcurdling, that he realised this was no ordinary sofa.

Batty Betty

Betty loved her soaps. She’d sit there every evening watching them, driving her husband Barry batty.

The nights when she watched several were the worst. She’d be glued to one, then two or three minutes later became transfixed by the next.

Barry approached her on more than one occasion. "This isn’t healthy. It isn’t normal. People watch things other than soaps. You need to see a psychiatrist."

Betty laughed. "Don’t be silly."

And with those three words, she’d return to staring at her assortment of Carex, Imperial Leather and - she shivered with excitement - her Baylis & Harding collection.

Bad News

"A world where international relations plummet while a presidential fool writes a tweet, a society where discrimination still lurks in every crevice and corner, a place where your favourite book is butchered into a two-hour horror of a movie, and your favourite movie is butchered into a dozen sequels, a land where no-one can settle on what foods actually are good for you..."

The doctor looked gravely into my eyes. "This. This is what you now have to face. I’m sorry to inform you that the scans have come back and they’re fine. You have the all-clear."

Red, Amber, Green

Look at that! She’s actually doing her make-up at the lights! They could change any second and her hands are nowhere near the wheel or gearstick. Oh look, she’s putting her foundation down. How thoughtful of her. What's she doing now? I don’t believe it. Mascara!

And look at him. Texting, phone on the passenger seat. Blatant texting at traffic lights. These people! They’re a danger to others. And here I am observing the rules, my phone in the glove box, my attention on the...

The car behind is honking and flashing me aggressively. Damn! The lights have changed.


Maureen flung open the door and hurled her tennis racquet on the floor.

"Finished already?" Louisa asked.

"One point. That’s all it took! I knew I shouldn't have allowed you to persuade me to play that man."

"What's wrong?" Louisa asked her flustered friend.

"I knew he was a chauffeur as soon as I saw him."

"A chauffeur?"

"Chauffeur, chauvinist, whatever the word is," Maureen said, clearly still in a strop.

"For God's sake, calm down. What happened?"

"The patronising so-and-so! One point! One point we'd played and do you know what he said? Fifteen, love."

"Er... Maureen?"


The minister rarely bought anything that wasn’t tailor-made. This fussiness extended beyond clothing. The local deli put aside special produce, not to be sold to anyone else under any circumstances. Even his pomade was a unique commission, supplied by a Mayfair vendor.

But the people had had enough, not just of the minister but the entire government. It was time to make a stand. One day, as he was being fitted for a suit, the measurements were carefully noted, sealed in an envelope and sent to the local coffin-maker.

A bespoke coffin. For next week he’d be dead.

Inappropriate Behaviour

Inside the Tube carriage, there was the usual mix of people.

A Japanese couple – tourists – the obligatory cameras round necks. Two teenage girls in school uniform – why were they not in the classroom? A man, early twenties, cap on head. A couple, gay, for one leaned against the other and they kissed briefly now and again.

People began to grow uncomfortable. They nervously fidgeted in their seats. This was wrong, their body language screamed. One of them should speak up, speak out.

Eventually the capped man took his feet off the seat, prompting a collective sigh and relaxing of shoulders.


It felt as if it had taken ages to reach the cashier. He knew shell suits weren’t the trend nowadays, but the colour had attracted him. Pity it didn't fit.

"I’d like a refund please. It’s too small."

The cashier frowned. "I thought we stopped selling these years ago."

He shrugged. "I came back as soon as I could."

"You’ll have to get a refund at the customer service desk." She pointed to the opposite side of the store.

"Oh no. Please, I beg you, no!"

But the cashier stood her ground and sent the snail on another epic journey.

Her Hair

She’d been known for her wavy blonde locks all her life. Her hair attracted the envy of her friends, the wrath of jealous bullies, but more importantly the most handsome boys. When boyfriends ran their fingers through it, tilting her face towards the sun, they might have been Midas, for it turned golden.

But now it had to go. Someone else wanted it and she was powerless to resist.

She stood watching it fall around her, her head yanked left and then right, forward and then back.

She was pushed onwards, an outfit and yellow star thrust into her hands.

Out and In

Out and in.

Out and in. Out and in.

Out and in. Out and in. Out and in.

Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in.

Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in.

Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in.

Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in. Out and in.

“Fifty-nine minutes to go until eight o’clock,' sighed the fed-up cuckoo, looking at his wristwatch.

This Charming Man

When the app matched us, I was sceptical initially. I said 'hello'. He said 'hi'. It soon became clear we shared a lot. From hobbies and favourite foods to holidays past and desired, we just... fit.

Tonight, three weeks since our first app interaction, he sits before me. He's just like his picture. No, better! That smile, those eyes, that hair!

"Careful," he says, as I knock my glass with my hand. I must have had more than I thought. I giggle, but my arms have gone floppy. His arm goes round my waist, supporting me. "Let’s get you home."

Hey Siri

Dave kicked back on the sofa and exhaled with satisfaction at his new acquisition.

"Hey Siri, what time is it?" He could see the clock but that wasn’t the point.

"8:34pm," came the reply.

“Hey Siri, play Madonna on Spotify.'

‘Holiday’ started playing. This was brilliant. The best thing he had ever done!

“Hey Siri, book me an Uber?'

“Book it yourself.'

Dave dropped the TV remote and turned to face his brand new iPad. He hadn’t just imagined that, had he? And yet nobody was around to verify it.

The iPad screen was pulsating. As if Siri were breathing...


Dave kicked back on the sofa and exhaled with satisfaction at his new acquisition.

"Alexa, what time is it?" He could see the clock but that wasn’t the point.

"7:30pm," came the reply.

“Alexa, dim the lights.' And as if by magic, the room grew darker.

“Alexa, play Oasis on Spotify.'

‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’ started playing. This was brilliant. The best thing he had ever done!

“Alexa, when will dinner be ready?'

His wife of three days, Alexa, glared at him then hurled a cushion at his head.

“Make dinner your bloody self or we’re getting a divorce!'


I’ll tell you from the off that I’m a thief. You can’t say I’m dishonest.

Look, it’s a hobby of mine. Just like you might get a kick out of watching football, or going to the cinema, or philately. (What? Just because I’m a thief, it doesn’t mean I don’t know words.)

I’m stealing from you right now. You, dear reader, are my victim. Come on, how many criminals are as honourable as I?

Yeah, so it’s a hobby, a pastime, and it kind of turns me on too, knowing that I’m stealing your time as you read something inconsequential.


He spent most of the afternoon carving the arms, legs, and finally the head off his friend. The mess was delightful to him, the satisfaction bigger than he'd hoped.

His mother turned over on the sofa, flicked the TV off and held her head, lifting and shaking the empty can.

“Jack, leave that knife alone. And your toy… That cost good money.'

Jack smiled and laughed, then threw the head at his mother. She laughed and tossed it back to him, then turned back over to resume sleep.

Jack stayed sitting upright, his smile in place for several hours more.

Unknown Title

“I wonder if you could help me?' asked Arbuthnot.

“Certainly, sir,' replied the bookseller.

“I’m looking for a book and I can’t remember its title.'

“Do you know the author?'

“I’m afraid not.'

“Do you have any idea what this book is about, then?'

“I know there’s a big lion in it. And snow, and a witch. And there’s this wardrobe that some children pass through. Is that of any use?'

The bookseller blinked slowly at Arbuthnot, then typed some words into his computer. Then said, “I’m sorry but you’ll have to be more specific. I can’t help you otherwise.'

The Author

It was an author’s worst nightmare. The authorities looking into an Internet history and finding searches on how to obtain a gun, for example, or worse…

“Research,' the author insisted, shaking and crying. “I needed to access the site in order to write.'

“Then how do you explain the missing child?' the officer asked.

“I honestly don’t know. All I do is write books, authentic books.'

The author’s pleas were noted down but a search of his flat found no books, no writing, only images. Hundreds of them. He had written but one story, that of him being an author.

Late Again

Pete grips the steering wheel in despair as he turns onto the main road. He’s going to be late for work. Again! And he’ll have to explain himself to his line manager and she’s never going to believe him. She never does.

The red light changes three times and he barely moves an inch. To his right, a stapler nudges forward. In front, a blue marker pen aggressively honks its horn. Across the central reservation, a hole punch narrowly avoids a pothole.

He dials his work, gets put through to that familiar condescending voice.

He swallows and says, “Traffic’s stationery.'

Just After Three

I find myself standing in my apartment hallway at just after three in the morning. I don’t know what got me out of bed, only that something did.

Something is not right.

My eyes gradually adjust. The light from the communal hallway hints at the hall table, my hanging coat, the kitchen door ajar.

All normal but there is something not right, a reason why I stand here now, neck hair raised.

And then I realise. There is no light coming through the spy hole, and if I look down…

… Two pools of black where there should be uninterrupted light.

The International Drabble Championships

“The one hundred finest drabble writers from around the world gathered today in this hall to participate in the International Drabble Championships. Each of you produced your best drabble under examination conditions within the ten minute timeframe. Your entries have been read, reread and assessed and I am pleased to announce that we have settled on a winner. Now, it will come as no surprise to you that this final prize-giving speech has been carefully written to clock in at one hundred words. No more, no less! So, without further ado, I am pleased to announce that the winner is

Crime and Punishment

I sit here in my prison. As soon as the door clanged shut I sensed I’d not get out alive. Various obscenities cover the walls, the bored and misspelt scrawling of previous occupants. My ears prick up. Noises. The shushing from lips, the softness of carefully-placed footsteps, the ever so quiet shutting of a door. I committed the crime and now I must face my punishment.

I sit here, trousers and underpants (name stitched into both) around my ankles. Two acne-encrusted faces appear above me, either side of the cubicle.

“You grassed on us,' one says.

The other: “You’re dead.'

Too Late

His jawline is strong. Manly. This incongruity leaps out at me for some reason. Perhaps it’s because I have always equated religion with weakness. But this man… this man I can see beyond the cassock and collar. His skin is clear and radiates a softness I wouldn’t have thought imaginable without touch. His lips are not too slim, not too full. Just right. And his eyes tell stories I want to listen to right into the early hours when the light of day is blissfully absent. To my left stands my soon-to-be-wife. And soon the soon-to-be will be no more.


“Stupid, stupid, stupid baby!'

Stacey tried everything to stop the incessant crying. But nothing - NOTHING - would work and the noise just grew louder and louder.

“Shut the hell up. SHUT UP!'

Stacey screamed in its face and shook it, gently at first but soon more vigorously. And then she was holding it by the leg, dangling it, and hitting its head against the floor.


The next day, Stacey had tears running down her own face as the teacher shouted at her.

“These things are expensive! And you’re meant to treat them like you would a real baby!'

Winging It

“Sir, it’s like… sort of… there’s this tank and in the tank are the flies… and like… they’re everywhere. Buzzing and flapping their wings and crashing into the sides of the tank and each other. And there’s… like… this guy… he watches over the tank and he observes the flies… like… crashing into each other because there’s… like… so many of them and everything. This guy is like… super powerful and he rules them… like a… like … well… lord.'

The book flew across the classroom and hit the boy on the head.


“Jenkins, next time, read the bloody book.'


Dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot. Maybe I should have picked a different painting style…

The Lake

It was known for ice-skating when I was a child. The lake, that is. Everyone used to gather there throughout winter, either to brave the ice or stand huddled together and watch. My mother would beg me not to go there, insisting it wasn’t safe and that I’d fall through the ice. Oh, the relief on her face when I’d return…

Now it’s known as the lake where I was found. And for once my mother did want the ice to crack and cave in, as she stood there watching my battered, ravaged body become free from its icy prison.

A Second Opinion

"Doctor, these warts are troubling me?'

“They seem superficial to my eye.'

"And my skin has a tint to it - greenish. Liver problems?"

"Hmmm, that'd give you more of a yellowish tint. I think I know what's the matter. You're a witch."


“You’ve a broomstick under your arm."

“True, but I just like to sweep the floor as I go."

"Anything else unusual?"

"Nothing I can think of."

“Well, I stand by my diagnosis. I think you’re a witch.'

Dissatisfied, the patient booked an appointment with another doctor for a second opinion before flying off into the darkening sky.

The Book Signing

“Who to?' he asked, before each left holding a signed copy of his latest thriller.

It was late and he was tiring when a young man presented himself at the signing table.

“Who to?'

“Your killer.'

Thoughts raced through his mind as he sat there paralysed. Who knew he was having an affair with his publisher? Who could possibly know that the masterpiece he’d just published was the idea of another? Had someone finally discovered he’d literally murdered his way onto the bestseller list?

Eventually, the young man showed his travel pass to aid the author.

York Hiller, it read.


A drabble is a work of precisely 100 words. Book Hippo’s rules thus state that any submitted drabbles must be precisely 100 words long. But, I wonder, can I submit a drabble that is 99 words long? 101 words? And will anyone count? Will anyone care? Which brings me to this drabble, the one I write to see if I can fiddle the system. And this is it, in all its rule busting glory. Or am I just creating a pretentious piece of modern art, masquerading as inexistent rebellion, a drabble that is in fact precisely 100 words in length?


It’s peaceful. Apart from the drip-drip-drip of the tap but that brings its own kind of peace.

My duck, a childhood toy, sits on the edge of the bath. I try to avoid its judgmental stare.

A candle burns in the corner, its flame ever-nearing the water which pinks my skin and cleanses.

I close my eyes and control my breathing. In-out. In-out. In-out. It’s hard. It’s not for me.

I’m making the right decision. No one else thinks this, I’m sure, but it’s my decision to make.

I duck.

Water. Mouth. Eyes. Candle. Out. Water. Throat. Water. Water.


The 8:12

The commuter train is packed. It’s the busiest time of day.A young man is sitting towards the carriage’s rear. His rucksack sits bloated at his feet; he keeps it close. He wrings his hands, each turn squeezing out fresh beads of sweat. Droplets form on his forehead before trickling down his cheeks.People are looking at him. They pretend not to but they are.He closes his eyes, prays to Allah for what is about to happen.“Mum,' he says, on his destination’s train platform. “There’s something you should know. This will be hard for you, but I’m gay.'

The Anniversary Gift

Agatha and Robert were due to celebrate their golden wedding anniversary this April. Their daughter, Natasha, wanted to treat them. They deserved some happiness at this late stage in life. Who knew how much longer they’d be around? And they’d never been abroad, so this gift was very special indeed.

Agatha had tears of joy in her eyes after she’d opened the envelope. She showed the tickets to Robert, who emitted an impressed whistle.

“Titanic,' Agatha gasped.

Natasha could have sworn the whispered word was accompanied by a small mist of condensed breath. As if the room were ice cold.

A Mother's Loss

It’s the anniversary of the bombings and she is sitting on the edge of her bed clutching a photograph: her son. She’s rocking back and forth, back and forth, in silent agony. All year round’s painful but this day’s the worst. Her face is the picture of someone crying yet no tears flow. She cried herself dry long ago.

In the photograph her son is smiling. She’s not smiled since that terrible day. She wonders now where her son would be if he’d lived. She wonders where it all went wrong. Could she have stopped him killing all those people?

Nutter's Pharmacy

How Mr Nutter the pharmacist stayed in business was anyone's guess, for he hardly dispensed any prescriptions or sold any medicines.

"Have you anything for my sore throat?" an old lady asked.

"Certainly! That hat of yours suits you perfectly," replied Mr Nutter.

"I keep getting indigestion," complained another.

"You're looking particularly well-groomed today," replied Mr Nutter. "Next!"

Mr Pumphrey, a regular, staggered in clutching his chest. "My heart..."

Mr Nutter knew what to do. "Morning! Oh you've shined those shoes a treat, Mr Pumphrey!"

Moments before Mr Pumphrey collapsed, he’d passed a large banner outside that read ‘Complimentary Medicine’.

Those in Control

Just a game.

Dice thrown. Wheel spun. Counters vibrating with the pair’s roared laughter.

“What’s it landed on?'

“September the 2nd, 1666.'

“I’ll pick… London.' Lit a match and held it over England’s capital. “Your turn.'

Spun the wheel. September the 11th, 2001. Smiled whilst picking a model plane from the board game’s upturned lid. Placed it in New York. Watched the smoke plume rise. “Your turn.'

Wheel spun. “2015. A date of my choice.'

Hesitated. Licked lips. Selected a piece.

The other gasped. “You can’t!'

“Watch me.'

Both stood back from the board in horrified anticipation.

Just a game.

Mrs Strudel's Christmas

Christmas was a balancing act for Mrs Strudel as she struggled to ensure that her guests left alive. The problem was that her family’s medical notes needed a separate filing cabinet at the local surgery.

She spent hours checking ingredients for her nut-allergic nephew and gluten-free granddaughter. She twiddled the thermostat so that it accommodated both her sister’s asthma and niece’s skin condition. Just before everyone arrived, she dived for the fairy lights, changing them from flickering to constant for her epileptic cousin.

The day went swimmingly, but then Mrs Strudel collapsed with a heart attack while waving everyone off.

The Present

“Billy, come for your present.'

“Why not bring it down here? I’ll open it in front of everyone else.'

Toby hesitated. “I can’t.'

“Can’t?' Then Billy understood. It must have been too big to bring down.

“It’s in my room,' said Toby.

The pair excused themselves and walked upstairs, which caused Billy’s heart to pound. He didn’t know why; he wasn’t unfit.

Toby opened his door. Both stepped inside.

“There’s nothing here,' said Billy.

“Look up,' whispered Toby.

Above Billy, completely out of place, hung a piece of mistletoe. Yet Billy felt it the most natural present to find there.

Happy Christmas, Dad

“I know it’s not much, but I had to get you something, didn’t I? Mum won’t like me giving you them, what with your diabetes, but I won’t tell if you won’t. They’re your favourite. You once complained of them playing havoc with your teeth but that didn’t stop you scoffing the lot. Make these last, eh?'

I shivered as the wind unpicked my coat’s belt. Dad didn’t seem fazed by the cold. He didn’t even mind when a robin came and relieved itself over him.

“Happy Christmas, Dad,' I said, carefully resting the bag of toffees against the headstone.


“Mum, tell me again why you’ve got two Christmas trees up… and twice as many crackers as there are family!'

“I told you - if you buy it all during the sales after Christmas, you save a fortune! I bought half of this lot on Boxing Day last year and put it away for safe keeping. Then when this Christmas came round, I’d clean forgotten about it all. Now I have double!'

How we laughed!

Later the following year, Mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I can still picture the two trees, the crackers swamping the tablecloth, but I no longer laugh.

The Pile-Up

The first collision was at 08:43. Over the following two minutes, a further seven cars ploughed - smash! - onto the scene. Some vehicles spun a full 360 degrees, others were upturned. From the moment of first impact, the air filled with screams so awful that onlookers were forced to cover their ears. The gravity of the situation was highlighted, terribly, by the ongoing, never diminishing, sounds of distress.

A little boy was plucked from the wreckage by his father. “Jonny, those are your brother’s toy cars. Leave them alone. You're upsetting him and giving us all earache in the process!'

Status Update

Becky loved her social networking. If she were put in detention, Facebook would know before her parents. If she saw a new piece of eye candy, a tweet announcing love at first sight would immediately be flying out of her phone to her followers. Becky lived through social media.

When the fire alarm went off at school one day, she updated her status online before she followed the others out. ‘Fire drill lol. Yay got out of history! YAWN!’

While everyone was coughing and spluttering in the playground, their eyes streaming, Becky hit ‘post’ on her last ever Facebook update.

The Sad Life and Ironic Death of Horace Hutchinson

Horace Hutchinson could forgive most people for most things but he could not excuse litterers. Each day, he paced up and down the main road near his house, litter picker in hand. By the end of his self-commissioned work, an income-free job no partner would abide, litter was already accumulating for his next shift.

On his last day, he slipped on a used condom, the wasted seed of life, and fell into the path of a lorry. Copper coins pebbled the tarmac, receipts and loose papers fluttered free from his pockets and a sticky red substance stained his resting place.

False Hope

“Will I see her again?' I cry as she moves off. Nobody answers.

“Will I see it again?' I ask as my suitcase (marked with name, address) is added to the pile.

“Will I see it again?' I whisper as my ring is slid off my finger.

Nobody answers. Nobody answers.

It will grow back again, I think, as my hair falls to the floor.

Will I see daylight again, I wonder, as we jostle for space.

Yes, there, I can see the sky. And at that moment, that small square of light in the ceiling is everything to me.

Small is Good

I’m small. I know that. Do I care? Well, I did at first. It makes you feel inferior in most situations. But there are perks to being so slightly built. I can squeeze into gaps that most of you would never even contemplate getting into. I can find a seat on the Tube while you lot are being jostled about, sniffing each other’s armpits. And the best thing is that, if you piss me off, I can crap in your food without you even realising. Plus, how many of you can say that Jeff Goldblum played you in a film?


Olivia laughed as Daddy’s wiggling toes disappeared under the sand. It had taken hours to dig the hole and a further hour to convince Daddy to lie in it. “Keep your arms still,' she ordered with a giggle.

The sun was clipping the horizon when Daddy was buried up to his neck. “Take a picture then get me out,' he said. “The sea’ll be coming in soon.'

Olivia picked up the camera and brought it down on Daddy’s head until he was still. Then she piled on the sand.

As she collected her belongings to leave, the first wave arrived.


The first flower bloomed and it was the most beautiful sight in the world. So breathtaking that he stepped back to allow his heart to slow, his breathing to stabilise. Then another flower burst forth. And another. And another. Until the flower bed was awash with bright red petals. It was all so sudden, so fast-moving, perhaps he was witnessing time-lapse video footage. And the biggest miracle of all was that these flowers opened without any sunlight. Sunlight, which was now finding its way through a crack in the curtains, searching for the woman who’d gone missing two days earlier.

The Laziest Bugger in the Village

Bruce Lightfoot was the laziest bugger in the whole village. He was lying almost horizontally on the sofa, biscuit crumbs skiing down his rising and falling pot belly, when the news item caught his wandering attention. He licked his fat lips, eyes widening at the prospect of what he had just witnessed. Maybe, just maybe, it would happen to him!

The next morning he woke, puffed and panted his way downstairs, crashed into the kitchen and looked into the sink, which was almost hidden under a teetering pile of mould-covered crockery. “Why do I never get a bloody sink hole?'

The Stranger


A man, smiling, holding open a briefcase of money.

“One million pounds. It’s all yours.'

“All mine?' I said.

“Indeed. All you have to do is swallow one of these.' He held out a jar. “Ninety-nine of these are perfectly safe. One will kill you horribly.'

I hesitated.

“One million pounds,' he repeated.

I shoved my hand in. Pulled out a tablet. Swallowed.

Breathing. Pulse. “I’m alive!'

“Not necessarily. The terrible death may occur at any point in the next twenty years. But only if you swallowed that particular tablet of course. Enjoy your money,' he said. Then departed.

Lucky to have found you...

I never get anything done while you’re around because, well, you know what we get up to! And I never get anything done when you’re not here because you’re always in my mind, watching over me. All I do is count down till your return home, even though you text me every half hour just to make sure I’m okay. I spend so much time with you my friends have drifted away. You say it doesn’t matter, though. I’m yours, all yours. And no-one else can have me but you, you say. I’m lucky to have found you. So lucky…

Self Diagnosis

“I need to speak to the pharmacist.'

“That’s me.'

“Good, I think I might be pregnant.'

“Riiiiight, and why do you think that?'

“Well, I’ve not had a period.'

“Okaaaay, any other reason you think you might be with child?'

“I feel sick every morning.'

“Right, that could be because…'

“I have cravings. The last three nights I’ve eaten the fieriest of curries.'

“That might explain the nausea the following morning.'

“No, I’m definitely pregnant. I think I need to see a doctor. You pharmacists don’t know much, do you?'

“May I ask how old you are?'

“Eighty-seven next month.'


The Reduced Flesh Company were rehearsing their latest production. Most of the skeletons were offstage, some drinking tea (it went straight through them), others playing cards (adopting poker skulls).

Hamlet held up a skull and enunciated, “Alas, poor Yorick.' Then he turned to the director, the only living person in the room, and said, “Darling, I simply can’t act with this. It’s too close to my own form. How about we mix things up a bit? Have an actual head as Yorick?'

The director laughed. “Where would we get one?' Then he realised the entire cast were surrounding him. Grinning.


He thrust in and out, trying to settle into some sort of rhythm. She’d been hopeless recently. He had no difficulty whatsoever. The problem definitely lay solely with her, the stupid bitch. He slapped her across the face. She stared back, eyes wide, unable to speak. In and out. In and out. He grabbed her behind, squeezed harder and harder. No, she was useless. Utterly useless. He pulled himself out, left the room, came back with a safety pin. Opened it and pricked her. She levitated in a fit of hissing before sailing round the room like an out-of-control airship.


My view’s clouded by steam and condensation. He bends briefly, the arch of his back clearing a porthole as he brushes the glass. Droplets of water cling to his skin as if they too want a piece of this bronzed, blonde beauty. He’s soaping and rubbing every inch of his skin. Lingering on the usual part. Typical. My viewing window is now almost covered again. I wonder, if he were to turn, would he see my shape through the translucency? And would he see the long blade in my hand? Nobody cheats on me and gets away with it. Nobody.

Piano Keys

Sweat danced on his brow as he worked as quickly as he could. The saw went back and forth, back and forth. The heat beat down and the sweat danced some more. He was easily the most skilled carpenter and those standing nearby marvelled, admiring his work and watching the saw go back and forth, back and forth. The carving ceased temporarily. The man listened for the warning call. Soon they’d have to flee. Nearly there. Back and forth. The heat beat down. The sweat danced. And a baby elephant watched its mother lying on the ground, hacked, bloodied, robbed.

The A to Z of Christmas

Aspirin - my head hurts

Broken baubles

Candy canes - teeth rot

Diarrhoea - too much junk

Elf and safety nightmare

Fairy light electrocution

Granddad’s asleep again

Holly - bugger, pricked my finger!

Icy footpaths

Jonathan’s crappy puns

Kindle needs recharging

Lame TV

Mulled wine - ugh!

Novelty socks

Oh god, those socks are really bad

Paperback from gran - already read it

Queen’s rabbiting on about something

Rushing round the shops

Sprout overload

Television that’s lame (it bears repeating)

Ugly snowmen

Virile snowmen (carrot’s in the wrong place)

What? He’s not real?

X-ray - damn icy footpaths

Yule log looks like a turd

Zzzzz after dinner

The Wreath

It was her third attempt at building the wreath. She kept misjudging how far she could bend branches and twigs without them snapping. She found it painful too, even though her skin was tough and leathery after a lifetime of manual labour. Finally, she formed a successful ring. She then strengthened it, weaving the twigs in and out of one another as best she could. Her punctured hands oozed red droplets, but she stood back satisfied. The wreath passed through several hands and then was placed upon His head and pressed down until small red rivers flowed over His cheeks.

A shock after work

She closed the front door and paused. The house was eerily quiet. No TV. No radio.

She walked through to the next room and let out a piercing scream at the scene before her. Her keys and phone slipped out of her hands unnoticed and hit the floor.

A viscous red liquid dripped down the walls, and knives with reddened blades lay abandoned about the place. The floor shimmered with broken glass. Then her husband stepped out, his face seemingly bloodied.

She looked at the jar in his hand and snapped: “This is the last time you make strawberry jam!'

A Right Royal Drabble

Angela's face shone with sweat. Her hair was wild where she had grabbed clumps of it while pushing. Through the window, she could see the headlines scrolling along the television screen, announcing the royal baby's arrival ad nauseam.

Angela looked at the clock and pushed harder still, screaming between breaths, "Get out, get out, get out!"

The midwife tried to reason with her. "It's no good pushing all the time. You have to push when you're ready."

"It's ten to midnight," Angela yelled. "I want this bloody baby out of me so I can get my Royal Mint silver penny!"

Don't Stop Me Now

"Don't stop me now. I'm having such a good time. I'm having a ball."

I can't wait to tell her my news! The breeze sweeps across my face and paints on a smile of pure joy. I know she'll be thrilled.

I pedal faster still, the upbeat Queen track filling my head with excitement and the hopes of a glorious future. I do not hear the horn.

She sits patiently. Wheels spinning, moving nowhere. She looks at her watch. Lips move silently but no one hears my words. She smiles. Tarmac listens to my music.

"Don't stop me, don't st-

The smell of a new book

"I'm in here, dear!"

"You don't take sugar, do you, Maureen?"

"No, dear, I'm already sweet enough. You should know that by...COASTER!"

"Sorry! Er, Maureen, what on earth are you doing?"

"I've just bought a new book, dear. There's nothing quite like the smell of a new book. You have to get your nostrils close enough so that your nasal hair is almost tickling the surface. Then you take the deepest of breaths and drink in the wondrous scent. It's almost as if the book's alive!"

"But, Maureen, you're getting nose prints all over the screen of your Kindle!"

The tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth

"Mummy, Daddy, Mummy, Daddy, look what I got!"

Tina and Andrew looked down at the shiny pound coin resting in Tommy's cupped palm and smiled. Tommy beamed back at them, proudly displaying the gap in his top row of teeth.

"Now I can buy something!" Tommy turned and ran back up stairs to get dressed.

"I'm so glad you remembered to do the whole tooth fairy thing," Tina said to her husband with a relieved sigh.

Andrew paused for a second then replied.

"Funny you should say that because that's exactly what I was just going to say to you."

A run of bad luck

My day started in a promising way as it was my birthday and I received some money. I bought some brightly coloured things. All was going well.

However, my luck soon changed.

Mid-morning, I received some bills which really deflated me. But then it got worse. I suddenly started having problems with the plumbing and electrics. There were too many bills to pay. Deflated, I realised I would have to take out a mortgage. In the end, I snapped and drove my car into a dog.

"Snakes and Ladders next time!" I shrieked, as my wife counted her fistful of money.


"Bring it back to the boil. That's it. Keep stirring. Now set the timer."

The chef watched the trainee and sighed. The whole purpose of an assistant was to free up some of his own time, but he had to stand supervising, spelling everything out to him time and time again.

"Now tease the pasta with your fork. Is it just right? Not too soft, not too hard? Good. Now stir in the meat."

The trainee looked puzzled. "But you didn't tell me to buy any meat."

The chef, who had now picked up a sharp gleaming knife, simply smiled.

One Happy Reader

With a deep breath, I upload my book,

But when it's on sale, will anyone look?

I'm normally quite quiet, verging on shy,

But shout I must or people won't buy.

So many books, it's an unfortunate fact.

My book is the needle in the towering haystack.

I'll go on the forum, but one post per day.

Or I'll be banned, then buried in more hay.

I'll tweet some tweets to my adoring followers.

That'll work - or not, they're all authors!

No point in worrying whether it's a hit.

If I get just one happy reader, it's totally worth it.

The Upper Paw

Douglas sat upright at the table, a napkin around his neck. He tucked into his bone while reading The Guard-dog-ian. In the corner, a naked Peter knelt, nuzzling his face into his cornflakes, which Douglas had poured into a bowl labelled 'HUMAN'. The TV weatherdog predicted a fine day, so Douglas stood up and woofed to his pet. Peter licked his bowl and crawled to the front door, where he waited for Douglas to put on his lead. Half way down the path, Peter squeezed out a turd onto the flower beds he had proudly tended just a week earlier.

The Claw

Kevin looked through the glass, his body tense and aching from the last half hour. The damn thing kept slipping away. If I can just snag the label, Kevin thought, as he fed in another pound coin. He wiped his damp hands on his jeans so his fingers wouldn't slip when guiding the claw. The soft toy lifted. Agonising seconds. The toy dropped. Kevin punched the air and grabbed his prize. On his way home, Kevin's eye was caught by the very same toy in a shop window. £4.99. Kevin shuddered. I could have saved over thirty pounds, he thought.

Maureen's Submission

Jonathan: Well, do you want to then?

Maureen: Want to what?

Jonathan: Write the drabble!

Maureen: Hmm?

Jonathan: It's a work of fiction. 100 words in length.

Maureen: And the point of that is...?

Jonathan: It's a challenge for the writer and there's often a twist at the end to catch out the reader.

Maureen: OK, I'll give it a go then, dear.

Thirty minutes later...

Maureen: Done! You'll never guess the twist at the end!

Jonathan: Good. Now submit your story on the IBB site.

Maureen clicks 'submit'.

Maureen: Er...Jonathan...I think I submitted our conversation instead of my drabble.


She sits alone on the sofa idly flicking through a magazine. In one hand is a cup of coffee, almost cold. She throws the last dregs back and scrunches up her face as she swallows. She puts the cup down and carries on reading. Twice over the next ten minutes, she crosses and uncrosses her legs. Once, she pushes a strand of hair away from her eyes. Then she closes the magazine, drops it on the table and walks off with her empty cup. Outside, a gloved hand presses 'end video recording' and slips the camera into a pocket.


Love? Bleurgh! Doesn't the word make you sick? I can't stand the word. Love? Eeurgh! It makes me shudder. I often lie in bed awake, the word reverberating around my head while she is sound asleep. I can hear her voice pronouncing the word in delight, clicking the 'l' with her tongue to express her satisfaction. I can see her mouthing the word from afar while I stand there sweating. I know one day the word will be the end of our relationship. "Forty-love," she calls, as her serve whistles past me. Why can't I beat my wife at tennis?


The atmosphere was tense as the player dribbled the ball up the pitch. He avoided the opposing players with deceptive ease and began to slow when the goalkeeper's face came into focus. Left or right? Or dead centre? After a pause, where each millisecond seemed like a full second, the player opted for the bottom left of the goal.

"Goal!" Dad shouted, as he smoothed down a crease on his side of the table-top pitch. "Come on, lad, it'll be fun!"

"No thanks," the son muttered while pummelling his controller to drive a hundred bullets through his enemy's heart.

For Sale

I sit down on the naughty step, coat on, bag in hand. It's no longer the naughty step, but it was sixty years ago when my children were growing up. Of course now they are gone, married and have naughty steps for their own children.

The bare walls bear the squares of pictures taken down. My gaze lowers to the darker patch of carpet on which the telephone table rested. I had stood there to announce the breaking of waters, to wish countless happy birthdays, and to dial for the ambulance.

This house is too big just for me.

The Snowman

The snowman appeared overnight after the biggest snowfall the community had yet known. The children danced about, their faces obscured by hats and scarves. They pointed in delight at the snowman's grin, a smile that made the adults shudder. Who had built the snowman? No-one knew. The children were happy not to know. The adults weren't.

Two days later, the snow began to melt and, with it, the snowman. A flap of clothing was revealed first, then a sleeve, then a jacket. Several villagers worked to scrape away the snow. Underneath was a man, nailed to a post. Stone-cold. Dead.

The Hypochondriac

'Was that there yesterday? I'm sure it wasn't. Or, perhaps it was and I just didn't notice it. But, if I'm noticing it now, does that mean it's got bigger?'

Before he even realised what he was doing, the most thumbed book in his house was in his hands. 'Illness and Disease: a guide for all the family'.

After hours of fruitless searching, he looked up and thought aloud.

'Maybe there is nothing wrong with me after all.'

Apparently satisfied, he made to return the book to its shelf. The heavy volume slipped through his hands and broke his foot.

New Year, New Life

She would not forget the smell of the old wooden box. She felt sure of that. A firework exploded in the night sky, briefly illuminating the box as she peered into it for the last time. Revolver. Wedding ring. A carefully-chosen selection of letters and photographs. Her eyes lingered on the photograph of her family, then she placed it face-down in the box. Through the walls she could hear her new neighbours drunkenly singing 'Auld Lang Syne'. She took a deep breath then closed the lid on her past and her old life. Happy New Year! Happy new life?


"Come back in, son, before you catch your death!" called a voice. The words never reached the boy, who had already run outside, a look of awe and wonder on his fresh face. It was cold, bitterly cold, and he hugged himself tightly. His new pyjamas didn't do a very good job of keeping him warm. The boy looked up and gasped. It was snowing! He reached out his hand to catch a snowflake, but it didn't dissolve on contact. It just left a black smudge on his palm. The boy frowned and then the German rifle sounded.


The elderly man frowned at his daughter as his hands tore off strips of gift-wrap at a speed that was painful to watch.

"It's not one of those electronic book things, is it?" he grumbled.

His daughter at once looked deflated.

He pulled the e-reader out of its box and tutted.

"I hate these thi - oh, it's on - that was quick. Why would I want to peer at - oh, you can adjust the text. It has a light too?"

"So, you like it then, Dad?" his daughter offered tentatively.

"Sssh - I'm reading!" the man snapped, already lost in a book.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I'm not sure how much longer this is going to last. It has been drummed into us that it is all for a better future. Each day we strive to achieve our leader's ultimate aim.

I've personally helped turn in several hundred now. It's become a little easier each time. I have learnt to accept it. They must be wiped out.

Today, I helped uncover a couple of families hidden in an attic (behind a bookcase!). One of them was only a young girl. I tried not to look her in the eye as we led them out.

Pulped Fiction

The man towered over his victim, a long knife in his hand. Beads of sweat had started to form on his brow. He wiped each hand in turn on his trousers to ensure a firm grip on the weapon.

He breathed, then brought down his blade with alarming force. The knife slashed through the flesh, connecting the nose to the vacant grin of his target. The man swore and angrily thrust the knife into the mess of a head before him, right up to its hilt.

He turned and called, 'We're going to need another pumpkin!'

Merry Christmas

Outside, darkness was falling and the icicles along the porch roof twinkled magically. A dog-walker went by, open-mouthed at the sight of a lawn dotted with flashing reindeer.

Inside, Ray peered over his newspaper at Susan, who was softly humming Jingle Bells. She smoothed down the final piece of sticky tape and pushed the box under the tree, which groaned

under the weight of a hundred baubles.

It was when his wife was stood on a chair stretching high with a piece of tinsel that Ray, hands shaking, slammed down his paper and bellowed.

'For god's sake, woman, it's October!'

The Learner Part 4 of 4

The night before her test, Edward had visited Margaret in her sleep.

Margaret knew she had a way of frustrating even the most patient soul, and she was generally aware that she was often an object of ridicule. The truth was she had never always been, what some might call, stupid.

Her world had collapsed somewhat when Edward had fallen asleep one night, never to wake again.

Over the forty minute test, she was convinced she felt Edward's hand guiding hers on the wheel and gearstick.

'Congratulations, you've passed.'

Margaret looked up, tears in her eyes.

'I did it.'

The Learner Part 3 of 4

Margaret was unique in JH Motors Driving School in that she had been tutored by each and every instructor.

The first had lasted two months before being signed off with stress by his doctor. The second had lasted just one lesson, after Margaret had swerved the car into a tree, distracted by a wasp that turned out to be a fly. The third had quit before even getting in the car with her.

It took the patience of the fourth instructor (and a hefty bribe) to steer Margaret towards her test.

Now, miraculously, it was the day of the test.

To be continued...

The Learner Part 2 of 4

'For the tenth time, it's the HighWAY Code. WAY! WAY! Not HighROAD Code.'

Margaret stared at the instructor's purple face and surreptitiously wiped some spittle from her cheek.

It was her fourth lesson, and the instructor's risk of a heart attack had soared.

'Just stay calm...breathe deeply...'

'I am calm,' insisted Margaret.

'I'm talking to myself!'

After several deep inhalations, the instructor said in a false soothing manner, 'Right!

Mirrors...signal...aaaand pull out, not forgetting the blind spot.'

The car lurched and struggled.

'I don't understand,' muttered Margaret.

The instructor gripped the door handle, his knuckle white and bellowed 'THE HANDBRAKE!!!!'

To be continued...

The Learner Part 1 of 4



'Madam, I'll need your full name.'

'Of course. It's Granger. Margaret Granger.'

Margaret idly circled the newspaper advert, half-listening and half-thinking of Edward. Over the following minutes, the employee at JH Motors Driving School elicited Margaret's personal information, driving licence and credit card details with all the ease of a tooth extraction.

'Your first lesson will be a week tomorrow at 9am.'

'Thank y...' Margaret began but the agent had gone and, unbeknown to Margaret, was hastily swallowing a diazepam.

Margaret clanged the phone down on its cradle and sighed.

'Now, where did I put my Highroad Code?'

To be continued...