Flash Fiction in prep for #FlashbangGang 2015

Friday, January 2nd 2015

flashbang3_400x400Well, after entering the FlashBangGang flash fiction contest for the last few years, I have to admit that I’m struggling a bit this time round.

My consolation this time round is that every word I write at least contributes to the #100kwords100days challenge I’ve made a start on via the FaceBook group, so I see nothing as wasted words anymore.

With that in mind, I’ve thrown a few pieces here (below) – any comment/criticism is, as always, more than welcome and, if you’re interested in entering the competition yourself, here’s the link.



It made no difference.

That’s what he told himself as he rounded the corner, service pistol drawn and sending himself into the hail of bullets that ricocheted all across 5th Avenue.

It wasn’t that he was a cop.
He could deal with that, and with the repercussions of having taken the bribes.
It was the fact they’d tried before.
They’d shot him before.
They’d killed him before.
It made no difference.
He’d always return.
Each and every time, and always stronger.


Nobody saw him come in, nobody saw him leave, but everybody knew what he’d done.
Just another chapter in his book, another body chalked up.
It had been that way for months now.
London sat idely by whilst he carried out his deeds – as though the whole city was turning a blind eye to the murders.
It suited him that they did.
He was just cleaning up.
Everyone should respect a cop.



The clock chimed out across the London fog.
But it wasn’t to announce the passing of an hour – they just didn’t use it that way, not anymore.
But it did state a passing of sorts.
Dead cops were hunting dead villains across the town.
The bells of the clock were there to signal each victory, every one that was sent back, dispatched to whatever hell they’d been reborn into.
The bell didn’t chime often enough.

The face in the mirror stared back at him, familiar and yet new.
The cuts were new, the blood matting his hair – he’d not seen that before either.
Despite all that he saw, he felt renewed, rejuvenated – not how he’d expected to feel at all. But he’d won, hadn’t he?
He must have won, or else he couldn’t have been stood there.
Behind him, in the mirror he could see the shoes of a figure who was laid out on the restroom floor. Yes, he’d won.
But, the shoes looked familiar.
He turned slowly, taking in the full horror of looking down over his own prone form.
From the nearest cubicle he heard the toilet flush and footsteps coming his way.
The pain at his side struck him anew, coupled with a crushing acceptance.

‘He looks a little like…’ The technician stopped mid-sentence, aware of the stern look that the Detective was giving him. If it had been intended to shut him up, then it succeeded masterfully.

‘Like me?’ The Detective said and then, not waiting for a response. ‘Yes – not the first time that’s been said. Something that’s caused more than a little confusion at more than one of the crime scenes. Now, if you can print me off a hard copy of that still image from the CCTV, then I’ll be on my way.’

The technician hurried to do as he’d been asked, preoccupied with the task too much to notice the click of a pocket knife beside him or to be aware of its existence until it was there in his neck.

A hand reached across his falling body to remove the souvenir image from the printer tray.
It would be the only item to be saved before the fire that would soon be started and would engulf all the other evidence.


‘They could hit us at any place and at any time, that’s the scary part to all of this.’ The young detective was pretty good at pointing out the bloody obvious, DI Haven thought.
They’d been set to work the main station concourse at Waterloo earlier that day – backup along with the extra armed units that had also been deployed in the wake of the latest threats.
Trouble was, Haven thought, everybody expected something big, something explosive and destructive, but there was no reason that it couldn’t happen quietly, unassumingly in a way nobody would expect as they set off on their day.
He glanced around the concourse as the thought played on his mind, then looked back to the snack bar the detective was eating.
‘Where’d you get that?’ He asked quickly. But he already knew the answer and batted it from the man’s hand.
Haven looked over to the small cart that was set up by the entrance to the underground.
The three women there were still busily handing out the promotional snacks to commuters.
‘God no!’ Haven began to run towards them, seeing the hatred in their eyes as he got near.

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