Worthing Flash

The Thames was a fire stream. The lights from the boats passing under Westminster Bridge, the fireworks which were igniting in exuberant star shimmers and flower bursts long after midnight, all transformed the water into a path of flame. Sarah stood looking over the parapet of the bridge. None of these transformations, of water into fire, or the sky into a palette of exploding colour, meant anything. They meant as much as the dead rat she nudged with her foot as she moved on, aiming to join the revellers. By getting in amongst the drunken crowds, she had every chance of cadging a fag, persuading someone to hand over their almost finished bottle, or maybe even begging a fiver or tenner. She knew exactly where she could go with that, back into the darkness and desertion of the streets of Victoria. New Year's Eve. Who cared? Sarah turned off Westminster Bridge. She had nothing

The heat was oppressive, the air was still, he thought of her in the rain. He walked further towards the bridge. Even in this heat he shivered as a small trickle of sweat ran down his back, and again he thought of her in the cold winter’s rain. What could he do, he was here, and she was there, both so far apart. He thought of her again and imagined her in nine hours. Where would she be? Would she be looking at the sky seeing what he was seeing now? He looked up into the black night sky, the stars shone and twinkled in the heat, and again his mind went back to her. He could now see the bridge clearly, mournfully, dark in the shadows, silhouetted against the light of the city. Suddenly the night was shattered by a thunderous roar that deafened his ears. An orange flash of light and flame erupted into the sky, and the bridge stood clear to see. The rocket soared majestically into the night sky with the brilliance of the sun, then another then another, until rockets seemed

1 Despite the bitter chill of November making her wheezing worse, Catriona insisted on having all the windows wide open. But, even after washing the freshly sheared fleece five times in lukewarm water, the stink of the Jacob's ewe impregnated the most remote corner of the cottage. Through a gap in the feather duvet that cloaked her , Catriona gave me one of her rare smiles. ‘I'm icing up over here. Get off your lazy arse, shove a couple more sticks on the stove, then plonk your Sassenach feet on the pedals.’ Every Friday after fixing frozen pipes, putting in new water heaters or whatever moonlighting odd-job I could lay my mitts on, I would trudge from house to house picking up whatever leftover scraps the neighbours left us to make the organic dyes Catriona needed to stain the yarn. Sacks overflowing with onion skins, beetroot tops, and used tea bags lay scattered round the kitchen floor. Strips of banana peel shared hooks with spanners and pipe cutters in my wor

The herd was alone. Their leader had gone o ff to eat his beetroot. “The old boy’s past it,” Cupid whispered, “and because of all that beetroot he eats to keep his nose bright red, his farts are becoming notorious.” “Well you don’t have to follow him, my nose is right behind his bum.” Said Dasher. Blitzen stood up on his hind legs. “Oh gawd here we go another announcement.” grumbled Dasher. “Look Guys after that kerfu ffl e last year with Air Tra ffi c Control when they couldn’t tell if we were coming or going they told us to have a white nose in front and a red nose behind. So.” He said with a smirk,

The door into the lounge was opened by a bit more than a crack. Davy thought that, although he might get away with opening it a shade wider, what he could see through the gap was quite enough. In perfect view was the Christmas buffet table. Draped in a white cloth, it bore a splendid array of grapefruit porcupines spiked with cheese and pineapple on sticks, or cheese and wrinkled- looking silverskin onions, Twiglets, alluringly displayed in a lazy susan and alternating with carrot sticks, a gelatinous looking dip, and, pièce de résistance chunks of celery with cream cheese squished into the ridges in the middle. As Davy watched, a braceleted hand reached out, and tipsily shoved an empty glass on to the edge of the tablecloth, the maraschino cherry on a plastic cocktail stick, lurking at the bottom. The scarlet fingernails flashed briefly. The gap be

My mother would start unpacking the Christmas decorations on what we now call Black Friday (the day after Thanksgiving when shoppers stampede stores.) The aroma of leftover turkey still permeated our house as she filled the air with a regular rotation of Andy Williams, Perry Como and Burl Ives: “A Holly Jolly Christmas” was especially irritating. Santa’s elves and reindeer would appear on the mantel and coffee table. Even a ceramic reindeer head above the toilet in the guest bathroom. At each window sill she arranged angel hair around an electric candle switched on every afternoon at 4 and off at 8 the next morning. A tiny porcelain Jesus lay in a tiny wooden manger next to the front door. Mary, Joseph, the Wise men, and the donkey stood to the side. Straw scattered far and wide. Hanging from the top of doorways was mistletoe tied together with red ribbon. No one could enter or exit without a sloppy kiss from the nearest reveler. There seemed no escape from Mother’s holiday hou

‘Turn around when possible.’ It was a widescreen SatNav, but he relied on Jane’s calm voice to guide them. He’d invested in the device after Rudolph got them lost last year over Papua New Guinea – the old boy was losing his sense of navigation. Jane didn’t understand about flight paths. She had guided them into Gatwick’s flight paths. Time was, he used to prepare his route beforehand, but he’d come to rely too much on Rudolph. He would have to circle and come in closer to the rooftops. They should still clear the Shetlands before daybreak though. They touched down on the first roof of the village and a loose tile skittered to the ground. While Rudolph held the sleigh steady, he made the delivery. Returning, he fell into the driving seat. They must be making sherry stronger these days. He banished an unwelcome vision of his doctor frowning. North of Hadrian’s Wall, port and sherry had given way to good Scotch whisky. Weary now, he squinted at the SatNav, struggling to focu

Tom was sitting near the artificial Christmas tree untangling lights. As Adele squeezed by, her elbow hit a glass ornament that fell and exploded, red glass spread in an imperfect circle. This was their first Christmas in the new house they bought in Santa Barbara, their first Christmas without parents. Her father dying shortly after his mother last spring, and now they had no one to visit, no one to invite. “Oooh,” she said. He heard her and thought, she must be bleeding. Cut. But all he saw was her looking at the shattered ornament. “Are you ok?” he asked. “That was my dad’s.” He tried not to sigh or say anything or make a gesture because he knew a storm might come and somehow he would be implicated by thought or deed or lack thereof. He stood and carried the lights to the kitchen table. When he came back, she was sitting beside the broken ornament, staring at it. “Do you even miss your mother?” she asked. He sat down across from her counting out Mississippis. “Of

Ray Bradbury's advice to writers: make a list of ten things you love and ten things you hate. Then you can write lovingly about the first ten and then destroy the second ten in stories. The latter is much more satisfying than it ought to be :) This is my list, other opinions are available.- Derek McMillan 10 loves Wife and family Reading books Murder mysteries in books and on TV Soaps, mainly Corrie Pets Red wine Worthing The Church Teachers Salzburg 10 hates Politicians Bullying managers OFSTED People who come to the door with a machete! (based on a true story) Swindlers Darkness Getting lost Nightmares that are too real Being in hospital Loss ."

All my aunts had red hair, each a different shade. Vernelle’s was orange. That day, years ago, she poured a glass of iced tea and stuck a wedge of lemon on the glass, “like society people,” she said. She had dropsy and never learned to read. She looked at pictures in movie magazines. We went to Woolworth’s every Saturday and that day she bought a bottle of Persian Melon nail polish. We sat at the dinette table and I painted her nails, dabbing at smears with a cotton ball. She talked about her ex-husband John Robert. “He was a good man,” she said. Smiled when I agreed with her. She lived with grandmother her whole life. I found that 40-year old picture of her when I moved last year. It was taken on Easter Sunday. She wore a dark coat, looked tall and dignified. I didn’t really know her I thought. “Come here,’ she’d say when I was little, “sit on my lap. I want to spend some time with you.” It’s summer. We’re on the porch and a little metal fan is blowing. Her sisters nickn