Worthing Flash

They kiss. They've done this before; not a polite ' you-may-kiss-the-bride ' kiss; not a chaste ' one for the camera ' kiss. It's practised, probing, passionate. I try to tear my gaze away, but my longing pins me like a butterfly to a board. My mouth waters, my hands rise of their own will, wanting to pull her from him, from his heaviness, his heat, his ownership. I raise my camera, fumble with the lens, desperate to capture this moment, to preserve yet prevent in the same movement. I brush the confetti from my dress, turn away. They kiss. I’m a 62 year old writer living in Devon, and I’ve just achieved a Masters degree in Creative Writing from Hull Uni. This is the first time I’ve entered Worthing Flash. Roz Levens

Locksmith. I imagine myself as a house, with as many doors as an advent calendar. Some doors are armoured and bolted securely; some spring open at the merest touch. I’ve spent years barricading a few of the doors - wedging the contents under the doorknob to ensure nobody ever goes in there again. Sometimes I long for patio doors that open onto sunlit gardens full of vibrant flowers and trilling birds. Occasionally, people tempt me to leave a spare key under the mat, but mostly I’m content to open the public rooms to admiring visitors. You, though. You have my skeleton key. I’m a 62 year old writer living in Devon, and I’ve just achieved a Masters degree in Creative Writing from Hull Uni. This is the first time I’ve entered Worthing Flash. Roz Levens