The minister’s wig

“The minister here wears a wig the colour of thunderstorms, as dark as his eyes, as bright as his smile.”

We have a new flash fiction piece published today in the October 16 issue of Ink in Thirds.

Take a look and download it here for free.

Thanks for reading.



The smile

“For months I only really went home to sleep. Some nights not even for that.”

We have a new flash fiction piece from Rufus Woodward published today over at The Flash Fiction Press.

Read it here for free.

Thanks for reading.


 Listen. The first girl I ever kissed, I kissed at that bus stop. And the first stairs I ever staggered up drunk were those stairs, right there behind that door…

A new flash fiction from Rufus Woodward was published last week up at Wolf Publishing.  See below to read the whole piece.

Thanks for reading.


(or, a grown man looks wistfully at the home of his youth)

I romanticise this place all out of proportion. Of course I do. It’s the house I grew up in. I can’t help myself.

To me, this place was always a grand castle, huge and baroque, with flags and fanfares and everything. To me, my room was a turret, pointing high above a tall tower, a place where I could stand at my window and stare down at the rolling hillside and glittering moat beneath me.

Of course, I know it is not a castle. Not really. It’s only a pebble-dashed, two room, second floor apartment at the corner of the street. And I know that’s no moat, it’s only six lanes of cars and lorries speeding by through the traffic lights. And no, that is no enemy camp on that hillside over there. It’s only the bus depot and the supermarket. But who wants to dwell on mundane things like these?

My Mother always hated this house. “It was a horrid place to bring you up in,” she told me once shortly before she died. “So small, so cramped. And noisy and dirty from all those cars flying past. Not even a back yard for you to play in.”

I didn’t mind at all. I didn’t even notice any of that. And looking at it now, I still don’t. Listen. The first girl I ever kissed, I kissed at that bus stop. And the first stairs I ever staggered up drunk were those stairs, right there behind that door. So many things happened to me in that building. Big, important, mythic things. These are the sort of things people write songs about or make movies about. Nobody writes songs about things that happen to me these days. Nobody writes songs about old men who wear suits to work and play golf at weekends. Or, if they do, nobody wants to listen to them.

That place was a keystone, a cornerstone of so much that made me what I am today. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just go on being romantic about it. It’ll always be a castle for me. With a moat and with a tower. Look. What is that black spec floating up there in the bright, blue sky? Is that a dragon? It is, you know. It is a dragon.


She said she needed some time to herself. And that was fine by me. Then she told me she was going away for the weekend, and that was the moment I stopped trusting her. It seemed a reasonable reaction. She would not have trusted me if I had said the same thing. And she would have been right not to. Just lately I had been giving her plenty of cause for suspicion…

A new flash fiction from Rufus Woodward was published this week up at flashfictionmagazine.  Visit here to read the whole piece.

Thanks for reading.

Lighting Up The Night

We had a flash fiction piece published today over at Wolf Publishing.

Lighting up the night

“That is a sky full of promises,” she said.

Up ahead we saw dark clouds, heavy and threatening and creeping slowly in our direction. We were walking through fields ringed by woodland, heading towards an old stone tower that rose high from the hill above us.

“The promise of a ruined afternoon, you mean”. I climbed a style and held out a hand to steady her as she followed.

“Oh, you’re thinking too small. So what if we get wet. Think of how these trees will smell after a bit of rain. Think of the feel of wet grass under your feet. A little bit of rain is just what we need. It’s too warm and close. Think of how clear and bright tonight will feel after the air has been washed clean.”

“And think of how damp my trousers will be. Why do I let you drag me out like this?” Into my arm she gave a little playful punch. I pulled a face back at her.

“Oh, you don’t even mean that. A little water never hurt you. Water is everything. Think about all those dumb old Science Fiction movies you like? Where the aliens come travelling across the universe, fleeing their dead planet, seeking out our plush, green Eden? And what is the thing they’re looking for? It’s water. Everything is about water.”

“It certainly is,” I said. “It certainly is,” and we carried on walking.

Later on, a strange thing happened. Just as the sun dipped down below the horizon and the sky took a turn towards the grey, so it started to rain. First in tiny drops that blew in on the breeze, then in a slow, insistent drizzle.

And it did make the trees smell wonderful.

And it did make the air feel clean and the night brighter somehow.

But more than that, it collided and landed on the power lines that towered beside us as we turned back towards the town. And it made them buzz and fizz, and it made them hum out a low sonorous note not unlike the song of the theremin, the sound of a UFO landing, or an alien invasion.

“Do you hear that?” I asked her, and took her in my arms.

“I do indeed. What do you think we should do?”

“I think it’s about time you took me to your leader,” I said.

After that I don’t know if she said anything at all. I was too busy kissing her.