Chippies Are Always Shut On Sundays

Earlier this month, I was delighted to be invited to the launch of the Federation of Writers Scotland’s latest anthology of works: High Tide. This was because my flash fiction piece about a disgruntled teenager was chosen, amongst many other authors, for this publication. The book is a lovely collection of short stories, poetry and flash fiction from authors across Scotland.

After support from a friend on the day and a glass of wine, it wasn’t so bad reading my work out; and the audience laughed in the right place.

Thanks go to Gordon Lawrie and Lockerbie Writers too: you’ve given me the confidence to carry on writing flash fiction.

So here it is …

Chippies Are Always Shut On Sundays

We moved into the first floor flat on a Tuesday. It wasn’t the best or the worst day to move. Mum normally moved on Sundays, but the chippy was always shut then, so we took to moving on Tuesdays.

Uncle Dan, my mum’s latest boyfriend, had taken the day off work to help us. But he paid more attention to Mum than moving stuff.

  He shouted at me, ‘Pull your finger out!’ when I sat down for a rest. And so, when he wasn’t looking, I took his coat, climbed the stairs, and stuffed it down the rubbish chute.

  It was last spotted being worn by an old homeless guy, shuffling his trolley down the street.

Photo by Gilly on Unsplash