[CW] Hey buddy, nice loafers. Listen. Do you know our neighbor, John?
Seeking Our Neighbor John at Lake Ridge Apartments – originally published in Maudlin House (CW)
Your Number Is 78 – The Estimated Waiting Time Is 220 Minutes — longlisted in the Autumn 2022 Reflex flash fiction competition
Seventy-Eight cracks her thumbs. Status. The word tastes like a fishbone pierced in the throat.
When Walking Away Becomes Walking Toward – originally published by NFFD’s FlashFlood 2022
Walk. Walk through the door, through the cracks cutting open the asphalt like wounds, through the dogs, leashed in chaotic barking, already smelling something savage on you.
The Mayor’s Bride – originally published in Ellipsis Zine
They call her The Eighth, The Pure, The Hope, The Youngest. Anything, but her name.
How A World-Famous Pianist Arrives At His Venue Where He Plays Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No 2 In A Slightly Out-Of-Tune C Minor – Published in Janus Literary, shortlisted by Fractured Lit
Papa says people can recognise him even under the shade of his black bowler hat. He points a bony finger up to the rim, then readjusts the long box under his arm.
The Great White Shark Spends a Fortune at the Dentist – Published in New Flash Fiction Review
When I was six, I had a sister. She liked to call herself Red because she despised pink. She said pink tasted like cat piss. I didn’t know how cat piss tasted, so I believed her.
In-Between – Originally published by Moonflake Press
The smell of other people's history. Not her history.
Looped in a Zorb – originally published by Sledgehammer Lit
The bloated ball stops at the bottom. We clamper out. Bruised.
Juliet Is Drinking Her Morning Tea When She Notices A Crack – originally published by Ellipsis Zine
1 sip Hot blend of black and a spot of white. A stroke to the tongue, a hump to the throat, a pause to time. Perfect. A crack zigzags ceiling-to-floor. An insulting cut to the book-page-white wall.
One of These Days – Originally published on Reflex Fiction’s Summer 2021 flash competition
I can go the highest on this swing, the one behind the silver birch, out of sight.
Noémi Writes 