DEREK vs. DEREK / April 28, 2016 by fred forse

A pair of soft, curious blue eyes peeked over the parapet, framed by luscious eyelashes. Derek, a ten year old boy, strained to see over the high wall that separated the two changing rooms but didn’t quite reach the ceiling. He had balanced a chair precariously on a wooden bench that ran along the dividing wall so he could see who was making all the heavy breathing noises. Now he stared with wonder at his competitor, transfixed, in awe, admiring his form. It was a strange form to admire.

BBQ / March 31, 2016 by fred forse

EXT. BACK GARDEN, FARMHOUSE - DAY

Two beef burgers sizzle on a barbecue.
The HUSBAND looks morose, as if the act of barbecuing is distressing.
He sits at the table and eats his burger. A tear rolls down his cheek.

MERRICK THE BUILDER / February 10, 2016 by fred forse

Almost no one paid any attention to Merrick. He was young and disconcerting to look at; a pigeon’s chest tented his hemp tunic and his beard was a rash made of hair. But like everyone else, Merrick moved with purpose and intent. This was his disguise. Almost no one noticed that his purpose and intent were entirely opposite to theirs – that he worked secretly to undo all that was being done.

BLACK STAR / February 3, 2016 by fred forse

It was not far from the coast, the place he was being shown. The sea was invisible but audible, hidden by dips and elevations in the land around the property. It was disconcerting; the house sounded like it was permanently engulfed in a low-level storm.

Zahara / January 20, 2016 by fred forse

Zahara knew she was the sun. The whole world could gather round and bathe in her light or it could fuck off and blow its brains out with a solar-powered gun.

SNAKE GHOST / January 9, 2016 by fred forse

Jin-Ting was eight years old. She threw up whole spaghetti hoops complete with tomato sauce in the classroom during quiet time and from then on everyone said she was a ghost.

SPECTATOR / November 22, 2015 by fred forse

The Italian man in courtside seats at the ATP Barclays World Tour was facing away from the tennis.

FIFTH FLOOR / November 11, 2015 by fred forse

Eric worried at the brim of the hat. He rubbed the felt hard between his fingers – anxiously – all the way around the edges. The brim had long since warped and in some places become wafer-thin. It didn’t matter. Eric had never worn the hat.

WHEN THE DUCKS CAME / July 25, 2013 by fred forse

Dear Ms. (Miss?) Truefitt,

Mr Anderson advised me that it would not be possible to appeal my sentence via post and I have chosen to ignore that advice. Don’t worry – this is not an Angry Letter From A Maniac! It is the most direct and truthful representation of my thoughts and feelings leading up to the event, and I hope you will see fit to recommend my release.

JANE / May 30, 2013 by fred forse

Jane’s hair was severe – an angry hat – and her eyebrows lunged at you like Stanley knives. This was by design. Jane would prefer you feel uncomfortable, and would make no effort to alter her expression from its natural sulk as she stared into your harried first-world problems, urging you to hurry up and select a sausage.