Archive for the ‘330 Words’ Category

Blood Moon_Caerphilly

It was under a blood moon. The wind had picked up along the shore, and whistled through the village. I was upstairs, looking down on the cobbles with my spying glass. Then I saw that man – the one with a long white beard. His coat trailed upon the ground as he slumped along, dragging a sack behind him. And the sack seemed alive. He snarled.

‘Quiet, damn ye!’

He booted the sack. Then he continued a little further, and stopped just beneath a lantern light. He raised up his arms and murmured some witchery. In his hand I saw a steely knife blade. He sliced his thumb, and let it drip. Then he circled the wriggling sack.

‘May ye cause this town te’ perish,’ he cried. ‘Be among all, in all. Cease not, ’til yer Master’s work is done.’

He cut the sack wide open, and from within, came many crawlers, jumpers, wrigglers. And eagerly, they scattered – not stopping, even once. The man, his arms now folded, nodded, waited till the last was free. ‘Be blessed my brethren,’ he said. ‘Be most blessed in thy endeavours.’ Then he gathered up the sack and turned, skulked away into the night.


‘Granddad!’ I called, nearly tripping down the stairwell – ‘Did ye’ see him? Did ye’ see him? That man in the long coat?’

Granddad gazed up from his armchair, took a puff of his pipe, pulled up his evening blanket.

‘I did not,’ said he, ‘but did he have a great white beard?’

‘Aye, he did so, and a great large sack as well. Filled with wrigglers, it was.’

‘Hmmm… then we’ve grave times yet to follow, boy.’

I snuggled up close to Granddad.

‘What shall we do?’ I asked.

Granddad paused, then replied.

‘Just pray earnestly every night, and ye’ll be fine.’

‘That’s all?’

He nodded, and took another puff of his pipe. We stared into the open fire, as the flames mocked and leapt around, and the wood crackled.

Words: 329

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They waited in the queue at lunchtime, smiling all over their faces.

“Oh God, I can’t believe we’re actually going to do this,” Paul said.

It was Anne’s idea. When the wheel arrived in Piccadilly Gardens, it struck her as the ideal place. Right in front of their office, in plain sight of the co-workers who had somehow failed to notice the two of them falling in love that spring. Quickly, spectacularly, right in front of everyone.

But they were both good people; neither had the stomach for an affair. An outrageous flirt Paul was, but steady. A family man. She wouldn’t love him if he wasn’t. And she lived with Simon, who she also loved. Next week Paul’s department was moving to the Quays office. A kiss was their parting gift.

A kiss is a light thing, they were thinking. It can be slipped into a pocket and carried to the grave. A kiss on a fairground ride is even lighter. As they stepped into the capsule, it sidled beneath their weight and he took her arm. Then they were shut in and swung up above eye level.

They looked at each other. The wheel began to turn.

“Now,” she said softly. “Where were we?”

He smiled, and folded her in his arms and they were kissing, rising up over the office block and Primark. They were kissing over Urbis and Victoria Station. They were kissing over Central Library and Beetham Tower. Kissing and kissing.

The wheel turned. Inside all the kissing, Anne realised what she’d let herself in for. Soon, this kissing would end. It did not seem such a light thing, now.

Just past the top on their final rotation, the wheel jerked, stopped. They heard a voice on the tannoy. Technical difficulties. Please be patient.

They laughed, and carried on. They would be there for almost an hour, and by the end of it the weight of those kisses would bear them back to the ground.

Photo: Ellie via Flickr

Words: 330

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Emily rubbed her belly gently, smiling as she thought of the child growing in her. Somewhere in the night a bell tolled twice. Comfortable in her silken sheets she slept again.

In his lonely mansion on the edge of the moor Sir Edward lay sleepless thinking of his wife. He heard a small bell toll in the distance.

Emily roused once more from fitful slumber. Her mouth was dry and her head full of feathers. She raised a hand to reach for the carafe of water by her bed and heard the bell again. Her hand felt heavy. Exhausted she dropped it back to her side.

‘It is as though I have taken a sleeping draught,’ she thought drowsily, ‘ but I do not remember doing so.’ She slept again.

Edward heard the bell and leapt out of bed. His heart raced, his palms were wet. He threw back the curtains and stared into the night. The church spire rose above the village, a blacker blade piercing the black of the moonless night, touching the stars. Was she now amongst them?

‘I am maddened by grief,’ he thought. Sighing heavily he lay back on his bed.

The doctor had given him a sleeping draught, but he could not allow himself such comfort when his beloved lay cold in her grave. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her, his Emily. The child inside her making a roundness to her loved form. Her face peaceful, but no longer that of his mischievous, teasing darling.

Finally he succumbed. This pain was unbearable. He must have respite for a few hours. Whilst he waited for the opiate to take effect he tried to comfort himself with the excellence of her oaken coffin, fully sealed against the depredation of worms and the corrupting air.

The next time the bell tolled he could no longer hear it.

Words: 314



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330Words celebrated its fourth birthday last month.

Like all my good ideas, I had the brainwave for 330Words while doing the washing up. The site was conceived as a place for writers, new and old. A home for enthusiasts to test out the medium and a space for experienced authors to hone their skills and techniques.

Over the past four years, I’m adamant that 330Words has been home to some of the best short stories the internet has to offer.

Short stories aren’t easy to write. They’re lean beasts – they have to be – and flabby phrases need to be exercised, obsolete words cast aside. The mastery of short stories isn’t in the initial composition, but rather the hours spent rewording, sculpting and trimming. Every sentence needs to drive the story on.

It’s incredibly difficult to get a well-rounded tale across in 500 words. Let alone 330.

So, over the past four years, it’s been an utter delight to host your short, short stories on the site. I’ve enjoyed every single one of them; each tale had a unique way of approaching the constraints of the word limit. Some were hilarious. Some gave me nightmares. Some made me cry. I’ve read so many great stories from so many brilliant writers.

Every story made me want to write. And every story made me a better writer.

330Words has introduced me to nights like Bad Language, where I began to read out my work for the first time. It led to countless meetings with great writers, such as Fat Roland, Dave Harley, Benjamin Judge and Clare Conlon; together we created #Flashtag. Ideas and techniques from these stories have fuelled creative projects elsewhere, from the stage to my career.

But, the time has come. All good things must end and I’m moving on to concentrate on a couple of big projects that would leave me with no time to look after the site. And that would be a colossal shame.

So, without further delay, I’d like to formally welcome Trisha Starbrook as the new curator of 330Words.

One of the leading writers in the Manchester literary scene, Trisha was the winner of the #Flashtag ‘Short, Short Story Slam’ at Didsbury Arts Festival back in 2013. Since then, she has performed at First Draft, Ruined (for Manchester History Festival), Tales of Whatever and Bad Language.

She’ll do an amazing job here at 330Words and I wish her the best of luck. I’ll still be penning the occasional story for the site and I’ll still be involved in #Flashtag. I’ll still be reading on the stage and I’ll still be doing interesting things with words.

But that’s another story and I’m already over the word limit.

Words: 441

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Most days, it felt as though the office was brimming with wasps. Constant distraction and nerves shot to pieces. You could almost feel the grey hairs diving through your scalp.

Today was different.
Today was still.

A gentle whisper of distant traffic, interrupted occasionally by the grumble of a lorry or two. It was difficult not to work at the hurtling speed I was accustomed to. I felt like I was cheating time. I dallied over tasks and leant back in my chair. Normally I only lean back in my chair to animate my frustration, at the stupidity of those that plague my day.

For now, I couldn’t care less.

Despite my clandestine ignorance toward anything but her, I was pained by something. This wasn’t the hot poker kind of pain, from work. This was a slow knife, dragged purposefully, to reveal my caged confusion.

As the day nudged along, I was no nearer to solving the mystery of my crippled mind. Paracetamol, Ibuprofen, caffeine, water. I tried them all. Despite my efforts, I could not dampen the unease

I was supposed to be meeting her tonight. Not that I’d ever dream of cancelling but I didn’t want her thinking I was any different to our previous meetings.

We’d both acknowledged, via text, what a great time we’d had. Both saying how we couldn’t wait to meet again. If I went as though I’d forgotten to brush my teeth – hardly speaking. She might think I was losing interest.

I made my way into her flat and she told me to make myself at home, motioning toward the living room. A few minutes later, she glided in with two drinks, brimming like last time, and sat closer than before.

My nerves were less but the panic, swirling from my day, became paramount.
It was then that it clicked.

Last night, before we went to bed, she said “You go through, I’ll rewind this.”
My God, she still has videos.


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Church Pulpit_Alter

Ah, good – there’s no-one here. Right first thing’s first – the prayer requests book – oh, it’s missing. I wonder if Alan has it. Where is he? Perhaps in the office, getting the notices photocopied. Hmm… better make a mental note to check with him then.

Anyway – let’s see who’s preaching today? Ahh – Bill Palmer of City Road Baptist – a good egg – a little traditional, but always a decent sermon.

Okay – better switch on the lectern light for Mr Palmer – yup – working fine. Bible?
Hmm, now where’s the Bible? Oh hello, here’s Alan.

Hi Al – how’re things? Done the notices then? Great. You seen the pulpit Bible? Hmm?

The prayer book – thanks – was looking for that too. What’s that? Oh yeah – no problem – I’ll carry on here.

Right – better sort the numbers for the hymn board first – let’s see – 56, 273, 95 and 22.

Ah – here come the first arrivals. I might have known – Miss Dunwoody, and Miss Fox – always check in at ten-fifteen on the dot. I’d expect nothing less from ex-teachers.

Hello, good morning – yes, Miss Fox – indeed, it is a fine morning –

Well, it would be if I could find the Bible. Please God – time’s pressing on – I’m praying earnestly – help me find the Bible.

Sorry Al? The microphone. Haven’t tested it yet. Will do – no problem. Okay, mic on – ‘testing testing – one, two, three’.

Well that seems fine. Now, let’s see about the Bible. It must be here somewhere. Wait – perhaps in the vestry cupboard – okay – back we go – is the key in the drawer? No.

Hmmm… oh, I see – under the charity envelopes. Aha! So, over to the cupboard – and – hurrah! The Bible. Thank you.

Back to the pulpit.

I see the church is filling up. And Bill Palmer’s just arrived.

Good – all sorted. Just the Bible reading to find – Psalm 27, verse 14 – hang on – that’s a famous one – ‘Wait on the Lord…’.

Hmmm… have you been trying to tell me something again, God?

Words: 328

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January 31 sees the debut performance of H@ndles, the first play written by 330Words creator Tom Mason. The piece, which is part of the Re:Play 2014 Theatre Festival, explores the ways social media affects human behaviour, demonstrating how Twitter and Facebook impacts on our sense of self-worth and identity.

To celebrate the performance, 330words will be publishing a series of tales from its favourite short story authors. Over the course of the next few days, the site will feature specially commissioned pieces from writers exploring some of the play’s themes. Featuring:

  • Fat Roland
  • Dan Carpenter
  • Dave Hartley
  • Benjamin Judge
  • Joe Daley
  • Kate Ashley
  • Nija Dalal

Words: 106

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Time of day was irrelevant. The allure, clearly too much. He couldn’t keep his hands off. Grubby, unwashed, nicotine stained fingers. The thought of them knocked me sick. And I was sure he didn’t wash his hands after the urinary act, or worse.
He was practically an addict, in more ways than one.

A magpie, diving for the shiny foil.
You could sense the impending lunge. A quick look around him, followed by an abrupt, purposeful throat clearing. Almost like his throat was collapsing under the constant strain of drags and tar.
Once he started, there was no stopping him. Grab after grab, more than is humanly possible. It was obscene. All you could do was sit, watch and listen.
I tried to blindside it at first and as weeks went by, I started to leave the room. On occasion, I actually ran out of the office, once I had casually walked by his desk.
The others thought I was overreacting. I wasn’t.
I wasn’t sure how they were dealing with it.
Offices can be a terrible place.

At first it started out as twice each day and that was too much. It soon became three and also obvious that I was avoiding the issue.
The others started to notice. Initially, they smiled and shook their heads as I left the room. Over time, they began to realise I had a point.
Some would join me I the kitchen to let the episode pass. Those that could stand to witness it, over and over, either laughed at me or had no idea what was going on.

I hated him.
Just for that, at first.
After a while, irrationally, I hated him for everything. Everything he did. Everything he was. Everything I imagined he did.
I pictured him alone, at home, sat in his underwear, covered in the filth of his obsession.
His pleasure became my disease.
He consumed my world.
How could anyone eat so many packets of crisps?

Words: 329

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beethoven klinger

‘Ludo,! You made a mess in your nappy again. Never mind, Mummy will clean you up. Soon you’ll use the toilet like a big boy. When Wolfy was your age, he already used the toilet. You’ll practice until you can do it like him, then Father will be happy.’

Ludo made a Churchillian expression.

‘daa daa’

His mother grimaced as she inhaled the fetid stench of his yellow mess. Hopefully this child will live, she thought.

‘One day, Ludo, you will create something perfect.’ She promised. ‘You will be the greatest.’

Ludo knew Father would shout. He toddled into his own world and looked at the trees while his mother drank. There were other children but he didn’t join them. They made funny noises. He knew he was not like them.


The old man’s eyes are locked on eternity as he settles his fat naked buttocks onto the porcelain throne and readies himself. Then it comes; not in parts, but whole and perfect as though cast as a single piece. He doesn’t hear the splosh – he is profoundly deaf, but he knows that he has, at last, completed his masterwork. There is no-one to share the moment. He thinks of his mother, his immortal beloved.

His work is so perfect that he discards the paper in his hand as he has discarded all earthly things.

Not even a glory wipe is called for. His output is so perfect that nothing could be added or taken away.

‘Not even you, Wolfgang, could have created this,’ he bellows. ‘I have made something unlike anything before. Centuries from now they will talk of my creation. I have produced the perfect expression of humanity.’

He rises to his feet and lifts his arms wide as though conducting an orchestra.

‘Oh Joy! Oh Joy! This kiss to the entire world! Can you sense the creator?’

“da da da da, da da da da , da da da da daaa dadaa”

Words: 326

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ESCA’s Geoponic Intelligence Low Earth Satellite (GILES) lifted off from the former RAF Bentwaters site aboard the Ransomes X rocket on December 8, 2013 at 3 o’clock, give or take. Separation took place at roughly quarter past, the twin Villiers mower engines splashing down safely in the Deben. Before the hour was up, telemetry from GILES was received by volunteers at the Bawdsey Radar museum.

“We’re over the moon to have finally met the December launch target set by my father,” said Ted Leadbetter, GILES mission controller at ESCA’s Propulsion Labs in Oulton Broad. “Dad’s initial aim, some 40 years ago, had been to rendezvous with Apollo 17. That groundbreaking plan, like so many others, was thwarted by the Local Government Act of 1972 and the enforced unification with West Suffolk.”

Tens of spectators watched as Gemma Sadler, 9-year-old winner of our county-wide colouring competition, repeatedly yanked the Ransomes pull cord to ignite the rocket. Her classmates – and, indeed, all East Suffolk schoolchildren – have been asked to watch the skies over the next few weeks for a hi-tech parachute. Said package will, as per the original ’70s ESCA design, contain an Agfamatic 126 full colour camera. Up to 24 images will be available on our website as soon as the film has been processed. Branches of Boots The Chemist from Beccles to Bungay have been put on alert.

By Thursday, GILES will cruise at an altitude of 258 miles and provide a comprehensive agricultural survey of our glorious non-metropolitan county. ESCA’s crack team of COBOL coders promises that the satellite will fly in from the North Sea and directly over East Suffolk several times a day. Then, as GILES approaches the border with West Suffolk, it has been programmed to rotate all sensory devices by 180 degrees. The team also guarantees that GILES will not come within 25 miles of Norfolk airspace.

Mr Leadbetter added: “Not for the first time in the space race is the East leading the West.”

Words: 330

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