My flash fiction We’ll Always Have Paris was part of this year’s Bristol Flash Walk. It was read by actor Poppy Hocken on National Flash Fiction Day a few weeks ago.
Thanks to Judy Darley for organising the event.
You can read my story below:
We’ll Always Have Paris
The world outside throws a gloss of lemon early morning light into the room, and nudges her gently from her slumber. This bedroom, his bedroom, has high sash windows and there’s a half full bottle of cabernet sauvignon on the table. Like the wine, his kisses last night were delicious, and very French. The sun inches its way up into the sky through the open window, she’s curled up against the warm of his back and in her woozy half dream she lazily paints a wild Parisian romance, cars gliding past the window, engines purring softly, neat cobbled side streets so easily, magically, navigated in heels, air sweetened by an accordion, cafes, Gauloises cigarettes and tiny cups of strong black coffee carrying a single mouthful, no more.
She blinks herself awake. In the bathroom she finds a tube of Colgate, squeezes it onto her finger and rubs her teeth minty, and puts a fresh layer of lipstick over the one that got snogged clean. She combs her hair with her fingers, fluffs her fringe just right, and gets out of this place. Her shoes clatter onto a pavement dotted with flattened splats of chewing gum, urban glitter. In the street the sun is so bright it hurts her eyes and everything’s loud and big. A postman in a jacket of a far-too-cheery-red hisses a tuneless song through his teeth. He holds a raft of junk mail and brown envelopes from the government in his hand. He scans her thigh high hem and skyscraper stilettos. His mouth puckers into a smirk.
She slaps him down with a tight look, and lifts up her chin. The postman’s not saying walk of shame out loud, but thinking it. There’s no shame in her walk. She holds her gold clutch bag high, the new morning turning the sequins into diamonds. They sparkle and shine for her. She tosses her head like a queen, ‘cos that’s exactly what she is, right? A bus across the way honks in tribute and rattles in applause. She says thank you silently, to herself, for choosing a top showing her décolletage at its finest advantage. Curving her lips into a smile, she brushes flecks of invisible dust from her skirt and, swaying her hips, sashays home with a strut.
(c) Cath Bore 2018
My flash Body Beautiful was also part of the NFFD 2018 celebrations, published in the Flash Flood Journal here.