In the Media: 29th March 2015


So pleased my flash fiction “Opposites Detract”, published this week on The Fem, is included in The Writes Of Women’s In The Media weekly round up.

Originally posted on The Writes of Woman:

In the media is a weekly round-up of features written by, about or containing female writers that have appeared during the previous week and I think are insightful, interesting and/or thought provoking. Linking to them is not necessarily a sign that I agree with everything that’s said but it’s definitely an indication that they’ve made me think. Also, just a note to make it clear that I’m using the term ‘media’ to include social media, so links to blog posts as well as traditional media are likely.

News this week from ABC that a Tasmanian writer, Marjorie Davey, has published her first novel at the age of 95. She might be the oldest but she’s not the only woman to be published later in life; Abby Ellin’s article, ‘Finding Success, Well Past the Age of Wunderkind‘ in the New York Times includes Lucille Gang Shulklapper, first published…

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Slim Volume book launch

My flash fiction Good Times is included in the new book Slim Volume : No Love Lost (Pankhearst). The launch/celebration of No Love Lost took place in Sheffield – known as Jarvis Cockerland in our house – last Thursday and it saw my first visit to the city.

aka by some as Richard Hawley-land.
I found this chap in the corner of the cafe, on his bill.

No Love Lost contributors gathered in Harland Café in Sheffield to read and enjoy flash and poetry. A great night, with lots of laughs. You can buy the book here, should you wish to.

Slim Volume : No Love Lost editor Kate Garrett and myself, grinning happily at the launch last week.
Slim Volume : No Love Lost editor Kate Garrett and myself, grinning giddily at the launch last week.

I was made at home by such warm and friendly people, but the Sheffield Interchange in January on the other hand is the coldest place on earth, I am convinced. I waited for my coach home the next morning and my word, what a chill blasts through that place. Thermals next time, I think.

I also have a new flash fiction published in The Fem this week, which you can read here.


The Short Goodbye | Cath Bore


I have a new flash fiction out today, published in The Fem.

Originally posted on THE FEM :

I want to say goodbye properly and in my own way but the chance is stolen from me, his eyes dimming to opaque glass the millisecond mine choose to blink. I feel cheated as my eyelids open back up while his lips slack apart in a final sour gasp. His bowels void silently, the stench an unexpected punch. I sit on the floor, the cold kitchen tiles chilling the back of my legs and watch the clock’s metal hand jerking from second to second until five full minutes go by. No calling the police, no pulling in the paramedics. Either will be useless; there is nothing they can do for him now.

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When The Dogs Don’t Bark

“Burn him.”

“Kill him.”

“Kill him then bring him back to life and kill him again!”

Dave pleads he’s been set up. Anyone can take a picture of an innocent man then put it on Facebook and claim that person cut a dog. It’s cyberbullying and harassment, some people have killed themselves over less, just think about that. Consciences duly pricked, people un-click and un-share and some even apologise but Dave calls his social experiment a triumph anyway, because he still gets one hundred thousand people to share his picture. Even after chucking in such obvious blindsiding variables, if you press the right buttons people still turn into keyboard warriors, he laughs.

But that night the dogs up his street stay silent and bark out no warning as other variables come for Dave, all wet teeth and grimacing mouths. The soles of his shoes whine against the footpath like a kicked hound. A camera flashes the pavement bright and white, swollen flecks of dust floodlit and prancing, before it switches back to the black.

(c) Cath Bore January 2015


Baby Love

I wrote a flash fiction GOOD TIMES last year about a woman in her forties who has a relationship with Daniel a seventeen year old boy, an exploration of what things shock and disgust people. Everyone is eager to be appalled these days,  kicking off over any slight, real or imagined, intended barbs or careless words falling from loose lips. Sure enough when I told people about my story, much of the response was an automatic screwing up of the mouth into the “cat’s bottom” look accompanied by a shake of the head, like I was a sorry pervert.

I was going to modify the story, make my protagonist younger to soothe things, make the age gap narrower but I was stopped my inner editor. Sod it, I thought. My protagonist is staying forty four. What a massive contradiction or hypocrisy it is, for people might be repelled; the  objectification of young men is now an acceptable past time.

A well known swimmer was the cover star of a newspaper supplement at age 15, wearing swimming trunks and smiling boldly into the camera. This fifteen year old, this boy, garnered “wearing nothing but skimpies and a smile” responses. He was two years younger than my fictional Daniel.

The actor who plays Bruce Wayne on the new Gotham series (an imagined account of Batman’s younger days, it’s very good – I recommend it) has been the recipient of cat calls from adults on social media. The actor is thirteen. Daniel would think him a kid, and he’d be right too.

I found this article on the increased objectification of boys and young men here. I also found these 1970s albums in a charity shop at the weekend. Objectification of girls/boys/men/women; what larks, eh?

"Oh well, at least the model got paid for it"
“Oh well, at least the model got paid for it”


"I can't see any harm, it's only a bit of fun"
“I can’t see any harm, it’s only a bit of fun”

GOOD TIMES features in a new book Slim Volume: No Love Lost (Pankhearst, Jan 2015).  More details of published work here.



Don’t mention the Quorn


I’m with two women I don’t know too well.  We go for a  pub lunch. It’s not a pub of gastric delights or hipster gentrification, instead the sort where nothing on the menu costs over a tenner. One of my companions asks what I’m having. I pick up the wipe-clean menu.

I’ll see what veggie stuff they’ve got, let’s have a look see…


I don’t eat meat.

What! You don’t eat meat!

No, I don’t eat meat.

I can’t BELIEVE you don’t eat meat! Who doesn’t eat meat?


I hope you’re not one of those who goes on and on about it when someone eats meat in front of you…

Oh no, I’m live and let live, me.

Because if you are, you’ll HATE me!

You’re grand.

Because I love meat, me.

Do you.

Yeah, I do. Lovely, dead animal (rubs belly)


There’s nothing I like more than a day out in an abattoir!


It goes on like a Monty Python sketch, I’m waiting for a goose-stepping John Cleese to appear and Michael Palin to tell me I’m lucky to live in a hole in the road (or something) but there’s no one to rescue me. My jaw hurts with all the grinning and bearing and I’m tempted to escape through the toilet window just to get away.

An hour later it’s over, they’ve run out of steam or so it seems but I don’t trust anything anymore, it’s all too weird. I make a run for it.  As the quiet air outside soothes my nerves I start to think maybe the 21st century isn’t quite ready for me and my controversial lifestyle as yet. It will be soon, though. Soon.


I have a flash fiction GOOD TIMES in a new book Slim Volume: No Love Lost (Pankhearst, Jan 2015).  More details of published work here.