They say that a minute
In a lover’s embrace
Passes like a second
A heartbeat might outpace.
They say that a minute,
With your finger to the flame
Is like days and hours passing
As you’re only feeling pain.
I say now that a minute
Feels like many years combined
When on the phone you hear a voice
Saying you’re next in line.
“We need to talk.”
Those four words could only mean two things, and as Nicolas knew for certain that his girlfriend had gotten her period only a few days earlier, she was definitely about to dump him.
Relief washed through him.
He’d been meaning to break it off with her for almost a week now, but they’d hardly spent any time alone together since he made the decision, and he could certainly not dump her in front of an audience. Now, however, it seemed like he didn’t have to dump her at all.
“Sure,” he said, striving to look appropriately glum. It felt like he was at the funeral of someone he hadn’t particularly cared for.
Continue reading “Getting Dumped”
He’d always assumed that if he ever got superpowers, he’d be a hero.
And he did become one. For years, actually. At least he tried to be, but people didn’t seem to be half as thankful as he thought that they ought.
No matter how many lives he saved, they always complained. He’d allowed one person to die, saving twenty other. Someone had been hurt when he’d carried them out of a burning building. The cost of the damages of his fights against crime was much too high.
Why couldn’t he fight evil without wrecking the town as he did so? He should look at the numbers, should he. Then he would realise how expensive it was to fix a town. Much more expensive than a funeral or two.
No matter what he did, people were always complaining.
And so he decided that there really wasn’t any point in being a hero.
No, he thought as he slowly put on the mask, relishing in the anonymity it gave him. Being a hero is overrated.
This way he didn’t have to worry about people getting angry, or breaking stuff. He could do all the stuff he wanted. He could have fun.
He could enjoy his abilities for the first time since he’d gotten them.
Yes, he thought. Being the villain is going to be so much more fun.
A/N: Just a (hopefully) funny flash fiction 🙂
It was one of those instances where a gasp just wasn’t enough.
Still I gasped.
I suppose I should have screamed, looking back. A gasp seems oddly anticlimactic, but I’d never been the screaming sort anyway. That was more Darren’s kind of thing, but Darren wasn’t there.
And so I gasped, and they gasped, and for a few short seconds we could only stare at each other in silence.
Perhaps it was a good thing that I didn’t scream. When one got visitors, screaming hardly seemed polite, and these visitors had sure come a long way.
“Hello,” I said. Or at least I think I said it. I heard the word, and I rather thought I’d felt my mouth forming them.
“Hello,” one of them said in return, but it didn’t sound like a greeting. It sounded like he – she? It? – was merely repeating what I’d said. Tasting the word.
“I’m Harold,” I told them. “And would you mind terribly to get your spaceship out of my backyard? You’re ruining my petunias.”
A/N: Not quite sure how I feel about this story, so please let me know what you think!
Heart beating wildly, Hannah smiled at the incredible handsome man who’d just walked into the book store. An Adonis thrown into the midst of her normal world of complaining customers and delayed orders.
“May I help you?” she asked.
He shrugged, turning intensely blue eyes towards her. “I’m looking for a book for class,” he told her.
“Then I guess you’ve come to the right place,” Hannah joked.
The man frowned. “It’s for my English class,” he said. “We’re supposed to read a classic or whatever.”
“Of course. Do you have a preferred author?”
“No, it’s supposed to be a classic. Like old, you know?”
Continue reading “A Meeting with Adonis – Oh, and George Too”
A/N: This piece was actually written in collaboration with Emma Bertelsen, and it is an extract from a longer novel. Or at least the extract from an idea of a novel 😉
Daniel awoke with a pounding head and a dry throat. His left arm was asleep, caused by the man currently resting his head on it. Jacob was it?
He was still asleep, thank God, and Daniel tried to remember when they’d gotten back to his apartment.
Slowly pulling his arm back, he held his breath as Jacob only reacted by rolling over in his sleep and mumbling something intelligible. Sitting up, Daniel reached over to the night stand to get the two aspirins lying there. Next to the pills lay a small bag of pixie dust that was easily hidden away in the drawer. As an extra precaution he made sure to lock it. It’d cost him a pretty sum, and Daniel was in no mood to come up with a lie to explain the shimmering powder to his current bed partner.
He should probably go through his apartment before Jacob woke up. Make sure it was completely magic-free. What a bother.
Continue reading “Specialising in the Supernatural”
Sundays were meant for relaxing. Not for having panic attacks.
Clara had used to love Sundays. She would stay in her pyjamas the entire day, watching television and eating chocolate. She loved Sundays. Or at least she’d used to.
Then she’d decided to become a wedding planner, and Sunday had become the day of her nightmares.
Friday and Saturday were quite awful too, but for some reason Sunday had been the day that Clara had the hardest time giving up. Suddenly Sundays weren’t for hot chocolate and long baths, but rather for listening to complaints and working as hard as ever. Tuesday was her most relaxed day of the week, but it just wasn’t the same. She missed her Sundays, and this particular Sunday was particularly stressful.
It was in the middle of a very prestigious wedding party for a very demanding, but very wealthy couple, and Clara couldn’t wait until she no longer needed to hear the bride’s shrill voice yell at her. The entire day had been one little problem after another, and it was first now that Clara felt safe enough to take a deep breath and relax.
Continue reading “Damned Sundays”
A/N: Yet another week, yet another story…
If there was one thing Jonas Svensson had always wanted then it had to be the perfect ham and cheese sandwich. His favourite moment from when he was a child had been when his mother made him one. Playing soccer with his friends, rescuing damsels in distress on his computer, eating candy, had all been less important than that first bite of a really good ham and cheese sandwich. But somehow, no matter how good his mother’s had been, there had never been quite the perfect balance between the bread, the cheese and the ham. It was, in Jonas humble opinion, the most important thing to consider when making a ham and cheese sandwich.
He grew up to be a web developer, because it had seemed like as good a job as any, and lived in an age of twenty-eight in a beautiful apartment, which had been equally beautifully furnished by his two sisters.
It wasn’t like he was obsessed or anything. He liked his job, and had quite a few hobbies. He liked building miniature airplanes and he was still a member of a soccer club. But his favourite hobby was still to experience in order to create the perfect ham and cheese sandwich.
Continue reading “The Perfect Recipe”
As Thomas O’Connell sat with a cup of steaming Earl Grey, and the Sunday Newspaper spread out in front of him; he knew that life had been good to him. Him and his wife Sarah had met when he was but twenty-two and had married a year later. They had been married for just over fifty years, and he still found her as beautiful and kind as when he’d first laid eyes upon her.
They’d gotten three equally beautiful children, who had each gone out and been successful in their own way – Riley as a mother of three, Sam as an environmental lawyer and Tobias as a pilot.
It was just a few years back Thomas quit his job as an architect, which he had loved, and they had enjoyed their golden years ever since.
Yes; life was good when your name was Thomas O’Connell.
Continue reading “Due Tuesday”
In a red-bricked cottage, surrounded by a garden filled with the kind of flowers, which are to certain people commonly known as weed, a young girl was fiddling with a teapot. She was serving the tea with a kind of ease, which came through years of repetition, while simultaneously trying to read the book placed on the kitchen counter.
Still reading, the young girl finished serving her tea, before making a beeline to the most comfortable chair in the adjoined living room, levitating the tea behind her as she walked.
The living room was one of those cosy sort of places, where you immediately felt at home. Soft rugs covered the floors, comfortable chairs were placed wherever deemed suitable and there was a blazing fire in the old-fashioned fireplace, covering almost an entire wall. Boxes of chocolate and piles of books covered every suitable surface, and a smell of newly baked goods came from the kitchen.
Continue reading “May & Joe Joey Joe”