Welcome to Never Worn

| 27 April 2023

This is my micro and flash fiction site. A place for me to write, to put down random story ideas as they come to me. The intention is they will be fully formed true micro/flash fiction pieces with a start, middle and end.

Never Worn?

From arguably the most famous piece of micro fiction ever written, claimed to be by Ernest Hemingway when he was challenged by his fellow authors to write a story in 6 words. He apparently won $10 for it!

“For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”

What is micro or flash fiction?

Flash fiction, also known as sudden fiction or short-short stories, has gained popularity in recent years. Flash fiction is typically slightly longer than micro fiction, ranging from 100 to 1,000 words. There are no real rules, some online competitions, for example, can allow up to 2000 words or sometimes more. However, like micro fiction, true flash fiction is characterised by its brevity and requires the writer to make every word count!

Micro fiction, also known as micro-stories or micro literature are stories that can be told in very few words, typically under 100 words. Micro fiction relies on the writer’s ability to convey a story, message, or emotion in a very limited amount of space. Something I find very challenging!

Vintage tech?

Yes, I know, but that’s the fun part (other than the writing of course). I tend to write micro/flash fiction on vintage portable PCs. They are perfect for this, and my current tool of choice is an Amstrad NC100 – it has long battery life and an easy way to send files to and from modern computers. I also love using the AlphaSmart Dana, and if it weren’t for the terrible battery consumption that model would be my go-to tool. However, I have recently hacked it to accept normal rechargeable batteries and work off a USB powerbank, so once I test that in the field, so to speak, it may become my favourite again.

If anybody finds this site and reads the stories, I am always very happy to receive feedback.

If

| 9 June 2023

“If you do it first, I’ll do it.”

I wasn’t going to jump. I had no desire to risk physical pain or fragile dignity, but I really wanted to see him jump.

He almost certainly wouldn’t make it. And then what? Guilt? Adrenaline? Would I feel alive or would I continue to sink?

I was so far down I couldn’t jump if I wanted to, sticky emotionless quicksand. Self obsession and self loathing. Thoughts, as always, turned to my past. And then.

He jumped.

Pisswell & Lucky – An Introduction

| 4 June 2023

“Out the water!

Wind me up no more.

Off home with you, thrall, pathetic thing!

Hey wretch, I’ll send a singeing spear.

That’ll wet your whiskers with blood.”

“You are kidding me?”

“No, seriously, word for word. He always spoke like that, all poetic and fancy. I’m lucky old Hjorleif was such a terrible shot.”

“Well, you did piss in their water. So, what did you say back?”

“Oh, something about his woman. You know Hjorleif, best way to wind him up. I said ‘She doesn’t know what will end her happy days’ or something along those lines. Didn’t like that. Threw another spear. Almost hit me in the eye!”

“You’re joking?”

“No, an inch to the right and I’d have been blinded. The irony is I was so shocked I pissed in their water again.”

“That is ironic.”

“Knowing Hjorleif he probably made up a romanticised saga about it. They only had to hit their head on a low hanging branch and its out with the sharp stones, runes all over the place. Anyway, back to the game.”

And with this the small creature shifted and sighed with the weight, and the wait, of a thousand years playing on its bones, studying the chequered board before it with the concentration and studious patience of a grand master.

The candlelight, as always, flickering and casting monstrously large chess piece shadows on the wall of the cave, along with the sound of an unseen stalactite, echoing with each drip-drop, were the only distractions to an otherwise tense and solemn battle of wits.

“You do know you’ve told me that entire story a hundred times before don’t you?” Said the kindly looking, tall and willowy man sat opposite, cross-legged on the hard, cold floor. The chessboard for him held less interest. Mainly, or perhaps wholly, because neither of them had actually made a move yet. The creature he had found himself incarcerated with for just over a millennium didn’t actually know how to play chess. It didn’t really matter. The main thing was companionship and a sense of purpose. The game gave them both focus and facilitated conversation. Only he, and now it seems the creature, a brunnmigi, the last of its kind, were running out of things to say.

“Yes, well, I haven’t got a huge amount of new stories now have I? New adventures, new exciting encounters have been fairly scarce of late wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course, I understand Pisswell.”

He had nicknamed the brunnmigi ‘Pisswell’ around 720 years ago, give or take, on account of his insatiable desire to defile drinking wells.

“I understand. I just think, maybe, perhaps it’s time we thought about moving on.”

“Oh you think?” Replied Pisswell, “A nice round thousand years seems about right to you does it? And just how do you propose we ‘move on’ then? The rune-lock on that door is almost impossible to crack, you’d need to be the luckiest entity alive. Almost the personification of luck itself!”

Pisswell flicked his tail in an exaggerated fashion, an attempted show of indignation that he knew he couldn’t quite pull it off on account of looking like a small, cute fox, but felt he had to try.

“It’s funny you should say that.” Said the Hamingja, with a wry smile on his face.