✍🏻 When Mark pitched the idea of a no-tech holiday to Eddie, he didn’t hold back. “You’re bloody addicted and I’m seriously worried. You need to unplug, enjoy being outside, try reading a book, or god forbid actually have a conversation with me.” Eddie’s phone buzzed in his back pocket, triggering his fingers to twitch and arm jerk back. Mark glared at him. “Don’t you dare.” Eddie knew then, that for the sake of his relationship he had no choice but to get onboard with this holiday switch-off. Day one was torture. Everywhere Eddie looked someone was taking photos with their phone, scrolling Instagram, or looking up restaurant recommendations. On day five, he woke late and shuffled through their eerily quiet, boutique apart-hotel. Mark was nowhere to be found, so Eddie headed out to buy some breakfast pastries. Down by the river he spotted Mark at the water’s edge. He looked so cute sitting there, his back a little hunched, and head stooped forwards. It was a perfect photo opportunity and Eddie wished he had his phone, but maybe Mark was right, he should focus more on their relationship and less on his screen. As Eddie crept over to surprise him, he stopped abruptly. Something felt wrong. Why was Mark sitting with his head down, rather than admiring the view? Worried, Eddie began sprinting, and as he got closer he saw the phone clutched in Mark’s hands. The betrayal. The hypocrisy. The outrage. “Are you kidding me?!” Mark span around like a frightened squirrel, and in one smooth motion, Eddie lunged forward, grabbed the phone and hurled it into the river. Scrambling to his feet, Mark’s face contorted into Munch’s Scream. He stared at the water and back at Eddie, who was still angrily shouting. “What have you got to say for yourself?” Mark debated his options and realised honesty was all he had left. “That was your phone.” When Mark’s body hit the water, his splash was far, far, louder than the phone’s had been. #Writing #WritersOfInstagram #Storytelling #FlashFiction

✍🏻 The first time death stole from me, he’d been lurking for years, raising my pulse before lulling me into a false sense of security. The second time he struck, he appeared from nowhere, moving swiftly and taking no time to linger. The third time he arrived, he made his presence painfully clear, but still I wasn’t prepared. Foolishly I believed he could be stopped, only because I thought we’d have more time. After his third getaway, he yet again left behind his accomplice - Grief, who threw another dark shadow across the ones previously shed. Stinking, and cumbersome, these three shadows merged into one solid mass, expanding until it became difficult to breathe. Over time, Grief and I settled into an uncomfortable co-existence. Like frenemies in a cheap soap opera we fought, slapped, and screamed, until something began to change. A mutual respect? Maybe. A realisation that hostility wasn’t helping either of us? Definitely. As the shadows retracted, grief began emitting a more perfumed fragrance. Tilting my head to inhale this new scent, a smile emerged and my mind was flooded with memories. Instead of mourning the time we wouldn’t get to spend together, I began to remember the wonderful times we’d had. I know at some point the thief will return again, leaving behind his rancid accomplice. That I cannot change, but I can choose to celebrate those he has taken and appreciate the life I have. Because I know if they were here right now, they’d be enjoying every single second of it. #Writing #Grief #Story #WritersOfInstagram

✍🏻 Halloween night. 1973. My first kiss. I never knew his name. He was dressed as Frankenstein‘s monster and was impressed that I correctly referred to him as the monster rather than Frankenstein. I smiled. People weren’t normally impressed by me, still aren’t. I was dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West because I could hide behind green face paint and an exaggerated fake nose. My friend Brenda had convinced me to go out that night. She said there was a party we could sneak into because nobody would recognise us. She was right. For the first time ever we blended in and slipped inside without being questioned. Frankenstein’s monster was in the kitchen, staring at a severed arm hanging from the fridge and sipping slowly from a can of beer. I can’t remember who spoke first or how the kiss began, I just remember my long wart riddled green nose stabbing his soft face as our lips touched. I pushed it to one side and we continued, the nose springing out from my cheek. I remember the feeling of his hands gently cupping my face and the taste of mint on his tongue. I have no idea how long we were pressed against one another but I can still see us now, the witch and the monster entwined together in a cobwebbed kitchen surrounded by pumpkins and bloodied limbs. It was perfect. Forty-eight years later and it’s Halloween night again. I cover my face in green paint, attach the pointed nose and tilt my black hat, hoping that tonight might be the night I finally receive my second kiss. #Writing #Halloween #FirstKiss #Story #WritersOfInstagram #Storytelling

✍🏻 Andrea draws the floral curtains across her balcony door to shield the computer screen from the sun‘s glare. Now she’ll be able to see the exact moment he replies to her message. As she waits, she stares at the profile photo on her account; long cascading blond hair and blue eyes as bright as the Mediterranean outside her window. It’s her favourite photo so far. Meanwhile, in the back bedroom of an average suburban terraced house on the outskirts of Maidenhead, Steve reads her message again. She wants to spend an entire week with him in Barbados. He shivers, imagining them lying entwined together on a beach, waiting for the sun to set. The last seven months had been building to this moment, allowing him time to siphon off chunks of money into an account his wife knows nothing about. For the last few weeks he’s also been dripfeeding the possibility of a work trip. It‘s all coming together and he deserves it. Back in Andrea’s apartment, she inadvertently holds her breath as the message on the screen tells her that Steve is typing. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure he would actually go through with it. Her computer pings. He’s replied. Time to bring this to a close. She smiles as she types, asking him to transfer the money directly to her account. That way, she explains, there’s no chance of his wife finding out. There’ll be no search history, bookings, or tickets, to trip them up. It’s almost too easy. Within minutes her phone tells her the transfer had been made and she tells him she can’t wait to finally meet him. Turning the computer off, she stands and walks out onto her balcony. Down on the street below her grandson shouts up to catch her attention and she waves, wincing slightly as the arthritis in her arm reminds her that she feels all of her sixty-nine years. Looking again at the bank account app her son installed on her phone (sceptical she would ever use it), she loves seeing the amount swell, courtesy of each cheating idiot enticed by the promise of a young lover. Despite some initial hesitation, her retirement plan is working out very nicely. #Writing #Storytelling #Catfish #Story #Women #WritersOfInstagram