These flash fiction stories are regularly updated, so check back here from time to time.
You'll find stories like these in two of my books, available as Paperback or a Kindle read from Amazon.
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The Schooling Chair
Elderly woman at laptop

A mistaken identity

Carys, half-blinded by the tears in her eyes as she typed her tweet, clicked a hashtag suggestion from the drop-down list and sent it winging into the ether.

Done it. Finished affair with
#cabinetminister. Turned out to be two faced pig. Had another one on the go, too. Not as upset as his wife will be.

She shut the laptop her niece had given her. She felt better, now. Slightly. And went into the kitchen of her apartment in Cobblestone Court sheltered accommodation, tucked into the hillside overlooking the little Welsh village of Ddôlgeryrafonfachog. She flicked the switch on the kettle, to make a mug of strong tea, then cut a slice of bara brith and buttered it generously. She needed some self-comforting.

Alun had brought a new brightness to her life for the last four weeks. Popping in for a different kind of comforting. Then, two days ago, she saw him popping in to Mrs Jenkins house, across the way. And staying there for over two hours. Not that she was really noticing. Just happened to take a bit longer than usual cleaning the window onto the street.

She’d asked him straight out. He fuffled and faffed at first, then admitted it was only a bit of fun. Just like they were having. But Carys was hoping to keep the fun for herself. Grabbing the broom from the corner she shooed him out the door. Then, she watched him go straight over to knock on Mrs Jenkins door. Carys was wild with fury and disappointment. So now, she had let all her Twitter friends know. She’d thought of naming and shaming him, but most of her friends would recognise the man from the hashtag. His wife would certainly guess.

Early after lunchtime, a knock came on the door. Some scruffy looking young lad with a voice recorder, asking her who it was, who was the minister, she had an affair with?

‘I don’t know any minsters. What rubbish are you talking. I don’t even go to chapel, these days.’

‘It’s in your tweet. This morning. You said you’d finished your …’ Carys cut the lad off before he could finish.

‘It’s no business of yours, anyway.’ She slammed the door shut, sending him stumbling backwards into the corridor, where faces appeared around other doorways.

What garbage is he on about, she thought, but then, glancing through her window, she saw more people arriving, with cameras and microphones, and a film crew from BBC Wales Today.

She opened the laptop and her Twitter feed was full of replies, asking her to name the man; asking how long; some surpportive, some accusative and a whole load of wicked comments from the trolls. Tears were in her eyes again, as she re-read her own tweet. Oh, dear. She should have checked it before she sent it. The hashtag. She quickly sent a new tweet.

APOLOGIES. My mistyping. Affair wasn’t with
#cabinetminister. It was the #cabinetmaker. A local man.
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