About Melissa Holden, MA

Melissa Holden is a BA and MA graduate in Creative Writing from Canterbury Christ Church University. She has published seven e-books, with more on the way. Melissa also writes as The Unplanned Mom on Wordpress, and is a new mom-of-one. Supporter of #IndieBooksBeSeen All social media - @melissaholden94

Tea | poetry

I could probably write a whole book about tea, and maybe one day I will. It features in every single book I’ve ever written and despite the thousands of cups that have gone cold in my time – the next cuppa is never far from my mind.


Immoral Immortal – PART FOUR (Jessica Rabbit Flash Fiction)

Read Part One here.

Read Part Two here. 

Read Part Three here.

immoral immortal

It didn’t take long for the mysterious woman to make the local newsbytes.

Newsbytes streamed twenty-four hours a day, every day. Every little thing that happened in your section made it on the news. But a strange woman dressed like a Ward in weird clothing grabbed the headlines. Pushing aside the otherwise breaking news that someone had broken into a boarded-up library and stolen several books, Jessica Rabbit was all over the newsbytes.


The newsflash gleamed across Ric and Professor Irving’s lenses and they accepted the update. ‘WOMAN IN RED – READ NOW?’ They both blinked twice and the story was available.


They both blinked twice once more and the story slid away from their vision and the professor’s apartment came back into view.

‘We need to find her.’

‘As always Ric, you stated the obvious.’

‘Alright, old man.’ Ric jeered, a smirk on his face. Despite the professor’s aged features, he was only twelve years older than him. Irving always said that decrepitness was the price to pay for knowledge.

‘What’s your plan, then?’

‘I will be the bait, you be the hook?’

‘You’re going to meet her, is that your grand idea?’

‘Pretty much?’

‘And to whom should I invoice your funeral costs?’

‘You.’ Ric laughed but the professor didn’t seem to be joking. ‘I’ll be fine, Irving. As long as you’ve got my back.’ He glanced up at an old-fashioned clock on Irving’s mantlepiece. ‘I’ve got to go to work – they’re going to sack me if I’m late again.’

‘You are too smart to be working in that factory.’

‘Not according to my aptitude tests.’ Ric walked over to the elevator and pressed the call button. It dinged a pleasant ding and he waited for it to arrive.

‘I wouldn’t trust those if I were you. You aren’t from this area originally – they probably allocated labour work because there was a space, not because you’re unintelligent. You would be much more at home in the education sector.’ Irving had a stern, fatherly look on his face which made Ric feel like a teenager again. Which both hurt and healed him.

‘Teaching a bunch of screen-grabbing kids? No thanks, professor. I’ll be back soon, don’t you worry, old man.’ The lift doors opened and he stepped inside, his back to the professor.

It was only as he turned back to faced Irving that he heard the first shot pierce through the living room window and his Irving in the left shoulder.

A Different Kind of Work | Short Story

Everyone has a day job in one way or another. Some people work in offices or restaurants. Other people work shifts in bars or in shops. Tabitha Thwaites had a day job like everyone else. It just involved taking her clothes off instead of working behind a desk. Although, sometimes it involved working on top of one.

‘You shouldn’t have booked me, Simon – I’m doing a stand-up gig tonight.’ Tabitha pulled the phone away from her ear to check the time. ‘Okay, I’ll fit it in – but it better be a quick one. Remember what happened last time you promised me a fast getaway.’ She picked up the pace as she walked down the high street, her black patent heels clicking faster and faster on the cobblestones.

Tabitha’s phone buzzed against her ear and she pulled it away to check the text. ‘Is that the address? Tell him I’ll meet him on the bench down the street. I’ll be there in ten – do I need any props? Ah, sexy secretary – I can do that, easy. I’ve got a book and a pair of glasses in my bag.’

Tabitha continued walking until she reached the end of the main road and then turned the corner and carried on for a quarter of a mile, entering a modest housing estate. Crossing over the road, she rested her phone between her ear and her shoulder and pulled a book from her bag.

She turned the book over in her hand to check the title in response to the man on the phone. ‘Um, it’s called ‘Please Miss, We’re Boys’.  It’s quite good actually. I’ve got to go – he’s coming.’ She ended the call and dropped the phone into her open handbag. Tabitha sat on the bench, crossed one leg over the other and opened the book to a random page. The client approached a moment later.

‘They’re always nervous’, she thought to herself.  ‘He looks like he needs a drink. Maybe I should suggest one? No – don’t be ridiculous, Tabitha. It’s the middle of the day. Not exactly the best idea I’ve had all day. Me in a bar is a bad idea. Then again, tequila…’ She snapped back into reality when she noticed the man shifting on the spot as if he was desperate for a wee. ‘Yep, nervous.’ She smiled to herself and then at him, her eyes unwillingly glancing at the zip on his trousers, which was slowly bending out of shape.

‘Hi there.’ She smiled, this time looking at his face. He was tanned, deeply, as if he travelled a lot. He was in a tailored blue suit and brown leather shoes. Nothing about him screamed sexually inexperienced. Nothing about him screamed sex god either, though.

‘Ahem, yes. Hello. Are you – the uh? I mean, hi.’ The man nervously stuck his hand out in front of him to shake her hand, but in doing so he knocked the sunglasses out of his jacket pocket.

‘Nice to meet you Scott – I’m Tabitha.’ Tabitha smiled and shook his hand in return. She let her grip weaken so he could pull back, and she slipped her hand into her plum-coloured coat pocket. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Oh, um, yes, follow me.’ He gestured back toward the way he had just come, so they started to work. ‘Uh, how does this well um, work?’ Scott tried to sneak a glance at Tabitha as they strolled, but stumbled over a broken paving slab.

‘No business during business hours, Scott. That’s my motto.’ Scott gave her a puzzled look, so she clarified, ‘Whatever price you worked out with Simon, send it to him on PayPal – he’s a pimp for the 21st century. I don’t deal with the money, Simon says I’m too conspicuous-looking to be trusted not to get caught.’

‘Too conspicuous?’ Scott asked, innocently, but the penny seemed to drop as he asked.

‘Now, where’s home for you, eh? Anywhere near here?’ Tabitha asked, trying to change the subject. She could feel him looking at her, but where most men went straight for the cleavage, Scott seemed to be staring at her auburn hair, longing to touch it. But his hands stayed firmly in his pockets.

‘Uh, it’s a-across the street and around the corner.’

‘No, silly. I meant where are you from.’

‘Oh, still across the street. It’s the house I grew up in.’ He swept a pale hand through a wavy blonde fringe, eyes fixed to the floor.


‘Don’t worry – I’m not a kid or anything! My parents shipped off to Spain a few years ago and let me live there. I bought them out last year.’

‘Look at you, a dashing boy in a sharp suit, owning your own house and everything.’ She teased but was inwardly impressed. Tabitha had worked two, sometimes three jobs at a time since she was sixteen and all she could afford was a boxy flat above the chip shop. It smelled of salt and grease, but at least dinner was always a few steps away. The fishmonger’s twenty-something son was sweet on her, so if she timed it right – dinner was on the house.

‘I should tell you, Scott – I’m on a bit of a time frame today, you see I’ve got another job-’

‘Another client?’ He interrupted, clearly bothered by the premise.

They turned a corner onto a street lined with bare trees, the leaves flooding the floor with oranges, reds and yellows. Tabitha loved the autumn the most, cosy jumpers and hot chocolate and early nights with a good book.

‘Uh, not exactly.’ She usually didn’t talk to clients about her gigs, but she fancied this one, so she broke her rule.  ‘I do stand-up.’

‘Are you funny?’

‘You know, I have no idea. People laugh when I speak – I’m just not sure whether it’s with me or at me.’ She walked through the oak door he held open for her and immediately felt out of her depth. ‘He could afford so much better than me,’ she thought.

‘This is a beautiful house, Scott. Props on the decorating. Oh, I love those stairs.’ She took off her coat. ‘Hand carved?’


‘The bannisters?’ She pointed to the stairs. They were intricately carved designs on oak wood, matching the woodwork in the rest of the house.

‘Oh-oh yes. Took me three weeks. My parents hadn’t decorated this place since the Fifties. I ripped it all out and started again. God, you should have seen the Artex ceilings.’ He looked at Tabitha and then at the top of the stairs, expecting her to head straight for the bedroom. And to his credit, that was usually how she did things.

‘Let’s go to the kitchen first and have a nice cup of coffee before we start?’ She spotted the kitchen through an open door and half-walked half-jogged towards it.   She heard Scott dutifully follow her to the back of the house and felt him watching her again as she found her way around the kitchen. This time, his gaze had finally found her rack.

Tabitha had been up half the night writing material for tonight’s gig and was then kept up for the rest of it by drunk punters in the chip shop below her bedroom. Caffeine was needed before she could him a thorough going over.

She figured out the coffee machine and made herself a mocha, and Scott a black coffee upon pestering him for his preferred poison of choice. But both coffees end up un-drank and cold. Tabitha had turned around to give him his coffee to find him in a grey button-up shirt, and black trousers that were just a little bit too long for him. He’d kicked off his shoes and revealed expensive-but-hilarious Days of the Week socks. She was a sucker for a vulnerable guy. Tabitha often wondered if that was due to her pathological need to fix things, or if there just happened to be a correlation between vulnerability and cuteness.

‘Damn, I was really looking forward to this coffee.’ She joked, fake-pouting and looking mournfully at the glass mug in her hand as she placed it on the side.

‘I’ll make you another one after?’ Scott had seemingly gained some confidence now they were behind closed doors and, two strides later was pressed up against Tabitha, backing her against the counter. A drawer handle jabbed her in the hip, making her jump a bit but she didn’t care. She grabbed him by the collar and planted a kiss on his lips, and another, and another until they were seamless. They stumbled through the halls, crashing into chairs and walls and doors, tripping up the stairs until – still with their eyes mostly closed – they found the bedroom.

Several hours later when the sun had started to set, Tabitha finally got her first cup of coffee of the day. She had put her coat on as a makeshift dressing gown, her dress was somewhere upstairs and she was too lazy to go and find it.

As she sipped at the hot coffee, Tabitha glanced around the kitchen and admired the view. The beautiful wallpaper, the incredibly expensive-looking stove, and a vintage wall clock hung on the wall, the sparkling worktops. Tabitha’s eyes darted back towards the clock and panic-stricken dropped her mug in the nearby sink and went in search for her shoes. She was due on stage in twenty minutes. Tabitha called goodbye to Scott, who had disappeared for a shower, and rushed out of the door.

It was only as she approached the bar where her gig was that she realized she was missing something very important. Clothes. A perfect picture of her dress draped across Scott’s bannister flashed through her mind and she swore loud enough to startle a passer-by. She looked around desperately for somewhere to buy a new outfit, but everything was closed. It was too late to go home, and just as she contemplated calling in sick, she was spotted by Jack. Jack was the barman/events manager for the bar, and he was not quick to forgive a cancelled gig. Tabitha already owed him too many favours for times where she had been late before. She was all out of favours now.

Her chin practically digging into her chest, Tabitha waved her way past Jack and entered the bar through the back entrance, pulling the belt of her coat tighter and tighter and she walked.

‘Y’alright, Tabs? You look a bit pale,’ Jack drawled in a South-American accent, stamping out a cigarette and following her down the side of the bar.

‘Cold.’ She grumbled and tugged the back door open, barely holding it long enough for Jack to come in behind her. Tabitha rushed to the dressing room after muttering an excuse to Jack about needing to get ready. ‘Get ready?’ she thought, ‘I’m half-naked and about to go on stage and tell jokes, how the fuck am I supposed to get ready for that?’

A few minutes later, after a waitress had dropped by with her usual Jack Daniels and coke, and a few hyperventilating breaths, Tabitha heard her call to come on stage. Her feet had to carry her because the rest of Tabitha just wanted to curl up into a ball of embarrassment and die in the corner. Somehow, she made it onto the stage and found the microphone in the blaring bright stage lights. She usually disliked not being able to see the audience, but tonight it seemed like a blessing in disguise. The weak welcoming applause died down, and her cue to start being funny reared its ugly head. Her set vanished from her head, all jokes wiped from her memory – even the knock-knock ones she had learned as a child.

Tabitha took a deep breath and went for it.

‘True story for ya tonight, ladies and gentlemen – and if you don’t laugh me off the stage, I will personally give you all a refund. Won’t I, Jack?’ She gestured to Jack, who was propped up against the bar, polishing a glass. He looked shocked to be caught not working, but he laughed and nodded all the same. Tabitha slid her hands further up the microphone stand and clung to it for dear life.

‘Okay, so I don’t usually admit to this on stage – because you never know who’s in the audience, although I can guarantee my folks aren’t here tonight, thank fuck – but just this once, I’ll hold my hands up and admit it. I’m a sex worker.’ She paused and let it sink in. ‘I must be a pretty shit one if I have to tell jokes to pay the rent, but hey – whoring pays for my phone bill and weekly food shop.’ Tabitha paused as the audience laughed. It was a mostly male laugh by the deep tone. She understood why – women didn’t like hearing about prostitutes, it made them feel used and cheap. It was something she morally toyed with, but she wasn’t lying when she said it paid the bills.

‘So usually, my liaisons with clients are pretty dull – the odd banker with a fetish for lace, some unsuspecting grooms on stag nights – sorry, ladies!’ That got a couple more laughs, so she relaxed a little. ‘But today went a little differently. Wanna hear how?’ She waited as they cheered her on, and then continued her story, taking another deep breath.

‘Today, I met a real cutie. The kind of gent I rarely come across – polite, a homeowner, and quite the newbie to the solicitation game. Ladies, he did not need to pay for it – if you know what I mean. I would have spun his plates for free, let me tell you.’ Another laugh, louder and spattered with groans. One laugh stood out a little more than the others, although she couldn’t figure out why.

‘We had fun, him and me. Didn’t even get to drink my coffee – and it looked a good’un too – a fancy one from a coffee machine in his lush kitchen. A whirlwind romance, guys. I could have happily wandered around that house for hours. See ladies, he’s got cash too! Honestly, a real keeper. But I can’t date all the cute clients – how would I pay my bills, eh?’ Another big laugh. She was building up to the punch line. Tabitha glanced up at the stage timing lights – an invention of Jack’s. There are three green lights at the back of the bar – three lights, fifteen-minute sets. She was already down one light, but Tabitha had no intention of reaching the third one.

‘Anyway, like I was saying, today went a bit wrong, you see. I was so busy with my new lush client – I only went and forgot I was supposed to be coming here! And I just couldn’t bear the thought of all you lovely people sat here un-entertained, now could I?’ Tabitha grinned at them, and let go of the microphone stand as she stepped back a little.

‘Trouble is, I left something at his in the rush to come to see you all.’ She stopped and waited, knowing her crowd, waiting for something specific. Then it happened, a man sat in the front row called out and asked what it was.

‘I only went and left my clothes!’ She pulled open her coat like a flasher and let the laughter wash over her. As her bright red bra and panties were on display to fifty or so people, she went as red as her underwear. And then the laugh that had stuck out before, decided to speak.

‘I thought you might be needing this’, said the voice, cutting through the laughter.

Tabitha looked for the source of the voice, and with the crowd, discovered Scott stood at the back of the room, holding her dress in the air as if he was the guy at the end of The Breakfast Club, punching his hand in the air when he kissed the popular girl.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve got to go and get dressed… and then undressed again’, she winked at the audience and held back a giggle. ‘Goodnight, folks.’ Tabitha gave them a big wave and proudly sauntered down the side-stage steps towards Scott.

‘I guess you’ll be wanting your dress back then?’ Scott smirked.

‘Keep it.’


Thanks for reading! If you would like to see more of Tabitha, please let me know in the comments, or give this a Like! 

Immoral Immortal (Part 3) | FLASH FICTION

Read Part One here.

Read Part Two here. 

Ric stepped into Irving’s apartment and the lift doors slid quietly closed behind him. On the coffee table in front of the professor were piles of paperwork scattered all over the place, and a screen projection hovering a metre above the table with images flickering across it.

As he walked towards the living room, he glanced at the standing bar with a glass of whisky already poured and waiting. Irving had an identical one a hand’s stretch away from him on the table, but he was more concerned about the paperwork than the drink. Ric picked up the glass and swilled the dark liquid in the crystal glass and took a sip. He welcomed its rough heat. Ric took another sip before placing the glass down in a gap on the table and picking up the closest file to him. Each file seemed to be old police reports – all the pages had faded and yellowed with time. He could taste the dust in the air as he flicked through the papers.




DOB: 21ST JUNE 2055

OFFICER MCNALLY: Can you describe the assailant?

ST. JAMES: She was wearing a bright red dress and purple heels. And she had really red hair – like orange-red. I only saw her quick – so I didn’t see her face or nothing.

OFFICER MCNALLY: What did you see happen?

ST. JAMES: She walked down the alley where I’d seen a bloke in a suit go ‘bout five minutes before. Then there were loads of noise and she came out and he didn’.

OFFICER MCNALLY: Did you witness the crime?

ST. JAMES: Love, I jus’ told you – they went in the alley an’ only the lass came back out.

OFFICER MCNALLY: So, if you didn’t see a crime being committed, why did you call the police?

ST. JAMES: Saw the body though, didn’ I? Big ol’ hole right in his chest. I tell you what – I recons it was them heels the devil ‘ad on. Stabbed him through the heart, she did.

OFFICER MCNALLY: Did you see any other evidence that the woman in question was the one to commit the murder?

ST. JAMES: Well, I didn’t need any did I? She’s that Jessica Rabbit killer, aint she?



Ric looked over to Irving, who had is head in his hand and was watching him closely.

‘They’re all the same. No one ever saw her close up, they never witnessed her actually committing the murders. There’s no proof it’s even the same woman – just the same clothes. Not that they would have been easy to get hold of. Even back then – they weren’t making items like that anymore, the uniform structure was already in place unless you were an elite or a Ward.’ Irving looked defeatedly at the mess of paperwork on his table and started scraping it together to make what vaguely resembled a pile.

‘No, she’s not dressed like a Ward. She’s… different. People try not to look at Wards – but her, well you just sort of can’t help it. She doesn’t belong somehow.’

‘What exactly did she look like?’

‘Like this.’ Ric said, waving the witness interview around. ‘Red hair, red dress, purple heels.’

‘But did you see her face?’

‘She looked right at me, Professor. The face of an angel. Except-.’ Ric stopped halfway through his thought.


‘Eyes. Her eyes! Fuck sake – I knew she looked different!’ Ric touched his index finger gently to his left eye and as he pulled it away, an artificial lens came with it. ‘She’s not wearing lenses.’ He stared at the glint of the lens. If he looked close enough, he could see the coding scrawling across the top. They recorded everything, they showed you everything. You could even link them with ear pieces and use them as an entertainment system. But Ric could never afford that. He put the lens carefully back in his eye and blinked a few times.

‘But everyone wears them – even the Wards. Even the President of the World wears fucking lenses. It’s the law. If you’re caught not wearing them, you’re arrested.’ Irving searched through the papers and pulled out the only sketch of the woman. But there was no face depicted in the image, just her signature outfit.

‘I know, but I’m telling you she wasn’t wearing them.’

‘You can’t get anywhere without them. One of the murders was committed in a Public Library – they do retinal scans to check your Clearance.’

‘So how did she get in?’ Ric asked, picking up his drink and taking a swig.

‘Someone’s helping her.’

– End of Part Three –

Books Are For Everyone | Save Our Libraries

Here in the UK, there has been a lot of talk of libraries closing all over the country. The party line is because they aren’t used much anymore, but I call bullshit on that one.

When I was little, my favourite part of the week was Saturday morning. Every Saturday, my mother would walk me down to the town library and let me pick as many books as I could carry. I was not unlike to Roald Dahl’s Matilda. I couldn’t get enough of what those wonderful words had to teach me.


As a writer, I am clearly biased when it comes to books. I have spent my life in awe of, crying at, laughing with, and sometimes even screaming at the pages of, books. Books are not just pieces of paper covered in the ink symbols we call the written word, but they are the door to limitless possibilities. 

Books can take a shy, introverted child and turn them into a communicative member of society. They teach us something at every stage of our lives: how to read, how to do sums, how to split the atom, how to love, even. Should that knowledge – that soulful education only a good book can give – not be free to all? 

There was a time that only those who could pay for literature were the only ones who got to cherish its pages, its knowledge. But libraries changed all of that. They gave everyone the opportunity to learn from, and enjoy books. Are we reverting to the prior? Are we about to steal all that information from the grasps of a child whose parents can’t afford books?

Around 15 per cent, or 5.1 million adults in England, can be described as ‘functionally illiterate.’ – LiteracyTrust.Org 

Do we really want those figures to get any higher? I sure as hell don’t. We are the homeland of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, JK Rowling, Charles Dickens, Stephen Fry and hundreds of incredibly influential authors. Who knows how many more beautiful words could be written and read with the help of public libraries.

Protect Library Services by signing this petition: https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/228742