Immoral Immortal: A Fantasy Crime Flash Fiction (Part One)

What would you do if you met a serial killer from the past that looked just like Jessica Rabbit?

Here is Part One of my new Flash Fiction – let me know what you think in the comments, and if you would like a Part Two. 

Immoral Immortal – Part One

As Ric looked up from the floor, a flash of deep crimson caught his gaze. He no longer found his shoes satisfying enough to ponder, and instead set to task trying to work out what he had glimpsed. A longer look intrigued him even more. He had seen pictures in the info stamps of old of the image before him. A woman in a svelte red crushed velvet dress, long auburn waves tumbling over her shoulders and black heels that would pierce even a giant’s skin. Ric often thought the shuttles in his hive were some of the cleanest, but she was out of place, making it seem dingy and dark compared to her.

Ric tried not to gawk as he attempted to remember the tale. Back in the 20th century, there was a film with a cartoon woman called Jessica Rabbit – who was apparently rather pretty and illustrious – and decades later a serial killer emerged, dazzling her victims dressed as this character. She was never caught in the twenty-five years she was active – she just disappeared one day and was never heard from again. Ric knew it couldn’t be the same woman, nearly 300 years later, but it made him wonder what would compel a woman to dress like that these days. It was hardly inconspicuous – only Wards wore red in public, and they were never left unaccompanied.

A Ward or Wardling was a member of an elite group of women, said to be the most beautiful and alluring women from all over the world. They would be chosen from their hometown as a young girl and trained and transformed into Wards. Men would pay a whole year’s wages just for an hour with a Ward. They were said to be multi-lingual, excellent dancers and able to charm men into abandoning their wives and children with just a whispered sentence in the ear of a willing man. But even Wards didn’t wear dresses like that.

Ric’s brain noticed before the rest of him had time to catch up, but the woman was slowly slinking towards him, and before he could close his mouth, she was sat on the seat next to him, her legs daintily crossed over one another. He attempted a casual nod but felt he probably looked like a seal pup begging for fish. Ric looked at his shoes again.

They were standard issue black shoes, leading to the plain black trousers and a black polo shirt. Some people chose to buy clothes themselves, but Ric had never much minded the government-issued wardrobe. He had seven of each item of clothing – in case they needed to be washed or mended. And every year he received a new pack in that year’s chosen colour. This year was black in tribute to the cenotaph of the Fallen Founders – the legendary warriors that had overthrown the monarchy and tragically lost their lives in the battles that followed.

Most people on the shuttle were wearing the same thing or had the additional black jacket for warmth. Ric was glad he hadn’t grabbed his before work that morning, as he could feel the heat swelling through his body as the woman glanced sidewards at him with a slight smile on her red lips. Several minutes passed before the shuttle began to slow and the conductor announced the next stop. Ric snuck glimpses to his left every now and then, pondering her clothes. She truly looked the part of the Jessica Rabbit killer, although he couldn’t remember the real woman’s name.

She stood up as the shuttle came to a stop and the doors slid open. Just as she reached the doors, the woman turned to face him, smiled and said, ‘Her name was Ruby Bennett’, and stepped off onto the platform.

Hearing The Streets: A Short Story

Headphones in, shuffling through weak-lit streets on a Friday night. Chinese take-out dangling from my left hand, half gripped half slacked, gently swaying as I stride.

Even through the music buzzing in my ears, I hear the click-clack of thirty-somethings in heels they can’t walk in, attempting to relive their twenties, but with more money and kids at home.

As I nip through an alley way, I am invaded by the sight of fourteen year olds, lurking in their bright-white Nike trainers and slogan-printed sweatpants.

One girl still has her school uniform on; black pleated skirt hitched up on her hips, her fake tanned thighs exposed. Her face glows in the iPhone light with a pasty-pale cheap foundation, probably bought with her pocket money. I can see her false eyelashes from here, and the resist the urge to peel them from her make-up caked face.


I carry on, forking right at the end of the street, eyes on the uneven paving slabs. The echo of lads-night-out is already abusing my music selection: taking over David Bowie’s Let’s Dance. The guys seem to sway in time to some invisible beat, somehow in rhythm with the chorus in my ears. Smart shoes ruined by vomit and spilled beer, they saunter off past me, taking their garish comments with them.

It starts to rain, so I pull my sweater hood up and I feel the preluded baby raindrops trickle down the back of my neck. I ignore them, but now I’m cold and eager to be home in my overpriced-underused flat.

The vibrations from a neighbouring night club make my shoes feel loose; my strides get longer and my breath gets quicker. The vodka flavoured cloud of breath exuding from my move hits me in waves. There are two boys on bikes crossing my path, about thirty feet or so away from me. I don’t exist to them, and I pretend I’m not intimidated as they wheelie and stand on the pedals, laughing and shouting to each other. The ignorance keeps up appearance and we all go our silent, separate waves.

The older of the two looks over to me; I recognise his face – but not enough to bother saying hello. He smirks at me through thin cigarette-stained lips, but his eyes looked daunted. I realise I work with his mother and make a mental note to forget this scene.

I can finally see my flat, my bedside lamp left on for safety, solitarily glowing purple in the dark. My playlist runs out just as I reach my building but before I can remove my headphones, they are wrenched from my head, knocking my hood down. My hair snags in the metal adjustments and I feel blood ooze over a piercing.

The last thing I hear is a faraway owl, hooting at the moonlight and then the crunch of my nose breaking as I face-plant the concrete that once glistened underneath my feet. Then, just like that, the world wasn’t full of drunk mothers and teenagers and bikers. It wasn’t full of melody and noise and vibrations. It was silent and dark and completely unapparent to the blackened sockets that once held my eyes: windows to the soul.

The Train (short story)

The sound echoed through the tunnel before it even reached it. Like a ghost train just one second out of sync with the rest of the world. Commuters shuffled forward, ready to hassle their way on, trying to guess where the doors might emerge and always getting it wrong by a few feet.

A woman with grass-coloured eyes and orange-y hair stood back, letting the other people rush forward as the train pulled into the station. I’ll get the next one, too many people. Always too many people. She rounded her shoulders back and begged for the tension to leave her body. Her rucksack tugged at her trapped a few curly tendrils as she moved, but she didn’t pull it out of the way. The pain itched her skull a little in a ticklish way. She nodded her head forward slightly and it tickled again.

The commuters stuffed themselves inside their metal cage of travel, some listening to music, others reading newspapers in awkward positions. No one speaks to each other. Not like in the old days. People used to be so much nice in the 1800’s. The orange-haired woman watched them pack themselves in like bees in a hive, noisy but not communicating. All aiming for that goal, for the honey, but never quite reaching it.

The train pulled away, leaving behind a foul stench of grease and hot metal. More people were already filling the platform, but only about twenty or so. The woman observed the people, getting on with their lives with their suits and their briefcases. Everything she owned was in her rucksack, belongings didn’t mean much to someone who was always on the move. Two hundred and twenty years of running away. She wasn’t even sure what she was running from any more.

Another ghost train escaped the tunnel in a cloud of noise, followed by the real thing. She took five steps forward, and waited for the metal doors to approach her. The train screeched to a halt, and expelled hot air as suited men and women, teenagers with backwards caps, and women with pushchairs exited the metal train. She stepped to one side to allow people passed, and then entered the train herself. Time to run away again. The doors snapped closed behind her and she closed her eyes as the metal cage took her away from the station to a new home, a new job and a new identity.

If you like this style of writing and want to see me write more short pieces, please tell me in the comments below!

Department Store Zombies (Short story)

I wrote this for a friend when he found out I was a writer but I’ve only just gotten around to posting it!


The department store staff showed up to work like it was any other day, but little did they know what would happen on that fateful morning in May. Rob, black beard and all, opened the doors to let the customers mill around and buy the over-priced kitchenware. But two hours later, those customers would be dead and Rob would be a king.
Rob, and his department store buddy, Elliot, were pretending to fluff cushions in Homeware when they heard the curdling screams of the customers. Melissa, the luggage girl, was drawing unicorns. Matthew was day-dreaming about F1: he was the first to run.
Matthew ran up the stairs two at a time and headed for Rob and Elliot, but he panicked and climbed inside a big pink suitcase for shelter. Melissa didn’t question his cries to lock him inside the suitcase and returned to her doodling. Eliot went downstairs to see what the fuss was about – he was the first to be turned. He grappled with the mysterious flesh-eating human shape until it lunged at him and tore his throat out. He waddled back upstairs missing a neck and with eyes as black as the Jasper Conran bathroom range. Rob cried out with despair when he realized what had happened to his friend, and claimed revenge on the creatures. He armed himself with a JML mop with double cleaning action -just to be sure-, and headed downstairs to fight. Melissa abandoned her suitcased-colleague and quickly fashioned a stapler gun to attack the monsters with.
But, when they arrived to First Floor, they discovered the remaining staff and all of the customers had been turned into grey-skinned zombies! Melissa burst into tears, hid behind the counter and wailed something about wanting a job in a bookshop, but Rob kept strong and battled with the beasts. (Which was pretty easy considering they moved at about five miles per hour). He swiped their heads clean off with the mighty mop, and poked holes in their maggot-filled stomachs.
Melissa noticed, from her hiding place, a band of zombies refusing to rebel, and they sat playing picnic with a polka dot tea set. She crawled closer to investigate and found they were a group of Italian tourists who had been consumed whilst buying souvenirs. They could only moan and groan as zombies do, but they were certainly more civilized than their grey counterparts.
Meanwhile, Matthew was running out of air, and the zombies were closing in. He could hear their mumbles from inside his pink prison but dared not to move. His case, cleverly hidden in a line of four other pink cases, kept him safe from the zombies. Until – the lead zombie of this particular cohered decided to lean on the case whilst he grumbled his instructions to his zombie army. Upon leaning on the case, it fell over, toppled by the weight of Matthew inside. He yelled, drawing attention to himself. He tried to think of a clever plan to escape, but was put off when he realized the zombies had figured out the TSA lock and opened the case to reveal Matthew curled in a ball. They pulled him out of the case and tore his heart out with their rotting teeth and changed him to their kind, and then he followed them dutifully downstairs to destroy Rob in his attempt to fight the department store zombies.
Rob snapped his mop in half whilst trying to decapitate a particularly stubborn zombie, so started using the shorter half as a dagger, stabbing the sharp plastic into the zombies necks. Melissa had joined the Italian zombies for a spot of pretend tea and they had found sweets jars, so had started munching on them. Rob instructed her to go and get more weapons, but when she ascended the stairs, she had her head torn off by Zombie Matthew.
Rob, alone in the fight and quickly being surrounded, did the only thing he could think of and screamed “PARLE! I evoke the rite of parle. Take me to your leader.” The solider zombies did as they were told, and lead Rob to a stock room, where Queen of the Zombies, Kat sat on a throne of bubble wrap and tea towels. In one foul swoop he decapitated the Queen and claimed the throne. The zombie minions bowed loyally to their new king, and he demanded they all fight to the death for his amusement. By lunchtime, the department store was full of rotting corpses and Rob stayed sat on his comfy throne until the police showed up and gave him a great big cheque and a medal for slaying all the zombies.
If you like zombie stories, a friend of mine has written a funny zombie series set in Folkestone, click here for her Amazon Page.