static culture

Short Stories & Flash Fiction from a London Based Writer/ Film Maker


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Ohaguro

“Well frankly I think this is absurd. I mean I’ve been here like ten times already and there was no problem then, was there? No. exactly. No problem with taking my money that’s for damn sure. So then if you agree with me then why in the hell am I still sat here?”

He speaks and she rubs her eyes gently as if they were at risk of popping.

“Fine, fine well then let’s get this over with, already.”

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The Interview

    Across the table, nearest the door of the matchbox sized interview room, Detectives Knight and Shannon sat, staring in bewilderment ahead of them. Knight’s hand hovered over the interview tape reluctantly before taking the plunge, pressing the rewind button to take the tape back to its beginning. Shannon watched from behind the curtain of his fingers, rubbing his eyes at the click of the recorder reaching its start. They had been in the room for two hours already and this would be their third attempt. “Right,” Knight began, her coarse voice matching her strictly neat attire “Let’s try this again.” opposite sat a man, crossed legged, slouched in the interview chair with a dangerous casualness for such a formal setting. A cigarette complimented one hand while the other lay outstretched from his body, ever ready should Bacchus himself materialize a Cabernet Sauvignon from thin air. The Man’s dapper attire was in contrast to the detectives across from him and in all their lack of similarities the table provided an ocean of distance. Despite his fondness for donning a Panama and a polka dot Cravat a bigger penchant had made itself obvious, and it had not gone unnoticed that the smell of alcohol had waltzed around the room for some time.  Stopping once in a while to pinch the Man’s cheeks to keep them chapped and rosy. “Can we start with your name?” Shannon asked and the man nodded slowly. “Cyril St Jude” he said.

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The Boggart

Everything’s changed. The thought resonated as he scanned the landscape of the town below. From nought to eighteen he lived there with his mother and three siblings in a dilapidated terrace before events would see him don a uniform and travel halfway around the world to kill people of a similar age but who spoke a different tongue. At twenty five he returned with his brothers, one in a coffin, before at twenty six he left for good, returning only to see his brother married and his mother buried. Now at seventy after his younger brother’s death he returned to the town more often, mainly to act as surrogate grandfather to his great niece. She was eight and rarely spoke but would draw the most amazing pictures of animals. Forty years ago they would have called her creative and said no more of it. Now they called it Autism and approached the matter with clinical opaqueness.

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