static culture

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


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The Beldame

Liverpool Street station glowed within the early morning darkness that engulfed the City, providing short lived respite for commuters from rain that fell sluggishly from the sky. A Neon portcullis opening the way to the houses of finance and banking that allowed safe passage from country homesteads to the heart of power. Christian arrived at the station every day as part of his commute, admiring his position within the well-oiled machine of finance. His hair immaculate, suit well pressed and tailor made and underneath it a body ripped and chiseled to perfection. Christian had fought hard to become so successful, harder than most he suspected, and so wanted to make sure that his presence would not go unnoticed. Or worse, noticed for all the wrong reasons. Yet today there was a misstep evident in his outlook, errata in his game plan that sought to hinder his positive aura. As he stepped from the station’s safety into the rain he ruminated on the cause of his anxiety, knowing all too well the root of his worry.

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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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