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Would love to see you at the Thistle next Monday (3rd September 2018 at 6pm), if you can make it, where there will be readings from this little beauty from Canterbury University Press – an anthology of flash fiction (very short stories), prose poems and things in between. I have two pieces in there and am delighted to find myself in such fine company. I’ve been dipping in and out of my copy since it arrived and it’s full of gems. There are some interesting essays in there too – from Tim Jones and others, some of whom will be discussing the “small form” on the night. Congratulations to editors Michelle Elvy, Frankie McMillan and James Norcliffe, and all the contributors.


I’ll be reading a very short story at the pretty flash Thistle (3 Mulgrave St, Thorndon) and so will some other writerly Wellington folk. It happens on 22nd June 2017 aka National Flash Fiction Day – the shortest day for the shortest stories. Might see you there!

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It’s Flash Fiction Friday in New Zealand this week (22 June), so the Tuesday poets are getting a bit flash.  There are a number of events around the country, and in Auckland there will be a prize-giving event in the Auckland Central City Library (Lorne Street, in the Whare Wānanga, Level 2,  at 5-7 pm) where the national flash fiction competition winners will be announced and you can enjoy readings by guests Siobhan Harvey, Murray Edmonds, Vivienne Plumb, David Lyndon Brown, Leanne Radojkovich, Katharine Derrick, Penny Somerville and others.   Wellingtonians are meeting at the Library bar in Courtenay Place at 6pm – I’m planning to be there.

More details of events in other places on the National Flash Fiction Day site and an interesting article on how to write flash fiction (very short stories) from the Guardian.

Here’s a particularly short piece of flash fiction I wrote a while ago – the aim of this one was to write a story in exactly 100 words (excluding the title).  You can read more at the Tuesday poem site from midnight tonight.



My neighbour spies on me.  I’ve seen his Roman blinds twitching.  He doesn’t realise I know.

I try to make his life more interesting, rising at strange hours to meditate on the roof.  Some days I practise the flute in a ball gown.

I built a tree house in the back garden so he could watch me carrying things up the ladder: fifty metres of tinsel, a papier-mâché crab.

I like to think of him taking notes, trying puzzle it all out, wondering if he should tell someone.

I hope I make him happy.  I think I’m all he has.



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November 2020

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