Fortnightly Fiction

A Map Under the House by David O'Neill A cat bowl, all matted hair and dried food, is against the wall in a corner of her kitchen. If the cat had any sense it would have started looking for food somewhere else but it waits, wide eyed,…

No Dummy by S.P. Hannaway —You prick! You useless prick! Monty gives himself hell. There’s no one else to do it. —Where is it? he spits and splutters. —You’ve lost it, haven’t you? You can do bugger all without it. His body isn’t…

Call For Submissions - HeadStuff Literary Section Fiction Are you passionate about all things writing and literature? The Literature section at HeadStuff needs you! We are looking for flash fiction and short story submissions for our…

Wildflower by Mia Doring She marched through the park on her way home from the train station in the orange Nike runners she wore for commuting, her office shoes tucked side by side under her desk. The park was really just a gravel path…

Not everybody left during the evacuation. Some people didn’t want to go with the crowd. Didn’t want to do what they were told. “Alternative facts…” “This is my home…” “Wha’ do them politicians know anyway…” Distrust. Anger. Suspicion. Fear.…

I was wounded. She was lonely. Lonely mother seeks attractive lover (45-65) with the soul of Bruce Springsteen, the mind of Aristotle and the charisma of James Stewart. ONO. Email [email protected] Why not. After…

Despite it having a month until obsolescence, her car had refused to start that morning. Just what kind of crap were they trying to pull? Didn’t they remember the standards? She dug the owner’s manual out from the glove box, batting through…

If it hadn't been for the rain, Amanda might never have read the letters. The deluge was nothing a cagoule and wellies couldn't cope with but she didn't have either to hand, she hadn't planned to be there long. In fact having already missed…

It’s the air that hits, immediately when you step through the door. The throat gags, just like the last time, and the first time. It refuses the tepid disinfected atmosphere on which floats a spoor of incontinence. They must steam all…

For those who saw them the day after the murder, trying to remember them was like trying to remember a dream. 6.37 AM They came down from the mountains with the fog and out of the fog in a stolen car and like the fog they added mystery…