A selection of stories I have submitted to AWC‘s flash fiction contests that they kindly long- and shortlisted on this page, and all the others here.

• The Number 42
• The Hengineers
• Potty Porridge Plot
• First Shift
• Dinner for One
• Standing Ovation (My Christmas Special!) 🎄
• Saturday Girl
• Stop Press
• A Shot in the Dark

The Number 42 (Longlisted October 2025)

Your story must take place on public transport. Your story must include a character who cries. Your story must include the exact phrases YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE and NEVER JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER.

Diane sat slumped on the Number 42 bus, crying into a bag of soggy chips. It was dark, cold, and raining. She wanted to get home. She closed her eyes to shut out her misery.

Across the aisle was a man in a dressing gown and slippers, reading a book entitled “How to See the World on Five Pence”.

“Wow!” said the man.

Diane cracked open an eye and gave him a flat-lipped smile.

“Did you know,” he continued, “you can get the 65 from Brixton, straight to Barcelona?”

“For five pee?” said Diane, knowing price wasn’t the issue.

“Yep.”

“You going?”

“No, I’m heading to Australia. Like you.”

“Not me. I’m going home to Putney.”

“Check your ticket.”

To humour him, Diane did so. She sat bolt upright.

“Brisbane? But my cat’s at home! How does this even WORK?”

“You need one of these,” he said waggling his travel guide, “or sit next to somebody WITH one.”

“It’s just a book.”

“Never judge a book by its cover, friend. Look, your cat’ll be fine. I’ve done this before. My wife’s in bed,” He gestured to his dressing gown. “She thinks I’m putting out the bins! I’ll be back before she misses me.”

The conductor rang the bell. “Last stop! Brisbane!”

Outside was bright sunshine, palm trees. Heat shimmered on the pavement.

“Come have a look. You only live once! We don’t have long.”

Diane stepped off the bus. She was sure she was dreaming, yet the air was soft, full of distant laughter. Her shoes were still damp, but for the first time in months she smiled. She sat on a bench beneath a jacaranda tree, watching petals drift like purple snow. A woman pushing a pram nodded as if she knew her. Nearby, a magpie warbled. An odd white bird with a beak like chopsticks rootled in a bin.

After five minutes the man in the dressing gown reappeared, wiping his brow. “What a beaut!” he said, handing Diane a bottle of water. “Ha! I’d better lose this accent before I get home!”

The bus doors hissed open.

“Coming?”

Diane shook her head. “I’ll catch the next one.”

The man grinned, gave a salute, and vanished with the bus.

Diane looked up at the sky, bluer than she’d ever seen. Warm wind brushed her face. When the next bus arrived she boarded, then closed her eyes to sleep.

When she opened them again, she was back in London, cold and dark, chip bag in one hand, empty Mount Franklin bottle in the other. She emptied her pocket: a ticket marked Queen Street Mall, a single purple petal, a melted Caramello Koala.

With feelings of hope, and homesickness for Brisbane, she made herself a promise. “Tomorrow, I’ll buy a book.”

And then she went home to her cat.

The Hengineers (Shortlisted September 2025)

Your story must take place at a famous landmark. Your story’s first sentence must be a question. Your story must include the words LINK, ORANGE, VOICE.

“What do you mean, we’re building a HENGE?” said Garun, eyeing the massive stones.

“So Wolf reckons,” said Klem.

“Not a pub, then?!”

“Look around. Clearly, its a henge.”

Garun squinted. “I suppose, now you mention it. Aren’t henges wooden?”

“Wolf says it’s a next-gen henge.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Wolf,” said Klem, “tell Garun!”

“It’s a henge. I overheard the boss.”

“But its STONE.”

“Built to last, apparently. For our children’s children.”

“Children?! We haul rocks. Who has energy for – that.”

“Let’s go on strike,” said Klem.

They downed tools, linked arms and began chanting: “Down with the henge! Down with the henge!”

Their supervisor, Aelf turned up.

“Get back to work.”

“We’ve been conned,” said Garun.

“That’s a serious allegation.”

“I signed up to build a pub!”

“Signed? Where’s your contract?”

Garun sighed. It was a verbal agreement, and the witness was a donkey.

“Nobody wants henges!” said Garun, his voice squeaky, “And I bet they didn’t do community outreach.”

“We consulted the population of Sarum.”

“All ten of them?”

“Ten, including their goats, gave us the thumbs up.”

“Goats don’t have thumbs.”

“Regardless, we have the social licence to operate. Get back to work.”

“I want a child,” blurted out Wolf.

“So do we,” said Klem, clasping Garun’s arm. “Or the right to have children. Else, we’re not finishing it.”

“What if its an entertainment henge,” humoured Aelf, “that SERVES beer?”

“Seriously? It’s miles from anywhere. No one will come. Ever.”

“This is special,” said Aelf, “its progress.”

Other workers got involved. “We’ve been building a HENGE?” “That’s specialist work. I want back pay!” “And health cover!”

Aelf was out of his depth. The chants continued.

“We want a pub. We want pay. We want to have children. We want to work from home.”

“That one’s ridiculous.” said Aelf. At least a pub was sensible.

“I’ll arrange a meeting,” he said, knowing it would take weeks.

The workers entertained themselves. Someone brought beer. The stones used for rolling the bigger ones became a stage. Everyone got drunk.

“Look at that,” said Garun one evening.

The orange orb in the sky was perfectly aligned with the biggest rock. Garun clambered up, to get closer. Unsteady, he stood tall and spread his arms wide.

“I’m your loyal subject’” he shouted to the Sun. And then he wobbled. And fell.

Health and safety was unimportant in Aelf’s opinion, but even he gasped.

Everyone sobbed. They placed Garun’s pieces in the last giant hole they’d dug. Together they lowered the final stone above his remains.

Aelf was delighted. “I’ve decided to stop building the henge,” he lied, seeing they’d unwittingly finished the project. “Go home!”

So they returned to their homes to have children.

Except Wolf and Klem. They stayed and started a pub, just in case anyone bothered to visit Stonehenge.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Potty Porridge Plot (Longlisted August 2025)

Your story must take place at a table. Your story must feature a character who tells a lie. Your story must include the words GLASS, RICH and SPEED.

The kitchen was quiet. Three wooden chairs circled the table. In one sat Goldilocks eyeing an empty bowl. Next to her, Baby Bear cradled his cup of milk. In the third chair sat the Detective scribbling in his notebook. Two bowls of cold porridge were making him queasy.

“Let’s try again, Miss Locks. Did you steal Baby’s porridge?”

Goldilocks crossed her arms, legs bouncing impatiently beneath the table.

“No. I told you. It was gone when I arrived. The door was ajar. Anyone could’ve walked in!”

“Baby Bear, remind me, what happened?”

“Dad made breakfast. It was too hot. We went out. When we returned Goldilocks was in my bed. SHE stole my porridge.”

The Detective scribbled. “Mr and Mrs Bear, anything else?”

“After we left,” said Daddy Bear, “Baby came back then caught up with us. He was only a minute.”

“Why did you return?”

“I had to poo.”

“Ridiculous,” said Goldilocks, “Bears do THAT in the woods.”

“True,” said the Detective, “and it WAS a bit speedy.”

“He’s celiac,” explained Mummy Bear.

The Detective cleared his throat. “Miss Locks, why were you in Baby’s bed?”

She shrugged. “Heading home from an all-nighter at the Three Pigs, I saw the door open. I popped in for a glass of water. The bed looked inviting. Voila!”

A shadow flickered past the window.

“Hello?” called Red Ridinghood at the door. “What’s happening?”

“We’re investigating a robbery,” said Mummy Bear.

“Goldilocks stole my porridge,” squeaked Baby Bear.

Goldilocks rolled her eyes.

“Who else could it have been?” growled Daddy Bear.

“Hansel? Gretel? Red Ridinghood?” suggested Goldilocks, “SHE’s suspiciously returned to the scene of the crime. AND she’s been packing on the pounds”

Red looked her up and down. “That’s rich coming from you!”

“Hey! I bake great cakes. And I’d never touch that smelly porridge.”

“My porridge isn’t smelly! Everyone loves it.”

Mummy Bear patted his shoulder. “It’s fine, love.”

Goldilocks sniffed. “No offence but I wouldn’t touch it if I was starving. It’s grim.”

“Baby? You like daddy’s porridge?”

Baby shook his head. “Sorry, Dad.”

Daddy Bear frowned. “SOMEONE likes it. They ate it all up!”

“No-one ate it all up,” whispered Baby Bear, “I didn’t come back to poo. I came back to throw my porridge away.”

“How could you?” said Mummy Bear. “What’ll you eat?”

“I ordered something from BrekkyLog.”

“Taadaaaa,” said Red opening her basket, “that’s my job. I deliver food.”

Everyone gazed at the gluten-free croissants and donuts.

“Now you’re talking,” said Mummy Bear.

Goldilocks stood up.

“Are we done? I’m off, then. But first. Detective, enough with the scribbling – learn how to write. Mummy Bear, love your bedding. Daddy Bear, skip the porridge. Baby Bear – you’re a cereal liar. And, I suspect, a serial liar!”

She left. Red laughed. Nobody else got it.

First Shift Shortlisted March 2025

Each story had to take place in EITHER a lift/elevator OR a sauna/steam room; had to include at least TWO characters and had to include the words STICK, THUMP and VALUABLE

The cage lurched as it started its descent, a slow, grinding crawl into the Earth. The walls pressed in tight, and the faint glow of headlamps caught the sheen of sweat on foreheads and the rust clinging to the metal grates.

Elliot gripped his harness strap with white-knuckled fingers, his heart thumping – too fast. It was his first underground shift, and the elevator felt like a coffin. His mum had cried when he left this morning.

“Relax.” muttered Callum, scratching at his grey beard, “you’ll get used to it.”

Elliot nodded stiffly.

“Storm rolling in topside,” said Callum, “saw lightning on the ridge.”

“Great! Hope they take us back up. We’ll get the day off,” said Tom. A few of them chuckled, low and tired. The cage shuddered, and everyone went quiet. The cables creaked above, taut as nerves.

“How deep we going?” Elliot asked, voice barely audible over grinding metal.

“Level 6,” Tom said, cracking his knuckles. “Takes about fifteen minutes. Longest ride of your life first time down!”

Jacob nudged Elliot playfully. “Least we ain’t going to Level 7.”

“What’s wrong with Level 7?” Elliot asked, his voice cracking.

Callum shot Jacob a warning look, but the men laughed.

“Haunted, some say!” Jacob leaned in just enough for his headlamp to touch Elliot’s, making him squint. “Collapsed years back. They pulled most of ‘em out. Sometimes you hear tapping.”

The air in the cage felt tighter.

“They sealed it off after the collapse. Some bloke swears he saw light down there but when he called out, the light just…went out.”

“That’s bollocks,” Callum muttered, “Probably a reflection off some quartz.”

“Or they’re still digging.”

“Shut it, Jake,” Callum snapped.

He patted their valuable new-starter’s shoulder. The cage jolted suddenly, stopping for a breathless second before resuming its descent. They listened to the rhythmic clank of the rollers and the distant hum of the ventilation system.

“Almost there,” Tom muttered.

Metal shrieked as it dropped a little faster. Elliot’s breath caught, and the others instinctively grabbed onto the side rails. He did the same, waiting to see if the elevator would stabilize. It did. The cage kept sinking. His headlamp beam shook as he adjusted his helmet. Then he saw it. A name scratched into the rusted cage wall. “Doug Matthews.” His father’s name. His knees buckled, and he caught himself on the rail, chest heaving.

“You all right?” Callum asked, steadying him with one hand.

“My dad,” Elliot whispered, tapping the name. “He…worked here. He died. That must have been Level 7. I was only four. Mum never told me the details.”

The miners exchanged glances, silent.

Elliot straightened up, dust sticking to his damp face. His pulse hammered, but he clenched his jaw tight.

“I’m finishing the shift,” he said, voice certain, “For my dad.”

The elevator rattled, sinking deeper, carrying him closer to whatever waited in the dark.

Dinner for One Longlisted August 2023

Each story had to take place in a restaurant, include a character who smashes something and include the words EUPHORIA, LABYRINTH and SILHOUETTE.

Emily sat at a dining table that faced the open door, looking onto the kasbah, watching silhouettes of the busy crowd.

Five minutes ago, lost in the labyrinth of narrow alleys and noisy vendors, a panic attack had consumed her. Crouching to get water from her bag, Emily’s spectacles had fallen off and smashed. She had cursed her clumsiness, then her stupidity for listening to her therapist.

“Take a holiday,” he’d told her, “Go somewhere exotic.”

Her anxiety had started when her best friend had done the dirty on her with her fiancé. On top of that, her family had ridiculed her ‘naivety’, like they all knew about it. Since then, trusting even herself had been a challenge.

“Stupid holiday,” she mumbled, scanning the market for a safe haven.

One open door looked inviting, unaccompanied by the mandatory loud voice touting for business. The room inside was small, with no other customers.

“Perfect.”

The waiter showed her to the table giving her a hand-written menu. She peered through her broken glasses and sighed – of course it was in Arabic and French. It would take forever to decipher with half a lens and a phrase book. She handed it back, pointing up and down the page.

“Quelque chose”, she smiled, hoping he’d pick something.

Panic soothed, she sipped cool, minty water. There were only three tables, beautifully laid. The décor was warm in purples, reds, blues and gold, and a heap of cushions in the corner.

Soon, it became clear that her menu-pointing had suggested she wanted everything. Everything arrived, in tiny amounts.

The myriad dishes with spices, herbs, honey, cream, nuts, and textures went on, and on. Emily was immersed in the sensations. She in English, and he, in Arabic and French, chattered away, somehow conversing. At one stage, they both laughed so much they cried. Then Emily cried sad tears. He comforted her. Again, they laughed. He sang to her! For some unfathomable reason, they danced and again sat, and they both this time, cried. He cleared the table and though they fell silent, Emily’s euphoria remained. She was no longer exhausted. As clear headed as she had ever known, she felt new.

Outside, it was now quiet.

“It’s late!” she exclaimed, “I must go.”

She stood and took a roll of notes from her wallet. He refused them.

“Avec plaisir,” he said, my pleasure.

He held her hand and pulled her towards him.

“Uh oh,” she said, “what are you doing?”

He let go and walked to another door at the back gesturing.

“Here,” he said “ici.”

He opened the door onto a busy square of hotels and cars.

Emily laughed. “You are may savior, aren’t you?”

“You are mine,” he said in perfect English.

As her taxi pulled away, Emily looked back to see if the restaurant had a name. But even the door was nowhere to be seen.

Standing Ovation Submitted December 2021

Each story had to include a tree, include something being taped, and include the words DANCE, SEARCH and CHANGE. Longer variations were accepted as long as original spelling was retained.

Attendance at our nativity play was poor, but that helped us all escape alive. Chickenpox had infected the cast, so with one day to go, in search of replacements, they enlisted our football team.

Parts were assigned based on costume sizes. The goalkeeper was too tall for any of them, so he was dressed as a tree from last year’s Hobbit. My mum cried when I told her I was Angel Gabriel. She elevated me to Archangel, editing her programme in Biro.

At the walk-through, Mr Groves taped lines on the stage indicating where we should stand. Rehearsals were brief:

“Your only line,” said Mr Groves handing out laminated cards, “LEARN IT.”

When the curtain rose, the music teacher played Little Donkey on an electric piano that sounded like she was wearing mittens. The stage markers were a meaningless scribble, so our team took our usual defensive formation.

The back end of the donkey ran off with stage fright. Joseph led the remaining half of the donkey with Mary (played by Kevin) on to stage.

When Mary cocked his leg pretending to dismount the half-donkey, the doll up his dress dropped out with a thunk. Its head came off, which the shepherd booted into the wings.

Seeing Jesus’ premature birth, the Tree stepped forward.

“And a child was born,” he yelled.

Applause.

Joseph and Mary were turned away from imaginary inns until one innkeeper pointed at Kevin’s now flat stomach.

“You are with child, go to the stable.”

Meanwhile, baby Jesus’s body was kicked around, losing the swaddling clothes it had been born with.

The pianist broke into “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. I leapt across the stage, kicking the doll to Mr Groves.

When the song ended, we looked over for direction, but he was busy taping the baby Jesus together.

Seeing the opportunity, an innkeeper took the spotlight.

“What do you call a blind reindeer?” he said.

“I don’t know,” yelled his dad from the audience, “what do you call a blind reindeer…?”

“No idea.”

Applause.

A mummified baby Jesus appeared, pushed onto stage with a long broom. The shepherd flicked it with his toe directly up Mary’s skirt.

Wild applause.

Mary gathered up his baby and sat rocking it, while the two wise men and half a donkey crowded over the empty manger.

And then things went bad. A fire broke out in the electric piano. The teacher’s mittens had stuck in one of the keys. In the panic, Mary tripped on his skirt. Like a good husband, Joseph threw her over his shoulder and fled.

“Tree!” I yelled.

Tree was shuffling, restricted by the tight trunk. I looped him behind my wings, dragging him off the stage.

In the car park, competing with the sirens, we hollered a few verses of Silent Night. And while the fire brigade put out the school, we received a standing ovation! Partly because there were no chairs, but mainly, because it was Christmas.

Saturday Girl Shortlisted June 2021

Each story had to include (word for word) the following SEVEN descriptions at any point in the story body: THICK AS HONEY; SILENT AND STILL; GOLDEN GLOW; HEART-SHAPED; DELICATE PERFUME; SOFT AND DOUGHY; RAZOR-SHARP

I knew Cheryl blamed me for Mrs Seth’s death, from the look she gave me across the salon. As a 15-year-old Saturday girl, I’d learnt the art of shampooing and the science of mixing tints. But I hadn’t mastered the craft of keeping all the clients alive. It wasn’t my fault, but Cheryl had to blame someone. Her business projections assumed all her clients would live for another twenty years.

Mrs Seth was not Cheryl’s oldest client. But it has to be said, at 97, she was pretty old, even if we were trying to be polite about age. So rightly or wrongly, Mrs Seth’s death immediately made a hole in Cheryl’s future revenue.

That day Mrs Seth had come in for her usual ‘golden glow’ tint. After shampooing her, I offered Mrs Seth a cup of tea.

“No sugar,” she had barked.

“No sugar,” I announced when I handed her the tea.

“How dare you?!” she shouted.

Everyone looked and Cheryl smacked my arm: “What did you say?” she hissed, “Apologise!”

“I just said no sugar.”

“No, she didn’t,” said Mrs Seth, “she said I was fat!”

Pardon me for sounding ageist but I had no idea a 97-year-old could move so fast.

In seconds she had me in a headlock. Her arm, wrapped around my neck, felt soft and doughy like one of those stuffed draught excluders you lay along the bottom of the door. I struggled to breathe. It wasn’t helped by her scent – a combination of Charlie and several Avon variants. She wasn’t famous for her delicate perfume but up close it seemed as thick as honey.

On top of that, Mrs Seth had somehow acquired Cheryl’s razor-sharp scissors and was waving them about in the other hand, cursing me.

I thought that was my end, that was how I was going to die. Those things are lethal.

Well, to cut a long story short, she stabbed me twice in the neck. There was blood everywhere, which made things worse because Mrs Seth thought it was her own.

“She’s mamed me, she’s mamed me!” she kept shouting.

And then she had a heart attack and died. We laid there, for several moments, silent and still with her cold, floppy arm wrapped round my face, blood pumping from my neck.

Cheryl then screamed and two ladies ran out of the salon in curlers and floral capes.

When the ambulance arrived, they patched me up and took away the late Mrs Seth.

Cheryl’s look told me I was sacked. Thank God, really. Of course, she docked Mrs Seth’s invoice from my final pay.

Years later, I have a heart-shaped scar on my neck serving as a reminder. A reminder to never underestimate your boss’s lack of business acumen. And, importantly, to always put sugar in a lady’s tea – regardless of what she asked for.

Stop Press Longlisted August 2020

Each story had to contain HUMOUR/COMEDY of any kind. Each story had to include the words: DIZZY, EXOTIC, LUMPY, TINY, TWISTED. Each story had to include a SANDWICH

News has emerged that Mary’s Little Lamb has been found alive in a copse near Plum Corner.

Today, Christmas came early for Mary who had remained cautiously optimistic that Little Lamb was still alive, but she admits, her hopes had been fading.

Little Lamb was spotted wandering in circles beneath some old, twisted electricity pylons. Reports say she was bewildered and dizzy. Despite fevered speculation, mystery remains over how Little Lamb’s snowy white wool turned to Nylon. Pundits say she is lucky to be alive.

Little Lamb was found by unsung hero, Mr Jack Horner.

“Mary was inseparable from that tiny lamb of hers,” said Mr Horner, “so everyone was shocked when she lost her. That’s usually Bo Beep’s trick.”

When asked how he captured the lamb, he told us, “I was having lunch in the corner of the field and there it was, frazzled and bleating. I’d finished my plum pudding so all I had left was a sandwich. But hey – who knew lambs like pastrami on rye!”

Jack and Jill from Up the Hill have offered Mary help, having recently taken delivery of a new consignment of vinegar and brown paper.

“They are very kind,” Mary said, “but I’m not into complimentary therapies. Doctor Foster is coming to help.”

“I’m currently up to my neck in it,” oft-cited Dr Foster told us on the phone, “but I’ll get there come hell or high water. She’s not in Gloucester, I hope?”

Retired farmer and senior, MacDonald, previously suspected of abducting Little Lamb, was “delighted” and “relieved” to hear the news. MacDonald had been in custody all week, after neighbours reported hearing “a baa-baa here and a baa-baa there” from his property. MacDonald maintained his innocence throughout the probe, claiming he now only keeps exotic animals including a peacock here and a peacock there.

“I wish [Little Lamb] all the best for a speedy recovery,” said MacDonald, and in a stinging rebuke added, “my neighbours will hear from my solicitors.”

Grizzled veteran, MacDonald, now residing in The Dell, asked us to emphasise that despite his senior years, he rejects claims that he is ‘Old’ and that he now wants a wife, a child and a nurse but might pass on the cow.

Coming up: How vertically challenged Miss Muffet battled her arachnophobia and hear disturbing excerpts from her new book “Lumpy Curds and Drainpipes” co-authored by her new business partner, Incey Wincey.

But next: A senior man has been caught on security cameras playing “knick-knack” on a shoe, on a knee and on a door. Police fear that hives could be next in this cycle of violence and they are warning dog owners to be wary of anyone randomly distributing bones.

A Shot in the Dark Longlisted May 2021

• Every story had to be set during a storm.
• Every story had to include the words MOTHER, APPLE, YESTERDAY
• Every story had to include the phrase: SIT/SITTING ON THE FENCE

Stanley stood in line, watching the bank tellers take their time. It seemed right to queue. He felt in his pocket, touching the cold metal, withdrawing his fingers fearing it would accidentally go off.

This was not how he imagined it. He’d looked for a more traditional branch – dark wood, no windows. If you’re going to rob a bank, it should have prestige, but this was the stark opposite. Well, you had to start somewhere. Through the enormous windows, he could see the rain – falling like stair-rods, as his mother would have said. And it wasn’t letting up.

The woman in front of him pushed back her hood flicking water droplets at him. He blinked and inhaled a surprise breath of fake apple as she shook out her wild, frizzy hair.

Everyone watched an elderly lady shuffle in, shake rain from her umbrella, and join the queue. Lighting flashed and a deep rumble of thunder made people look at each other, acknowledging the terrible storm. Then the lights when out to a collective “Ooh!”

Tellers milled about in the gloom while a man announced the branch must close, although people may stay until the storm passes.

The queue dispersed around the banking hall, tutting. Stanley hesitated. It seemed like a bad time to do this now, but he remembered his therapist’s words: if you sit on the fence for too long, you’ll miss opportunities. A teller was attempting to lock the front door, fumbling with keys.

A good sign, he thought.

Stanley moved towards the counter, preparing for his moment.

Then, at the door, feet stumbled.

“EVERYBODY GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!”

What? thought Stanley. That’s my line!

Three figures filled the doorway.

“Everybody, get DOWN!”

Unbelievable, thought Stanley, someone’s beaten me to it. I should have come yesterday.

He knelt, then laid on his stomach, watching their moves. He could tell they were professionals. Two of them disappeared behind the counter, courtesy of the teller with the keys, and the other stayed as minder.

Thunder and lightning picked up its tempo. Flashes lit the room showing the frail lady, leaning on her basket, struggling to get down.

“LAY DOWN,” yelled the minder.

She whimpered and he kicked her in the face. Everybody gasped.

Stanley jumped up, pulled out his gun and pointed it at the figure.

“GET AWAY FROM THE LADY,” he yelled, surprising himself. A flash of lightning revealed the minder’s sawn-off shotgun directed at him.

The next few seconds were a muddle. Rumbles, a piercing bang, flickering, a crash and hollering.

The next lightning flash revealed the old lady, with a gun of her own pointed at the bully on the floor who was bleeding at the knees. His screams would have carried for miles.

The lady nodded at Stanley.

“You’re a good lad, so put the gun away,” she said, and turned toward the counter. “I got this. I’ve been saving this for a rainy day.”