Flash Fiction. Nobody Outside. Katie Lewington.

(Originally published on Fuckfiction.net)


So I’ve switched on the computer which is nested into the nook underneath the stairs. I’m settling down to it in a chair with a glass of vodka and coke in my right hand and then I hear this god-awful noise coming from outside the house. Immediately I think burglar. I’m not shitting myself or anything but I’m looking around me for a weapon. There’s a scraping sound, a metallic clang. I think perhaps the burglar is starting off by breaking into next door so for now I am safe. I look over the stair rail but, as the door has frosted glass, I cannot see anything. All I can hear is a lot of screeching coming from what sounds like professional equipment, then I begin to think: hold on that sounds way too close and maybe the burglar is in my back garden and my house has been chosen. In which case why the hell has nobody called the police? Neighbours around here are so strict on strangers. They call police on seeing the window cleaners but then a window cleaner up 5 feet against your house on a ladder, greasing your bedroom window and washing it down is pretty creepy when you might be in the bedroom, on the bed, in a state of undress and getting down to it, when you think about it.
I get on my feet, I’m in tights and they squeak on the tile flooring. I search around for a weapon, the noise outside growing all the more urgent. It has been ten minutes, how long can this burglar possibly take to get inside a house? Oh Lord, oh Lord have mercy. I gulp my drink, feeling dizzy. I hear the slam of a car door and the computer hard drive begins to judder, like it’s gonna take off. Jeez Louise, what a slow pot Annie this burglar is. I scratch my neck, exploring the love bite on my neck with my fingers as I tilt my head. I am listening and am gathering no sense of the situation whatsoever. As I seize a vase from the kitchen and march towards the front door the sound is suddenly muffled and then stops. I am left flinging open the door like a Matadors cape and holding it with the vase above my head.
Nobody outside.


Poem. Dusting the Mantelpiece. Katie Lewington.

Duvet – bed still without a sheet
glasses in the sink need rinsing
calls on the phone not answered
heels – party dresses gathering dust
because I’ve been so caught up in our love
and now it ceases to be any fun

I am dusting off those heels
filling up the glasses
and making up the bed afresh
because even if this love is dying – endangered
I hope to still have our friendship intact
in the end
because I couldn’t ever stop my heart beating that much faster
when I see your face
in the crowd
eyes searching
you find me – you’re smiling
I couldn’t regret the sex
kisses getting more intimate
you chancing it by sticking in your tongue

but it’s time

to step back
think of the friends we were
why we ever fell in love
so I’m rinsing a glass
slipping into my dress
going to go out tonight
and have a ball
smoking and drinking and dancing and shaking out my hair
glad to not be arguing with you

happy to be alive.

Short Story. Breakfast. Katie Lewington.


‘Ooh, wow. That is cold’ I said, stepping in through the door to the getaway flat. Except this time, it is a stay. I look around at me at the absolute tip of a hallway. I kick the post like fallen autumn leaves and I slip on a leaflet for pizzas. I put a hand on the wall to stop me from falling.
I gaze at the wall, spreading out my hand and I arch my fingertips, feeling the bumps of the paper that I had plastered up to cover the cracks. I remove my hand and wipe it on my right thigh, feel the sleepy twitch of my cock. I drop my suitcase and I push open the door into the  main room.  The dining table lies on its side like an overturned umbrella in the wind. I reach for the box to turn on the heater but it has been scratched, beaten.
I stretch a jumper, another one, over me. It’s the cold that can thin you out but right now I don’t want to be cold, I want to be able to feel my toes. In one movement in bringing my cigarettes from my pocket, I knock coins and filters and letters and my card out of its pouch. I only bother to pick up the card. My social worker is here tomorrow. I should clean up and show myself to be coping well. I look in the cupboard. There are cobwebs and a broken broom head. I thump on the door of my neighbour to ask to use the phone.
‘Telephone, if I can?’ I ask, offering the woman a cigarette.
‘Oh no’ She replied. ‘Come in Archie. If there’s anything, I’m always here’
I nod ‘Um’ What should I say? ‘Thank you’ I say. Dialling the number. ‘Hi Sue’ I speak into the holes and plastic. ‘It’s Archie Leach, about tomorrow-‘
‘Is there a problem with the time?’
‘Yeah, well,  you know, been catching  up with mates and that’ I look up and the neighbour is there, listening. I smile. ‘And tomorrow’ I go on. ‘I am going to be seeing my parents’ That word is poison in my mouth. ‘I really have missed them and I know you need to do your job and check that I am, I’m OK and I will be. I’ll be with them and I can phone you, I swear’
Sue chuckles. ‘That’s alright Archie. This time was meant for you to see your family, I think that’s great you are’
‘Cool. Thanks’
‘I will see you soon then’
I put down the phone and I imagine Sue picking up her diary from inside of her handbag. With a list in the back of it, names of patients written on it and mine now being crossed off. I bet she’s thinking that’s an extra ten minutes in  bed and she can have breakfast, not just a coffee and that makes me pleased for her. You should eat breakfast, it’s important. I wonder what she eats. I like toast. I like it dry. Butter is a bad food. I sniff. I am suddenly aware of my neighbour at my elbow and I  flinch. ‘Sorry’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean-‘
‘Shall I put on the kettle, would you like a drink?’ she asks and I cannot decide. The get away flat is cold and it is empty, but it’s my home.
‘Sit down’ She tells me.
I sit and accept the warm drink. I sip it and it jogs, splashing my jumper.
‘Sugar’ I mutter. ‘I should watch what I am doing’
‘You can take that off’
‘I’m freezing’ I say, although I can feel the heat rushing through me. ‘Forgive me but could you, what’s your name? I have forgot’
She laughs. ‘It’s Grace’ she said.
‘Of course, I’m sorry’
‘Not to worry. I forget names’
‘But you couldn’t forget mine’
‘No, well you aren’t there now. You can enjoy the freedom’
‘It doesn’t feel free. I feel, it scares me’

I walk back to the flat, sitting on a stinking sofa. It has bugs running along it and I smoke a cigarette. Then I remember and drag my suitcase in from the hallway. Resting inside the jumpers and jeans is a six pack of beer and I pop one open. Guzzling it, I flick a bug off of my knee. I squash a bug that has crawled under where I place my elbow on the rest. As the ash falls, I stub the cigarette on my knuckle. I get to my feet and face the room. I scatter the magazines on the coffee table and I disturb spiders. There’s an ashtray with a  yellow liquid in it and also there is an ashtray from Blackpool. I notice the TV and stereo are gone. The square left by the stereo has been filled in by the tapes that had been stacked around it.
I rub my forehead, noticing the kitchen door is shut and my heart begins to hammer. I crawl to it. I try the handle and I have to boost it using my shoulder. There is a tramp laying with his feet in the sink and face on a tin.
I close the door and I burst into tears. I crumple the beer can and the sharp creases dig into the folds of my palm. I squeeze it and again I stub the cigarette, screwing it against my knuckle. I know I need to eat. I’ll need to go outside. It might be packed and there will be people. I let go of the beer can and I slip my hand, my sore knuckles chafe on the fabric, into my pocket and feel the roll of notes. I buy cigarettes, booze and food.
I have to go into the kitchen. I need a knife to cut the cake. It is fruitcake. Fruitcake is at least healthier. Though I would like to be assured chocolate still tastes the same. Chocolate is  a bad food. I nudge the tramp. ‘Excuse me’ I said. Would you mind, how about a beer?’ I ask.
‘How about a ciggie?’
I proffer to him the packet and he shakes his head. ‘I like to roll mine’ he says.
‘Oh, hold on then’
‘Can I have the beer while I do?’
I throw him a beer and I search my suitcase for my tobacco. The papers are in my glasses case and the filters, where had I put those?
I hand him the equipment and the tramp thanks me.
‘That’s OK’ I said. I wait and then remember my cake. I search the drawers. ‘What’s it you want to find?’ The tramp asks.
‘Knife’ I answer.
‘I took them’
‘Where to?’
‘Market’ He holds out something and I hesitate. ‘Take it’ He says, waving the object in my face.
It’s a penknife. Knives are bad.
‘Do you want a slice?’ I grip the knife.
‘Sure do, I haven’t eaten in days’
‘You haven’t had breakfast?’

Poem: Suicide is Not an Option. Katie Lewington.

(Originally published in Jotters United Zine)


Could you make it worse
Say what you say
I might pull a face
But what can I do
You mired in hate
                   And me amazed
A person can be so rude
Forgive and forget
But not regret
The being
                  A doormat
You can’t approve
But appeal
Oh like me, like me
Aren’t I good enough?
God knows, I try
I pray I wish I desire I crave
I am polite I listen to
                       what you do
I like listening to hip hop too
And, well, you know
You can’t build a conversation on that
You can’t
You need to be comfortable
                                 and have banter
       with the person
Even after you part
You still couldn’t say
what was said
That is friendship
So do me a favour please
And show me respect
Don’t put your gum in my hair
Don’t tear my homework
Don’t strangle me with my own tie
Yes, I am weak
      I cannot fight back
I am a coward
I know I know I know
I don’t know what the right remedy is
For your treatment
But will you leave me
                               leave me be
Stop your glares
And your stares
I feel like I am
Being judged
Every time I step in front of the class
I am trying to be
                     good enough
God knows, I try
But I only make you laugh
When I trip
              over the foot
                you have stuck out
This isn’t fair
I can’t be ignored anymore
And treated like your
                              soft toy
It is killing me inside
I am afraid of everyday
When I get out of bed
And I dread
Think of all
The possibilities
The time you have
What you will inflict on me
                                        This week
                                        Next month
                  and forever after that
I can’t eat my breakfast
My hands tremble
I forget tasks
I really am in a mess
How can I avoid you?
And have a trouble free day
I don’t know
           and am quite tired
I feel like sleeping
But you interrupt that
Where is peace?
How do I get there?
I never cared
               but now
Without my girlfriend
I am lost
And not at ease
I am a loser
I am stupid
I am useless
Oh please stop this
As a fist lands in my eye
And a tear dribbles
Down my cheek
On my knees begging
                              in the toilets
But you are kicking me
                              over and over
Aren’t I good enough?
God knows, I try
And I thought I knew
                              but now I do
I am not loved
         nor liked
I am not a person
        but food
For the sharks
And with the scraps left
I am
I take the chord
                     from the shed
And I whack it around
                            a private tree
In the woods
I put my head
              into the noose
I made
     to fit
I attempt to think
                          of my happiest memory
But I feel only
               thudding pain
And my feet
                   lifted from
The ground
my life draining away.

The do’s and don’ts about writing erotica

Very useful points!

World of Horror


1. Respect The Genre. Respect The Reader

Bring the same attention and regard to writing about sex as you would to anything else you’d write. Assume the reader wants — and is capable of appreciating — something beyond a jerk-off vehicle. There’s nothing wrong with getting off — I always hope my readers are getting off on what I write!

but I want to affect people between the ears as much as between the legs.
There’s nothing wrong with getting off – I always hope my readers are getting off on what I write! – but I want to affect people between the ears as much as between the legs.

2. Spare The Rod

The throbbing rod, that is, and all other coy euphemisms for body parts. Please don’t tell me about our hero’s member, or manhood, or hard hot tool or battering ram. Likewise, don’t refer to our…

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Flash Fiction. Be Careful With The One You Love. Katie Lewington.


It is amazing, her recovery time. Her hangovers are: uninterrupted sleep, a groan, a make me a bacon buttie and as I am cooking she is bounding from the bed, looking for her shoes, talking about a walk. For now though she is sleeping and I snuggle into her. Who knew age is more than a number. I don’t even drink, I fear the hangover.
‘Bacon’ she mumbles, strings of drool collect at her mouth. I kiss her and get up to go downstairs. I am in the kitchen when I hear her yell.

I switch up the gas, drop the frying pan and run to her. ‘What’s wrong?’ I pant.
She holds out her dry, admittedly matted, hair, with an elastic band, bound into the middle, choking strands.
‘Oh Rapunzel, Rapunzel’ I tut.
‘Don’t take the piss!’
I fetch the scissors. She curls onto the bed. I squeeze her in-between my thighs and fiddle with the knots, brow clenched in concentration, while she strokes my freckled skin.
‘Why don’t you come out with me?’ She asks.
‘You know why, I’m not comfortable. People stare’ I reply.
‘I want to show you off in places other than the supermarket’
‘Shouldn’t need to show off. It isn’t like a few years age difference. It’s decades, darling’
I nibble her earlobe, cutting stray strands of hair, then oh shit.
I start to smell the bacon.
I think I drop the scissors onto the bed. I whip her with my leg, as I dart, rushing to the kitchen and my heart simmers as I shake the frying pan, toasting bread under the grill.
‘Donald’ I hear her say.
She is standing at the top of the stairs. At first I think it may be a scarlet scarf, her hair covers most of her face, but then I see red drops, like grease fat.
I freeze, moving only to catch her as she faints down the stairs and I examine her.
I have sliced her neck with the scissors.