To celebrate Northern Ireland winning through to the Euros, a piece of flash fiction, written in our peculiar dialect…dino

Flash fiction is defined as a story of extreme brevity. It’s often given as a challenge with either a theme or having to include specific words in the text. I’m setting the limit at 500 words maximum. If you want to join in – post a story and a photo if you have a suitable one, in the comments. I’ll change the challenge each week. – This week – Memories of Home.

“C’mon ewe eejit, will ewe leave it.”


“It wasnae a question.”

“Ach sure ewe know nawthin. I no what I’m doin, so I do.”

I watched the monstrous steel contraption inch along its suspended track. Billy’s face contorted with concentration. The piled bodies, the abominable machinery.

“Geezus Billy, will ewe c’mon tae fuck. I just wanna get away frae here.”

“Well, I’ll tell ya what, ewe piss aff and I’ll meet up way ye later. Go on.” He was laughing so I knew he didn’t mean it.

“Yure a twat.” I punched my best mate on the arm, friendly-like and laughed too. But I quickly stopped, transfixed, horrified as his hand knocked against the control and the steel clamp dropped from its height.

“Geezus Sean, sure yuve gone an’ buggered me up. Get away tae hell’s gates will ye,” he yelled.

For a moment, filled with tension and rising anticipation, the sharpened steel points hung frozen, then they plunged downward into the soft and pliable mass that had become Billy’s obsession. I stared at him in disbelief as he looked on with glee. The talon-like claw gripped one of the bodies and began to raise it, slowly, up and up.

“Ha ha fuckin ha. I love it, I fuckin’ love it, ya bastard.”

“Fuck’s sake Billy, calm down.”

“But look at it, look.”

“Aye rite, I’m impressed, Ok?”

“So ewe should be ya know, that’s skill that is. Me an ewe, workin taegether. We done that.”

I looked at my best mate and I saw the unbridled joy on his face and in his eyes. I started to smile. I seriously loved this guy. Not that I’d ever have told him. Fuck that! I mean he was a mate and all but you just don’t tell mates that. No way. But I still looked at him and was so happy to see him happy. I’d stopped here with him so many times over the past three days. Finally he had done it. Even with a bit of luck and a helping hand. Well, a helping punch.

“So Billy, mate. Jus’ what are ewe going to day with a gi-fucking-normous fluffy green dinosaur?”

“Gi’ it tay Katie. Tell her I won it for her. She’ll love it.”

“Don’t spose ewe’ll tell her ewe probably put a tenner into thon bloody machine tae finally win something worth two-bob?”

“Course not.” He hesitated and a frown clouded his face, “Ewe won’t either will ewe mate?”

“Course not mate.”

As we wandered away, with Billy carrying his dinosaur, the breeze picked up and brought the smell of the ocean on it. What a great night. Fourteen years old. On a school trip with my mate. Brilliant.

Ian Andrew is the author of the alternative history novel A Time To Every Purposethe detective thrillers Face Value and Flight Path and the Little Book of Silly Rhymes & Odd Verses. All are available in e-book and paperback. Follow him on social media:

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