Chris Tattersall Archives - Black Hare Press

By My Own Hand

October 3, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by Chris Tattersall

My humble home had been violated by thieves. They took a worthless souvenir that I had crafted for my now deceased wife. It had only sentimental value.

After years, I finally tracked my quarry to a basement. A man sat alone, oddly taking extraordinary care with the stolen object. I watched, as with gloved hands he wrapped it in linen and placed it carefully in a draw.

I gripped his neck. His face changing in colour from pink, through crimson and purple to a pale mottled blue.

As his life faded, I re-opened the draw marked ‘500 to 1000 BC’.

Chris Tattersall

Chris is a Health Service Research Manager and lives with his wife, Hayley, and Border collie in Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK. He is a self-confessed flash fiction addict with some publication and competition success. A recent obsession of his being writing Novella-In-Flash. He also hosts his own flash fiction website.

Website: fusilliwriting.com

Voyage of Their Lives

October 21, 2022/by Shawna Rowan

by Chris Tattersall

He had been blessed whilst his wife perished. Six days marooned; he knew the opposite to be true. He had been cursed with life.

His yacht gone, his wife dead. Starvation threatened, and soon any meat would be inedible. He told himself it would taste like pork, apparently humans do.

Saying a silent prayer for his wife, he sliced into the flesh with a shard of glass. The leg opened easily, exposing a layer of yellowy fat. He cut again; the pain hitting soon after exposing the red strands of his muscle.

If only his wife’s body had washed up.

Chris Tattersall

Chris is a Health Service Manager and lives with his wife Hayley and Border Collie Toby in Wales, UK. He is a self-confessed flash fiction addict with some publication and competition success. He also hosts his own website with a free flash fiction competition and resources.
Website: fusilliwriting.com

YEAR FOUR

January 12, 2020/by Black Hare Press

Tag Archive for: Chris Tattersall

My humble home had been violated by thieves. They took a worthless souvenir that I had crafted for my now deceased wife. It had only sentimental value.

After years, I finally tracked my quarry to a basement. A man sat alone, oddly taking extraordinary care with the stolen object. I watched, as with gloved hands he wrapped it in linen and placed it carefully in a draw.

I gripped his neck. His face changing in colour from pink, through crimson and purple to a pale mottled blue.

As his life faded, I re-opened the draw marked ‘500 to 1000 BC’.

by Chris Tattersall

He had been blessed whilst his wife perished. Six days marooned; he knew the opposite to be true. He had been cursed with life.

His yacht gone, his wife dead. Starvation threatened, and soon any meat would be inedible. He told himself it would taste like pork, apparently humans do.

Saying a silent prayer for his wife, he sliced into the flesh with a shard of glass. The leg opened easily, exposing a layer of yellowy fat. He cut again; the pain hitting soon after exposing the red strands of his muscle.

If only his wife’s body had washed up.

Chris Tattersall