Microfiction #writephoto: Poseur

This is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt.



He stood on the street corner and froze. His mind went numb and he thought he was going to be sick or piss himself. Or both. He knew she was a drama queen, and telling her about Pauline was the stupidest fucking idea he had ever had in his life. Or second stupidest after his famous writer pose idea, the famous writer with notebooks and fucking fountain pen pose, the sort of famous writer who sits in pretentious French-style cafés, the kind of café that plays Edith Piaf and George Brassens songs all day to pretentious famous writer poseurs with their fucking fountain pens and notebooks and their glass of pastis.

What a prat he had been. He’d handed himself over to the drama queen without even realising it. She had the imagination of a boiled potato, but she knew him inside out. He stood there on the corner, the park on one side of the street, his apartment block on the other. And she was there, like all three witches from Macbeth rolled into one, standing next to the litter bin, and the litter bin was on fire. Ash was already floating high in the air, pale flakes like dirty snow. Paper ash. From the street corner he could see the black cover of a notebook curl in the heat.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

31 thoughts on “Microfiction #writephoto: Poseur”

  1. The horror of imagining all three of Macbeth’s witches in the one person is scary in itself. I also liked the anger you injected into your character, or was that just you??

    1. Not me, I hope 🙂 I was just thinking about what (apart from people and pets of course) I would save if there was a fire and it had to be the laptop and the external memory. That led me to thinking about how much more dangerous it would be to have only paper copies of work. Not that I have a vindictive ex…

    1. Maybe I’m just jealous that they have the time and the money to sit in cafés and invest in expensive carnets, but writers who need to do it in public make me snort.

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