Marilyn Parr Marilyn Parr

The Smell of the Air was Sweet

Sugar work takes place in the basement kitchen, a long, dim room in the bowels of the old house. The others are apt to complain of the gloom, but I like the severe wooden paneling and wrought iron fittings. For it seems to me that any material as dour as walnut wainscoting must surely know how to keep a secret.

Published by Necessary Fiction, August 2022

Sugar work takes place in the basement kitchen, a long, dim room in the bowels of the old house. The others are apt to complain of the gloom, but I like the severe wooden paneling and wrought iron fittings. For it seems to me that any material as dour as walnut wainscoting must surely know how to keep a secret.

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Marilyn Parr Marilyn Parr

This Future Was Always Coming Sometime

You will see a balding man sound asleep in the passenger seat of a parked car. That’s how he’ll look when he’s dead, you’ll think before he jerks upright.

Longlisted for Spring 2022 Reflex flash fiction competition
Published by Reflex Fiction, May 2022

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Marilyn Parr Marilyn Parr

How I Became A Guardian Angel

Members of the congregation circled us with polite wedges of cake on cheap paper napkins, their button-up shirts littered with crumbs. They had big smiles but eyes that darted away. The minister approached, emptying the last of his tea into the grass beside my foot, a sudden motion for a man with such rosy cheeks. I folded my arms in front of my exposed midriff to hide my navel piercing. But I felt like God couldn’t be too picky. In fact, I thought we were exactly his type.

Second Place in The Cambridge Short Story Prize

Published by TSS Publishing, September 2021

Members of the congregation circled us with polite wedges of cake on cheap paper napkins, their button-up shirts littered with crumbs. They had big smiles but eyes that darted away. The minister approached, emptying the last of his tea into the grass beside my foot, a sudden motion for a man with such rosy cheeks. I folded my arms in front of my exposed midriff to hide my navel piercing. But I felt like God couldn’t be too picky. In fact, I thought we were exactly his type.

Second place in The Cambridge Short Story Competition

Published by TSS Publishing, September 2021

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Marilyn Parr Marilyn Parr

Pink Rectangles

The whites of my eyes look like over-fried eggs. They feel gritty, and rubbing them, whilst momentarily orgasmic, results in swollen eyelids. Despite diligently applying the artificial tears, there is no improvement in my symptoms and so I decide to take matters into my own hands by crying naturally. The internet is a treasure trove of sad things when you know how to look.

Published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, April 2022

The internet is a treasure trove of sad things when you know how to look. A popular online video player is quick to learn my tastes and starts feeding me video after video of missing children, teen suicides and people whose loved ones got swept away by natural disasters. I sob. My tears are genuine but my motives unclear. Each time I click on the little white triangle in the centre of the screen, I know I am doing more harm than good. 

Published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, April 2022

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Marilyn Parr Marilyn Parr

What I’ll Do Tomorrow

Something is going on with the birds. I’ve been standing at the window, tea going milk skinned, unable to tear my eyes from the shuddering acer, now a battleground of fluttering bodies.

Published by Free Flash Fiction, April 2022

Something is going on with the birds. I’ve been standing at the window, tea going milk skinned, unable to tear my eyes from the shuddering acer, now a battleground of fluttering bodies.

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Air Bubbles

We meet at the shore, where white horses fling themselves onto the grit. The water is ill. Grey-green. Like the sea is a wheelbarrow in which some god is churning quicklime. I wish you wouldn’t stare at the sky like that; we won’t find any love up there.

Published by Tiny Molecules, March 2022

We meet at the shore, where white horses fling themselves onto the grit. The water is ill. Grey-green. Like the sea is a wheelbarrow in which some god is churning quicklime. I wish you wouldn’t stare at the sky like that; we won’t find any love up there.

Published by Tiny Molecules, March 2022

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