Keith Butler
Bio
I'm an 80-year old undergraduate at Falmouth University.
Yep, thats 80 not 18!
I'm in love with writing.
Flash Fiction, Short stories, Vignettes, Zines, Twines and Poetry.
Stories (20)
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Neighbours
The end of the row was dominated by the red brick, iron-railed schools. The small infant school was separated by a central drive from the Juniors, the lair of the terrifying Miss Chudleigh, “Ugly Chugly” we called her, but not if she was in earshot. At the top of the drive was the Secondary Modern, where they put your head down the bog and pulled the chain.
By Keith Butlerabout 6 hours ago in Writers
I want to run
It was 6:15. He had been watching the digits change since 5:37. He would get up, he liked an early start for his long run of the week. His wife and kids were used to his early morning routines. His wife was long past caring, and the kids now seemed oblivious even to his presence. They would all carry on doing their own things.
By Keith Butlerabout 6 hours ago in Writers
Is it me you're looking for?
The phone rang. He searched everywhere for it. His excuses of old age were wearing thin; his wife’s patience had worn even thinner long ago. He found it in his raincoat pocket. They laughed together at his joke. ‘Saving it for a rainy day.’ He had missed the call from his son in New Zealand. He wouldn’t ring back, not all that way. It must be expensive, it’s the other side of the World, isn’t it?
By Keith Butler26 days ago in Writers
Bless em all. Content Warning.
Nancy pulls the blind tight against the sunlight. In this side room, the ward’s buzzers and beeps are muffled, distant. The fluorescent light flickers, highlighting white stubble on Rod's face, as he lies against the pillows. Ken stares as the taped cannula metronomically drips colourless liquid. Wife and son sit sentry at his deathbed as the monitor counts out his heart’s closing rhythm. Nancy’s tears slip down her face as she holds his thin, liver-spotted hand. Ken, face harrowed by helplessness, plucks at the bedsheet.
By Keith Butler27 days ago in Writers
Calling Elvis
I cried buckets that day. The rain-soaked mourners huddled at the graveside, black umbrellas like broken wings. The crowd pressed closer, pushing me towards the grave and the memories I would carry forever. Scents that would always cling to this day: the smell of damp soil and grass, cheap aftershave and wet wool.
By Keith Butler27 days ago in Writers
