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Category: Flash Fiction

The MacbethinatorMACBETH POSTER

The Macbethinator

Published by MartynWinters on January 14, 2026

by Martyn R Winters

Will leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, steam from his green tea curling around his beard. With a theatrical groan, he tossed a stapled stack of A4 papers onto the table.

ā€œThey want a rewrite, Ben,ā€ he sighed. ā€œThe script editor, a man with the soul of an old shoe, and the imagination of a month-old brassica, says the pacing is problematic.ā€

Ben Jonson took a sip of his espresso, suppressing a smirk. ā€œProblematic, Will? What exactly did he say?ā€

ā€œHe says the witches are confusing for a modern test-audience demographic,ā€ Will said, his voice steadily rising in pitch. ā€œHe asked if we could make them TikTok influencers. Influencers! Damnable man. Because apparently tragedy needs brand synergy now, whatever that infernal nonsense means. And the blood. He says thereā€™s too much of it. Apparently, focus groups say the ā€˜out, damned spotā€™ scene tests poorly. They find Lady Macbethā€™s mental health journey unrelatable without a redemption arc.ā€

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Where there’s muck. By Martyn WintersA middle aged man in tight jeans talks to an alien

Where there’s muck. By Martyn Winters

Published by MartynWinters on March 14, 2024

A free short story for you to read.

It has been said by wiser people than me there is nothing sadder than an old dog wearing young clothes. That may be true, but how many of them have met a sapient alien plant and solved global warming because of a pair of tight Levis? None right?

It happened early one evening as I was getting ready for a night of beer and voddy shots at McBangs, the second-best night spot in Agadir. The best club is Fountaineā€™s, but you must be under forty-five to get in, or filthy rich, and I was quack-quack-oops on both those counts.

Anyway, Iā€™d just pulled on my kecks and I heard a snigger coming from near the balcony curtains, which Iā€™d thrown wide to let the sea air waft in because it gave me that heady, by-the-sea ambience which brought me to Agadir. In fact, Iā€™d chosen my hotel, the Biltong Founty, because of its proximity to the ocean. That, and the stellar Trip Advisor reviews, one of which describes the Founty as, ā€œA remarkable hotel with a handcrafted entrance fountain evoking the Portuguese origin of the name, and lobby floors in the Amazigh style, representing the commitment to cultural authenticity.ā€

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Post-apocalyptic Glamping by Martyn R Winters

Published by MartynWinters on October 23, 2023
A tent and a glam chandelier with a comfy sofa set in an apocalyptic scene

ā€œHey groovlings,ā€ Dad said. He was fond of ancient idiomatic terms. I found it cringeable.

He was sat in the front offside seat of our Nisbang Misogynist, which is one of those excessively large vehicles beloved of trades, especially the hyper-masculine ones like Kitchen Cinching. Dad was one of those, you could tell by the big yellow toolbelt he always wore. Iā€™m a librarian-spandicle. Donā€™t ask, just donā€™t visit a library in spandex. He says its chick-work, which is okay because I havenā€™t decided on my gender yet. Maybe I wonā€™t, just to confuse him. He laughs like it’s the funniest joke, which irritates me more than it should. Heā€™s about as funny as a full nappy.

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New short story: This guest of summer.

New short story: This guest of summer.

Published by MartynWinters on July 27, 2023

I was just six years old when I discovered my fondness for evisceration. I was sitting in the garden of a gamekeeperā€™s lodge on the grounds of Blackstone Manor my father rented for the summer: an old cottage with overgrown ivy covering much of its fascia. A floral arch rose over the front door porch, which itself was a paean to a glory long lost to antiquity: large, solid heavy wood, probably oak, with brass furniture, and gloss black paint.

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NEW FLASH FICTION: The inner grace of the pawn sacrifice