
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 (21)
Filter by community
Elsie
Elsie, a large, imposing matriarchal seamstress, is seated at her sewing machine. Her thick brown lisle stockings rolled down above the plaid slippered feet that waited on the treadle. Her grey hair was pulled back into a bun. A few escaped wisps fall over her eyes. The Woodbine inserted in her heavy jowl left to burn down like a joss stick. Her breath rasping as the ash grows into a gravity-defying curve and the smoke turns the wisps yellow.
By Keith Butler7 days ago in Writers
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 a month 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 a month 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 Butler2 months ago in Writers



