Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction: Breakfast Television

5 March 2019


By Jemma Payne

“What were you doing,
when you heard?”
But me? It’s my voice immortalised & the tearoom telly always on /a waiting room /a
shirt with a little hole that’s snagged on the iron
The autocue tells me BRAKING (I read it Bra King first) & you need a coffee /sorry
the doctor’s running late /time to toss this shirt? (crawl across my chest…DOWN FROM SIX
The coffee machine /the receptionist /the iron draws a breath. The lens squints
expectant. I think of the pattern on your ironing board.
“We’re just
receiving reports…”

(Content warning: cannibalism)


By Kaia Costanza

“Get plenty of fibre and protein – best foot forward. Our donation boxes accept all high
quality feet. Change someone’s life.” The jingle plays. You eat your oatmeal with corn flakes
on toast and sip your Weet-Bix. High in Fibre, says the corn flakes package. The flakes relax
you. On occasion they instil domatophobia; “get plenty of protein,” your walls hear when
you—having left something important in the dining room—leave the TV on. Each pack
comes with cheap toy sunglasses. Your feet have grown back again, ready for donation.
Phalanges squelch. You peel them off, hoping the protein is enough.


By Natalie Fong Chun Min

draw the light-cancelling blinds but only enough
to allow light to wash its face, brush its teeth,
then let it go back to sleep, as you flick the telly on
to drain the room of its silent sorority,
between channels, the clink of cereal and spoon, milk and goo,
indistinct presence of someone’s rhythm, someone’s tandem,
not necessarily words but mistaken attention,
you trivialise time, volunteer it as service charge
to electronic deities, for temporary amnesiac bliss.
you wipe your mouth,
in a preoccupied, philosophical way,
and with it, your entire palate
and your plans for the day.


By Vanessa Lee

Remember, remember a softer time, watching dancing hues weave tales together,
promising us the world with the press of a button? Light and lilting, childlike and sweet, like
the milk and honey my father swirled together for me. The harsh clang of spoon against
bowl, the scent of hot raspberry jam, the blonde in mother’s hair in the sunlight; our old
morning noise. A flash of light, the screen blinks. The box speaks in a cacophony of voices,
droning on with the morning news. Hell, I’m still riding the tail end of that sweet dream.

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