Standin theer leyke cheese at fourpence.

Flash Fiction.

Another photograph of someone I don’t know. Anybody who would know who this is will be dead now.

I remember asking my Aunt Barbara if she knew who he was, but she had no idea. She recognised the location of the photograph, I think she even knew whose house it was, but other than that she was as mystified as I was.

And then a year or two later she died.

I can’t think of anyone else I could ask.

I have to say though, I don’t like the look of him. He’s up to no good if you ask me.

This fifty word piece of flash fiction should be read in a thick Lancashire dialect.

Standin theer leyke cheese at fourpence.

‘Look out window, Harry. Is he still there?’

‘Aye, he is, love.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But what does he want?’

‘Don’t know, love.’

‘Why don’t he knock door? He can’t stand out there forever.’

‘He’s having a bloody good go. He’s been standing there since a week last Wednesday.’

-- Standin theer leyke chees at fourpence - Hanging around. Having nothing to do.