Short story Girl in Front Dija Mulla

Girl in front – original short story

Queuing up to use cash machine at train station.

Girl in front. Long hair. Fruity perfume.

Tap tap tapping her feet.

Queue moves forward. She drops her purse. I swoop down. Pick it up. She turns around.

‘Oh thank you!’ Big wide smile. Warms my soul.

She turns around again.

And starts tap tap tapping her feet again.

My heart is racing. Skin burning.

Queue moves forward and it’s her turn to use cash machine.

She gets money out.

I get money out.

She goes to the platform.

I follow.

She is the one. My one true love.

The first person to smile at me in months. The first person to speak to me in months.

She must be thinking about me, as she climbs on the train. Sits down. Opens her book and begins to read.

I bet she’s not even reading. Day dreams about me replacing words on the page.

When she pulls out a phone. Starts tap tap tapping on it. I bet she’s telling all her friends about the great guy she just met.

I follow her all afternoon. When she pops to the pharmacy, meets her friends for coffee and goes to the hair dresser, I’m there too. In her mind and behind her. Watching.

Watching my one true love. Being truly lovely.

She’s walking along a road full of terraced houses. Pretty road. Smells like roses.

Stops outside one of the houses.

Turns around.

Looks at me.

Brown eyes pierce my heart.

‘STOP following me!’

She pushes the door open and the slam echoes all over the street.

I stay. My insides warming. Head light.

Make a note of her house number.

My one true love.

I’ll watch you forever.

 Short story by Dija Mulla about being followed

Thanks you for reading! This short story was inspired by the book The Collector by John Fowles.
Read more of my short stories if you liked this one.
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Short story about waiting at the bus stop

At the bus stop – 3 minute short story

Early morning waiting for a bus. Smell of shampoo still lingering. Eyes heavy with sleep.

Purple Coat Woman arrives at the bus stop, her coat’s too thin, she’ll be cold today.

Headphone Guy follows, dressed quite smartly. Maybe he’s got a job interview. Well done mate good luck!

Car stops nearby, Man with Shoulder Bag gets out waving his wife goodbye and comes to stand with us. His wife drives off. Cute couple.

Where’s Girl With Bun? The bus’ll be here any minute now.

She clobbers over finally.

Phew! We’re all here.

We all stand in silence, the same five people.

We’ve been getting this bus at the same time every week day for the last two years.

We’ve never spoken.

Short story writer dija mulla

Progress Update: won the TLC bursary

For anyone interested in following my writing career here’s an update.

Okay so I recently won the TLC Free Reads for Young Writers Bursary. The Literary Consultancy (TLC) offers professional critiques and edits to writers for a fee. But with the bursary I was lucky enough to get a professional critique for free! Which I’m really happy about!

I got the feedback last week and it’s been so useful and encouraging having a professional editor look at an extract of my work. It’s spurred me on to try even harder and hone my writing even more.

Here’s a quote from the feedback:

Dear Dija

There are a lot of positive things to say about this. It treads less well trodden paths in terms of fantasy novels and there are intriguing ideas about the cultures and society beginning to emerge. Your characters are clearly drawn and I can see that they should develop well and engage the reader. I do think there are more things to be done, but you’ve made a good beginning and I think the book could well find an enthusiastic readership.

And here’s an extract of the work I sent over to them: (note: this is also your first taste of the novel I’m currently working on!)

The forest smelt like it always did. Of clay caked hands and crumbling bark. He breathed it in. His last breath as himself. As his own true self.

He stood up straight, head bowed and hands moulded into fists.

He felt deaf.

Disturbed only when a voice screamed his name.

Other things that are happening:

I’ve started a new project, blending fiction writing with fashion. It’s a way for me to expose my writing to a whole new audience. Fashion is beautiful and is a creative outlet for so many people. I thought why not try adding my favourite creative outlet to it! And see what happens.

So far I’ve had some good feedback for the two shorts that I’ve written – most of the feedback is about the outfits but still I guess it’s a start. And anyway, it’s nice to know that I’ve got a decent fashion sense ;) Feel free to check out the fashion short stories here.

Exploring new dimensions

You may have noticed that my two most recent short stories, BFFs and Breathless on the Roof have a similar feeling of craving for friendship. It’s a new dimension that I’m exploring. I feel like there’s so many themes to human friendship and I’m really enjoying exploring the yearning side of it. Girls just falling in love with the idea of being best friends and being overcome with the ache of having a connection that deep.

Have you read them? Let me know what you think. As you already know, this blog is a way for me to practice my writing and improve it. And the only way I can do that is with honest feedback.

Collaboration Project

I may also have a colab project happening with the Writing Squad, more on that when it’s finalised.

Books books BOOKS!!!!

One last thing then I’ll shut up I promise! I’ve been devouring books left right and centre! If you’ve read and good book and wanna share it with me, please let me know. You can never have too many book recommendations in your life right?

I applied for the TLC bursary via NAWE and Wes Brown. They’ve got another round of applications coming up, so if you’re interested check it out.

– D


BFFs – cute short story


The floor vibrates under my feet. The tube jerks. My hand slips and I stumble. Whirls of faces.

My forehead bumps something hard.

I look up. She looks up.

Rubs her head, smiles silly and we both stand up.

She looks away. Strangers again.

She’s wearing a suit. Nice. It suits her. I smile at my own pun. Smile at the idea that maybe one day she’ll hear it.

She checks her phone. No signal down here silly, we’re underground. I want to say to her.

She tuts with her perfect mouth. She must be running late. Poor thing. That’s just British transport sweety, you can never rely on it. I say to her. In my head.

The tube jerks again. This time both of us are ready. We catch eyes and she smiles again.

The doors swing open and she teeters out with perfect black heels.

The tube moves on.

Where did you get those shoes? I want to ask her. I can never find black heels I like, but yours, well, they’re absolutely perfect.

Maybe next time you’re around, she’ll say, we can shop for them together. Maybe check out the sales.

Hmm let me check my calendar I’ll say. My heart beating fast. Knowing it’s empty anyway.

Oh, I’ll say, I’m not free tomorrow but maybe Saturday?

Great, she’ll say, see you then, she’ll say. We’ll go out afterwards. It’ll be fun. She’ll say.

And just like that we’ll be BFFs. That’s what she’ll call us. It’s a little lame for me, but it’ll sound nice when she says it.

The tube doors slide open. More violently this time. I get out.

Footsteps echoing.

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Flash fiction

Para – 3 minute short story

3pm. Walking to the corner shop. Bread, milk, maybe something for dinner tonight.

Cars driving past. Cars staring at him and his black leather jacket. Cars laughing cuz it didn’t suit him. He stumbled and the cars laughed even louder.

A woman walked the other way. Middle aged, laden with food shopping. She veered slightly away from him when she walked past. She must hate him. Freaked out by how weird he was. His forehead wet.

Automatic doors hesitated before letting him in.

Multi grain or white bread? Or maybe a baguette. Side glance from shelf stacker. Only losers ate white bread. He put it back, armpits soaked.

Ready meal? Cauliflower cheese was on offer. Elderly man picked up the pasta bake next to it. ‘Excuse me lad.’

He shrank away from the isle towards the Dairy fridge. Heart beating fast.

The elderly man probably smirking at the cauliflower cheese. Who eats that?

Green milk, definitely green milk. Good for tea and biscuits. ‘excuse me, can you pass me the last yoghurt pot, I can’t reach?’ Teenage girl, short.

‘Sure’ cough, swallow phlegm. ‘sure’. He could feel her eyes on his neck. I hope I don’t end up like him .

He handed her the yoghurt. Hands slippery, face hot.

People stared as he walked past them empty handed, breathing hard and breathing fast.  Probably wanted to steal something. Look at him, so chubby. Probably a tramp.

Every bit of his skin dripping.

He could try again tomorrow.

There were still some custard creams in the cupboard.


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Stranger At The Door: 3 Minute Story


Buzz of my alarm. It must be time to wake up. It’s the alarm that sounds like a phone ringing so it must be a weekday. The shower water’s going cold. I must only have half an hour left to leave the house. My neighbour slams his front door. I’ve only got about seven minutes to brush my hair.

There’s a queue of cars forming in front of me. That means I’m getting to work ten minutes later. I won’t be late. I’m never late. I just won’t get there as early as usual.

Quick glance at the clock on my screen. Quick glance again. It’s been three hours already. Time’s flying. That means work’s going well.

The smell of tuna sandwiches. The crunch of Glenda biting a rice cracker topped with houmous. A distant rumble in my stomach. It must be lunchtime.

The clank of keys dropped onto the table by the door. I’m home. Car tyres on gravel. My neighbour’s home. Steam boiling on my face. My pasta’s done. The chink of knife scraping plate. I’m full.

Door banging. Wait, what? Door banging? Is that my door? But it’s half 9 at night. This is when I hear the slosh of pouring wine. The dry taste on my tongue. A sleepy feeling. Not banging. Why banging?

‘Help! Please help me!’ Bang. Bang. Bang. It’s loud and urgent and it’s definitely coming from my door.

The snap of the chain. The click of the lock and before I know it a woman pushes into my house.

‘Oh thank you, thank you!’

Trails of mud all over the floor.

‘I was walking home. And this man, h-he came out of nowhere. And- and-he attacked me. He stole my bag. He- on my god I’m bleeding.’

Blood trailing down a knee. Trailing from the hallway all the way into the kitchen.

‘I just need to wash this off, thank you so much.’

Gush of water. Blood smears on the tap. Blood and mud on the granite table top.

‘I pushed him off me, b-before he could do anything, and I ran and h-he followed, shit I’m so scared.’

The scraping of curtains. ‘I can’t see him, thank you so much for letting me in. I didn’t know what else to do. I kept running and thinking I’m surrounded by houses, he can’t do anything here. But then I realised there weren’t that many houses left to run past. Thank you so much.’

There’s a cloth in the cupboard with some anti-bacterial surface cleaner. Lime scented. I wet the cloth with warm water. And wipe.

‘Do you mind if I use your phone? I can ask my husband to pick me up. I’m too scared to leave on my own. What if that man’s still out there?’

Telephonic beeps of numbers dialled. I must have some carpet cleaner somewhere. And a scrubbing brush.

After she leaves I bolt and chain the door again. Sit down with my glass of wine. Gag at the overwhelming smell of lime. And wonder where it all went wrong. In a distance I hear a clock tick.


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