Saturday Story: The Ghost Writer

 

The trouble with lying is that, eventually, one reaches a point of exhaustion, and then, once that point is reached, it becomes easier for the truth to emerge.

Friday Fable: Hay fever

The entire office was buzzing with the news of the recent engagements. Although seemingly unrelated, Daniel proposed to Dani and Andy had asked Cat, and there was much flashing of manicures and sparklers followed by guffaws and back slaps. The women and some of the queens all compared the rings they had seen to what their eventual band would look like if ever they were to be asked, if Mr Right ever got around to asking or if they finally were to meet Mr Right. The men quietly sweated into their undershirts because it is common knowledge that, once wedding fever takes hold, there is little else that their significant others would be willing to talk or think about while dropping some very heavy hints along the lines of thinking about the future and needing some advance warning to have their nails manicured (because who wants to have unsightly cuticles for the close-up of the ring, and Cat really should have known better than to let everyone see her hangnail).


It was on days like this that working remotely really appealed to Fionnuala (Fynn for short; she'd tried Finn for a while but soon tired of explaining that she was indeed a representative of the fairer sex). The only way she heard about anything that went down in HQ was by following the various chat groups in the company's internal messenger service. Working remotely meant that she could lurk and virtually eavesdrop without really having to contribute. Every so often she'd drop a comment just to see the astonished replies that betrayed how her co-workers had almost forgotten she was there. Today they'd uploaded pictures of the happy couples and their respective jewels, and she'd offered her congratulations. In one of the side chats, Brenda and Carine were debating rose gold over white gold (white gold was classier but rose gold was cooler), and in another Kristen and Rabakah (a posh pronunciation of Rebecca, Fynn joked to herself) were trading dating app secrets such as how to get more likes, when and how often to answer DMs (direct messages, duh) and which filters to avoid on Insta.

Thursday Tale: Skipping Generations

 

"Oh, I am so happy; I just want to hug the whole world!"

She watched the cursor blink, as though goading her to reply to the message with something supportive, kind or encouraging. The truth is that she didn't bloody feel like it.

Saturday Story: Black Apples

 

It was too early to be awake. Beth knew that, but she was drawn to the window nevertheless. The apple tree in the back garden was veiled in mist, like a shy bride hovering outside the church, listening for the first notes of the organ to signal that it was time to walk down the aisle. She went downstairs and took the hurricane lamp from the shelf above the light switch in her larder, shrugged on her jacket and stepped into her woollen slippers. The garden was so quiet she was certain she could hear the caterpillars breathing. The tree stiffened at her presence and then shuddered its branches.

Short Story Sunday: The Devil's Locker (for CBY)

 

It was bittersweet for Eduard Boivin to see the bowlines thrown across the gap to the deck of the Napoleon III. It was a chilly day in February 1866, yet the sea birds saw the steamer off with their cacophony of farewell caws. He glanced at his pass again: Le Havre to Valparaiso. He had no idea of what he would find in this new world of which he had heard so much. He overhead a man comforting his daughter in German. He promised her that they would live in a big house at a lake, and that she would be able to play with all her dolls again in no time; for now they need to sleep in her trunk. He thought about his own luggage stowed somewhere in the bowels of the ship and instinctively patted his coat. His greatest treasure was still there, in his inside pocket. He only hoped it would survive the journey south. He breathed in the smell he would come to associate with his last moments in Europe: salt, smoke and snowdrops.

 

Short Story Sunday: Shouting into the Wind

There was no cure for what ailed him. He could have told the countless doctors, specialists and quacks he'd been carted to over the years. It wasn't anything he could physically explain or remedy with any number of concoctions, chemicals or charms. He didn't need sleep in the way that other people did. Doctors were stumped: he was perfectly healthy, not tired or sleepy, and a lack of sleep hadn't stunted his growth in any way. This news had frightened his mother and made his father clear his throat. Eventually he learnt to fake it, to pretend, so that he would fit in and the search for a Sleep Cure would cease.

 

Short Story Saturday: Overthinking

The strangest things triggered a chain of thoughts in Celia. Today it was the act of squashing garlic with the blade of her knife, the heel of her hand thumping down on the clove until it burst out of its skin with a satisfying pop, before peeling back the papery layers that made her fingers sticky with juice. She remembered doing the same thing one night at Suann’s house. They’d been preparing bolognaise from a recipe Suann’s friend had copied for her. The paper, although now safe in a plastic sleeve, was dotted with leftover ingredients from other cooking expeditions.