Short Story Sunday: Garlands and Glühwein (Part 2)

"Did you sneak out to a party last night?" Amelia hid her smile behind her mug of coffee.

"Sorry, what?" Ella was still groggy from sleep and there was a crease embedded across her cheek. "Coffee! Thank goodness." She poured a giant mugful and joined her grandmother at the table. "Oh my... Is that what my hair looks like?"

Short Story Sunday: Garlands and Glühwein

Jonas carried the last of the logs to the stack beside the hearth. "That should last until New Year's Eve, at the very least."

"Thank you, dear. I'm sure we'll be fine. And my grandsons will be here for Christmas, so I'll enlist them if we need more fuel." She smiled at him. "You're sure you won't stay for a cuppa? Carrying wood is thirsty work."

"I'm OK, thanks, Mrs Evans."

She shook her head. "Well, nobody can accuse me of being a bad host. I've left your money on the table at the front door."

"Much obliged." Jonas tugged his beanie over his ears and went to the entrance. "See you at the Christmas Market?" he shouted down the passage.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

Jonas smiled. He pocketed his earnings and pulled the door shut behind him. He could see his breath ahead of him as he walked to his pick-up. It was just after four in the afternoon, and he could already count the first stars on the horizon.

Short Story Sunday: The Bridegroom's Oak

For three months, Norah tried to ignore her grandmother, but the elder lady, having lived through more than Norah could imagine, was persistent to a fault.

Letters at Christmas

A gap in the curtains beamed a slither of light onto Christine's pillow. She groaned, shifting her face deeper under the blanket. It was unusually bright for winter, everyone said so. She gave up the fight to stay asleep and began her morning routine. There was a lot to do today, and if the transport routes were clear, the delivery she and half the neighbourhood were expecting would arrive.

Short Story Sunday: The Portrait

"That's a lot of money for such a small picture," she said. "And it's not even a work of art, as such. It's just a print on some strips of wood."

Short Story Sunday: The Lighthouse

Sarah tried to ignore the wind and focus on her sketch. She'd clamped the pages down to prevent them fluttering, but she was having a hard time keeping the book still. The light was just right and she wanted to capture the moment before the clouds saturated the view with grey. The water was calm, save for the wake of small yachts or adrenaline junkies skimming the waves with their kites. Behind her, local dialects and raucous laughter spilled out of the waterside pub and skittered across the street. She hooked her left ankle around the railing, willing the wind to give her respite.

"You might want to move."
She assumed the voice was directed at someone else, and continued shading.
"Excuse me? You might want to move."

The Old Bookshop on Party Mile

"Hey Uncle," he said. "I wanna buy a book, Uncle." It sounded like he said "bayah buk".
"Sorry, we're closed."
"Ach, no man, Uncle man. I wanna bayah buk, man."
The girl on his arm giggled, and clutched at his pleather jacket. "Let's go, Luke."
"Nah, but I wanna book."
"Tomorrow, Luke. We'll get you a book tomorrow." She yanked his arm, and he stumbled after her.
"Ok, bye. Bye, Uncle." 

Short Story Sunday: Raisin Pancakes

I am learning to speak English. It does not matter that I already speak Russian, German, Romanian, Polish and Hungarian. I must learn English too. I have two Bachelors degrees, one Master's and I am halfway through with another.

Short Story Sunday: A Change of Plan

The bus was fuller than usual for a Saturday afternoon. Perhaps there was some event in the middle of town or a gathering of fans; Rowena remembered the last time she'd unwittingly walked into the middle of a flash mob and had had to stand there, helpless, while they flailed and jumped to the tune of some Top 40 hit. She checked her local news app to see if anything was listed. Nothing. The time at the top of the screen snagged her eye.

Short Story Sunday: The Quiet American

He wears a mud brown cap out of habit. It was something he picked up when he lived in Munich in the '70s. It was a way to shield his eyes from the sun and blend into the crowd. 

His last partner teased him. "You look like you're wearing it to hide a bald patch."
"I'm actually hiding my hair so the baldies don't get jealous." He misses the laughter that followed.

He always orders the same thing: a glass of dry white and a side of green olives. Today he's reading Baudelaire. Not because he has to, but because it's likely to make more sense once he's halfway through the wine. The couple at the next table are arguing. He shifts his seat to catch the shade cast by the umbrella. He glances at her from behind his sunglasses. She looks like the head of department he had in Munich, back when the Cold War was in full throttle and he spent his days decoding Russian intel.

Saturday Story: Burning Bridges

Lisa stared at her phone. She willed the notification light to flicker at her, and several times she thought she spotted a glimmer of green at the top left corner of her screen. But no. Nothing. 

Short Story Sunday: Blank Spaces

It doesn't take much for you to think about what was. Today, it's the way the bag of shopping cuts into your shoulder - a weekend's worth of groceries, with some extras you don't need, just because you feel like it. A week ago, it was the way the wind stroked the quadrant of lavender that had sprung up at the start of the season. The way it moved made you think of when she was there.

Short Story Saturday: Traumsee

She awoke facing the wall. The street light left a rectangle above her as it sneaked between the blinds. Beside her, the bed was cold; the sheets thrown back in haste, and the door was left ajar. She sat up and turned to face the window. The mist hung low around the house and the sun created a glare as it tried to permeate the day with light.

Short Story Sunday: In the Shadows

"That man over there is not quite well."

Karl-Hans throws his eyes in the direction of the voice. It was not directed at him, but at Felipe from Spain, who grumbles profanities at the empty space opposite him. And in the shadow of the church of all places.

"I don't want to sit in the sun," she says. 

"All right. What about over there? Just yonder."

Short Story Sunday: On the Windowsill

The hour of the party drew nearer, and she had not progressed beyond the salutation of her email. She kept staring at the daffodils bobbing out of their vases like excited puppies.

Short Story Sunday: St Patrick's Day

The feeling had been growing all week. It sat in the pit of her stomach, first as fear; then  anticipation. She eyed the crushed velvet skirt she dusted off once a year, and imagined that the colour rivalled rich Irish moss. The knock at the door made her start.

"Ready?"