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?"