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?"

Short Story Sunday: The Space Between [Part One]

“That’s it. That’s all that’s left of him.”

I stared at the faded strip of photo paper which showed my great-aunt Rosa with her husband Fred. It was taken in a booth by the seaside in those lean years after World War I, when people clung to each other because everything else was expendable.

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Short Story Sunday: The Gathering

The first time Thea became aware of the possibility of something more to life than polishing her school shoes on Sunday nights, remembering to feed her goldfish Fred every day and trying to keep up with Mrs Pritchett’s horrid times table quizzes was when she walked into a library. There were large mobiles swaying from the ceiling, each featuring characters and scenes from Roald Dahl books. Her eyes were drawn to the large text dangling below a depiction of The Minpins: “Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” The quirky lettering seemed to mock Thea, as if to say that she’d never believed, had she? From that moment on, she became determined to find magic by believing in it almost as hard as she believed in Father Christmas, the Tooth Mouse and the Easter Bunny. Except for one small thing: whenever Thea tried to tell anyone about her magical mission, people laughed. They scoffed, called her childish and ridiculous and taunted her for voicing her vision to them. She began to wish she had never set foot in that stupid library and seen that quote, and who was dumb old Dahl anyway? What did he know about magic? He was making it all up. He was a liar.