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.

Saturday Story: To Catch a Killer

He tried to quiet the sound of his breathing. The last thing he wanted was to alert Klement that he was nearby. It was no mean feat. The panic he felt escaped his nostrils in small puffs before disappearing into the night air. A car door slammed in the distance and two cats battled it out in their alley. His good eye was trained on the doorway above the fire escape. The instructions he received told him that at exactly three minutes after the hour, Stuttgart, Hollander and their kingpin Klement would appear before meeting their driver in the unmarked taxi below. His back tensed; his safety catch was off and in forty-five seconds, all would be revealed. It surprised him when he had to dab his brow despite the chill.

Short Story Sunday: The Traitor

“What are we going to do now?”

Elise looked at the tear in her glove.

Friedrich placed a hand on her arm. “You cannot avoid looking at me forever.”

Short Story Sunday: The Mapmaker of Destiny

I was not aware that I had fallen asleep. It took me a moment to adjust to newness of my surroundings. Someone had moved me into the recovery position, and my cheek was resting on my arm. I heard voices; all at once and then distinctly.