Wednesday Write-Up: Say A Little Prayer

After seven shots, a tumbler of Shandy and a few sips -- maybe more -- of champagne, Deloris couldn't really blame the unsteadiness of her hand as she applied her false eyelashes. Besides, nobody past the front row would notice if they were a little off kilter. The people came to watch her sing, not scrutinise her eyes.

Short Story Sunday: Inkwell

As Rosa unlocked the rear entry to the store, she was greeted by the familiar scents of dust, powder and string. She had finally remembered to seal the vat of glue that gave off the most ghastly chemical smell, and so she felt free to inhale deeply. It was a new day at Inkwell and the last Saturday before the schools reopened for the new year. 

Short Story Sunday: The Seamstress (In memory of Agnes Richter, 1844-1918)

The Jacket of Agnes Richter

Despite the incessant nagging from her mother to get out more and meet suitors, Agnes enjoyed her work in Uncle Pat's shop. As flamboyant as he was, she was centred and quiet, which allowed her to spend hours mending, refining and decorating the frocks, waistcoats, sashes, gloves, shirts and underthings of the  people in Cambridgeshire Mews.

Short Story Sunday: The Man in the Mirror

It is not clear how the mirror came to be in Fran's possession. It was a kerfuffle of hand-me-downs as each owner tried desperately to get rid of the bloody thing and was always relieved to pass it along to the next unsuspecting relative.

Poetry Post: Pisces In Pieces

It is a scary thing being
Naked while fully clothed.
I stand before you, toes 
Pointing inwards, like a frigid 
Pigeon hesistating on a ledge.

Tuesday Tale: Carrion

Children love scary stories. Whether it's about a witch who lives in a gingerbread house or a poisoned apple that puts a princess to sleep, they crave ghastly details and a swift, happy resolution. But there are some children, like Grimelda, who know that there are no such thing as Fairy Tales.

Short Story Sunday: Red Sand

She has seen him before. The muscles on his back run like rope on pulleys as he manipulates the sienna mound. It's hard to see what he's working on through the lace curtain and she daren't move it in case it catches his eye. The power trips. He swears into the darkness. Her pulse quickens. She anticipates the light before it makes her squint. He is a perfect silhouette, working the clay like he's birthing a new species.