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. 

Poetry Post: The Glass Heart

The Glass Heart

She arose, mid-winter, in the east
With frost clinging to her eyelashes.
Her brittle beauty enamoured,
While her glass heart rattled with
The absence of love.

Short Story: Ship-spotting (For CWV)

The first time they went to the water's edge, her job had been to hold the stopwatch.

"This is the busiest channel in the world," her father said. "More than one hundred ships pass through here every day."

Short Story: Diana's Mirror

He couldn't get their last meeting out of his head. She'd sat opposite him, cupping the empty mug of chai which had scented the air with cinnamon, weeping. She'd made no sound, but the rivulets on her cheeks made his heart ache. He didn't know what to say, so he kept rambling about the unfairness of it all and how she deserved better than the hand she'd been dealt. 

Short Story Sunday: The Language of the Soul

"This isn't exactly weather for a barbecue."

"We'll make the best of it, don't worry." Mickey tapped the address into the car's navigation system and looked at her. "Nervous?"

"What would give you that idea?"

"Oh, I don't know. The look of terror in your eyes, your white knuckles on the door handle and the sweat on your upper lip."

"Sometimes I hate that you're a police detective. You notice way too much."

He chuckled. "It comes with the territory." He squeezed her thigh. "They're going to love you, Kate. Trust me."

Short Story Sunday: Sakharov Gardens

"Come on, Rolf."

Ali looked on as the hound ignored her summons and continued digging his way to China -- or so it would seem. She wouldn't normally have minded, but they were in the public gardens and she didn't think the municipality would take kindly to having to fill in the craters he was creating at alarming speed. She tugged harder on the leash.

"Heel, boy!"

The voice came from behind them and Rolf abandoned his task, sitting guiltily at Ali's feet.

"I'm sorry about my dog," Ali began. "He just loves digging." She shrugged, hoping they would get away with a warning and a friendly smile.

"I know. I've been watching you."

Short Story Sunday: A Thousand Years

Lucy paused in the doorway of her apartment before entering. The door was slightly ajar and she could smell jasmine. It didn't seem as though the entry had been forced. She steeled herself and nudged the door with her foot. Had this been a horror film, she was sure it would have creaked on its hinges, but instead it swung wide until it bumped into the broom cabinet she'd installed behind it. On the carpet in front of her was a brown paper package. The red sealing wax looked liked blood stains on the string. 



"Hello?"

Short Story Sunday: Synecdoche

Ever since she was a child, Allie had possessed the Knowing. It was a trait that was passed down from mothers to first-born daughters since her ancestors made history as being among the first women burnt for alleged witchcraft. Knowing enabled her to perceive events before they happened, to have a sense of where things belonged or fit and to understand or have empathy on a deeper level than most.

Short Story Sunday: Quills

Before Max opened his eyes, he spent a few moments lying under the covers, doing what he called "savouring". He'd never needed an alarm. All his life, his body knew when it was time to rise. His mother found this trait especially odd and even resented it a little, given that she longed to inflict on him the same jolting announcement her mother had dumped on her every morning: "Hurry up, you're late! It's nearly eight o'clock. Time for school." Max was always awake before she got there, and greeted her with a smile, which annoyed her no end.

It was still his habit to smile on waking, despite the fact that he was long past his school days. And this morning was no different. He could hear the house warming up in the winter sun, popping and creaking as it shook off last night's cold. There was a swoosh of wings past his window as the birds gathered for their morning meeting on the lake. He squinted at the clock on his nightstand and sat up with a start. He'd overslept by two hours. That never happened. Panic pooled in a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He slumped under the covers and let the thought he'd been resisting surface.

Her.

Short Story Sunday: Garlands and Glühwein (Part 3: The Conclusion)

Amelia was stacking her packets of Lebkuchen, roasted almond brittle and marzipan sweets on the makeshift counter of her stall. She tried not to check her watch for the umpteenth time. Ella had left for the lot more than an hour before and neither hair nor hide of her had been seen since. She hadn't even been on her phone, according to the "last seen" time stamp. It's not that Amelia was worried. On the contrary, she was excited.