Thursday Tale: Skipping Generations

 

"Oh, I am so happy; I just want to hug the whole world!"

She watched the cursor blink, as though goading her to reply to the message with something supportive, kind or encouraging. The truth is that she didn't bloody feel like it.

Saturday Story: Black Apples

 

It was too early to be awake. Beth knew that, but she was drawn to the window nevertheless. The apple tree in the back garden was veiled in mist, like a shy bride hovering outside the church, listening for the first notes of the organ to signal that it was time to walk down the aisle. She went downstairs and took the hurricane lamp from the shelf above the light switch in her larder, shrugged on her jacket and stepped into her woollen slippers. The garden was so quiet she was certain she could hear the caterpillars breathing. The tree stiffened at her presence and then shuddered its branches.

Short Story Sunday: The Devil's Locker (for CBY)

 

It was bittersweet for Eduard Boivin to see the bowlines thrown across the gap to the deck of the Napoleon III. It was a chilly day in February 1866, yet the sea birds saw the steamer off with their cacophony of farewell caws. He glanced at his pass again: Le Havre to Valparaiso. He had no idea of what he would find in this new world of which he had heard so much. He overhead a man comforting his daughter in German. He promised her that they would live in a big house at a lake, and that she would be able to play with all her dolls again in no time; for now they need to sleep in her trunk. He thought about his own luggage stowed somewhere in the bowels of the ship and instinctively patted his coat. His greatest treasure was still there, in his inside pocket. He only hoped it would survive the journey south. He breathed in the smell he would come to associate with his last moments in Europe: salt, smoke and snowdrops.

 

Short Story Sunday: Shouting into the Wind

There was no cure for what ailed him. He could have told the countless doctors, specialists and quacks he'd been carted to over the years. It wasn't anything he could physically explain or remedy with any number of concoctions, chemicals or charms. He didn't need sleep in the way that other people did. Doctors were stumped: he was perfectly healthy, not tired or sleepy, and a lack of sleep hadn't stunted his growth in any way. This news had frightened his mother and made his father clear his throat. Eventually he learnt to fake it, to pretend, so that he would fit in and the search for a Sleep Cure would cease.

 

Short Story Saturday: Overthinking

The strangest things triggered a chain of thoughts in Celia. Today it was the act of squashing garlic with the blade of her knife, the heel of her hand thumping down on the clove until it burst out of its skin with a satisfying pop, before peeling back the papery layers that made her fingers sticky with juice. She remembered doing the same thing one night at Suann’s house. They’d been preparing bolognaise from a recipe Suann’s friend had copied for her. The paper, although now safe in a plastic sleeve, was dotted with leftover ingredients from other cooking expeditions.

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.