Saturday Story: The Ghost Writer

 

The trouble with lying is that, eventually, one reaches a point of exhaustion, and then, once that point is reached, it becomes easier for the truth to emerge.

Friday Fable: Hay fever

The entire office was buzzing with the news of the recent engagements. Although seemingly unrelated, Daniel proposed to Dani and Andy had asked Cat, and there was much flashing of manicures and sparklers followed by guffaws and back slaps. The women and some of the queens all compared the rings they had seen to what their eventual band would look like if ever they were to be asked, if Mr Right ever got around to asking or if they finally were to meet Mr Right. The men quietly sweated into their undershirts because it is common knowledge that, once wedding fever takes hold, there is little else that their significant others would be willing to talk or think about while dropping some very heavy hints along the lines of thinking about the future and needing some advance warning to have their nails manicured (because who wants to have unsightly cuticles for the close-up of the ring, and Cat really should have known better than to let everyone see her hangnail).


It was on days like this that working remotely really appealed to Fionnuala (Fynn for short; she'd tried Finn for a while but soon tired of explaining that she was indeed a representative of the fairer sex). The only way she heard about anything that went down in HQ was by following the various chat groups in the company's internal messenger service. Working remotely meant that she could lurk and virtually eavesdrop without really having to contribute. Every so often she'd drop a comment just to see the astonished replies that betrayed how her co-workers had almost forgotten she was there. Today they'd uploaded pictures of the happy couples and their respective jewels, and she'd offered her congratulations. In one of the side chats, Brenda and Carine were debating rose gold over white gold (white gold was classier but rose gold was cooler), and in another Kristen and Rabakah (a posh pronunciation of Rebecca, Fynn joked to herself) were trading dating app secrets such as how to get more likes, when and how often to answer DMs (direct messages, duh) and which filters to avoid on Insta.

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.

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?"