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. 

Short Story Sunday: The Curse of Uncle Martin

Benny had delivered the instructions with the drop-off of gherkins. Charlie knew he’d only have to look under the middle jar in the shop-soiled batch to find it. But for some reason, and Benny wasn’t about to speculate why, Charlie was late. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and inhaled. He’d give it another five minutes before he radioed base. Best not to ruffle too many feathers while the sun was still up.