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.

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: The Bridegroom's Oak

For three months, Norah tried to ignore her grandmother, but the elder lady, having lived through more than Norah could imagine, was persistent to a fault.

Letters at Christmas

A gap in the curtains beamed a slither of light onto Christine's pillow. She groaned, shifting her face deeper under the blanket. It was unusually bright for winter, everyone said so. She gave up the fight to stay asleep and began her morning routine. There was a lot to do today, and if the transport routes were clear, the delivery she and half the neighbourhood were expecting would arrive.