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.

Short Story Sunday: Blank Spaces

It doesn't take much for you to think about what was. Today, it's the way the bag of shopping cuts into your shoulder - a weekend's worth of groceries, with some extras you don't need, just because you feel like it. A week ago, it was the way the wind stroked the quadrant of lavender that had sprung up at the start of the season. The way it moved made you think of when she was there.

Short Story Sunday: Birthday Girl

"So it's you," she said. "The Norah Singleton."

I swallowed. 

"Do you two know each other?"

"Not exactly," I said.

"Oh, I know her all right. She's been flirting with my Henry for years."

Short Story Sunday: Pieces of a Dream

No matter which way he turned, John could not outrun the branches tearing at his hair and face and arms and legs. The faster he went, the harder they scraped against him, cutting his flesh to scarlet ribbons. The light that was guiding him seemed to be slipping away, and all he could think to do was stop. Stand still. Catch his breath. Try to ride out the pain. As he did, the branches pulled back, his wounds healed and the light grew brighter. He heard a voice that seemed to come from within his own mind: Stop running from the truth, John.

Short Story Sunday: A Bicycle Built for Two

Whenever he was asked to tell the story of how he met Cara, Flick could almost feel the wind in his hair and the judder of the handlebars. As a boy, he loved coasting downhill to the town square, where his presence scattered the nuns and mums like chickens. More than once he had laughed at the fists and shouts thrown in his wake. 

Short Story Sunday: A Suitable Man [Part Two]

To read part one, click here: A Suitable Man [Part One]

Part Two continues below... 



The generator probably would have started sooner if Barbara had not insisted on supervising him. She failed to point out the handy step-by-step instructions that were on the wall and opted to fuss and point and shriek instead. It didn't go unnoticed that she made an effort to stroke his arm for no apparent reason. By the time Christopher was back in bed, nearly an hour had passed. When his head hit the pillow, as tired as he was, he could only think about Julia.