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: Garlands and Glühwein (Part 3: The Conclusion)

Amelia was stacking her packets of Lebkuchen, roasted almond brittle and marzipan sweets on the makeshift counter of her stall. She tried not to check her watch for the umpteenth time. Ella had left for the lot more than an hour before and neither hair nor hide of her had been seen since. She hadn't even been on her phone, according to the "last seen" time stamp. It's not that Amelia was worried. On the contrary, she was excited.

Short Story Sunday: Benched

The dream always started the same way: she was searching for something. She never knew what she was looking for, but the sense of urgency about finding it would not let her stop. Once she found herself in the maelstrom of a crowd, looking at people's feet until two clogs appeared. Another time desert dunes undulated before her eyes until she spotted an oasis beyond the mirage. Now she was looking at hats at the races: some were garish, others demure. The dull clip of hooves on the grass grew louder in her head and when she thought she might scream, she saw him, in his trilby, holding a single white rose.

Short Story Sunday: Latchberry Farm [Part Four]

George spotted Jacob walking along the ridge. He was inspecting the sheep.

            “Sir.”

            Jacob waved at him. “Looks like the flock survived the night. Some of us were not so lucky.”

            “Yes.”