Glass after glass was filled haphazardly with champagne and passed around the eager party. Everyone had scrubbed up well for the occasion; new dresses had been purchased and best suits dug out of the back of the wardrobe and dusted off. Only the very best would do for Mr and Mrs Acton’s golden wedding anniversary.
A microphone squeaked into life and cheers went up as the room prepared for the speech. Soon enough all eyes were on Mr Acton, who swayed gently from side to side. He held his sixth glass of champagne in his hand. Continue reading “A Toast”
“How’s the missus?”
Matt frowns. “What missus?”
His colleague frowns right back. “Alisha, isn’t it? How is she?”
“No idea what you’re on about, Marie.”
Marie snorts. “Oh no, you haven’t had a falling out have you?”
Matt maintains his look of puzzlement. “What you on about? I don’t have a girlfriend. Been single for months.” Continue reading “Gossips”
I saw a Twitter thread at the start of the year in which people were discussing the Ray Bradbury Challenge (I’m not gonna share it ‘cos I can’t find it… bad blogger alert, sorry), and it got me thinking. So naturally, I’m going to ramble on about it for a few hundred words or so.
The idea behind the challenge is that you write a short story ever single week for a full year, because it’s not possible to write 52 bad stories in a row. At some point, you’re bound to come up with a gem, right? Continue reading “Quantity or Quality in Fiction Writing?”
Mr and Mrs Showers cling onto each other’s hands and look up at the ceiling. They’re in the living room, directly below the bedroom of their young daughter, waiting for midnight and hoping it won’t come.
It’s a yearly ritual, this waiting malarkey. It occurs on the evening of the 31st of March, and it’s an opportunity to reflect upon past mistakes. They watch the clock and curse themselves for ever being stupid enough to name their daughter April. Continue reading “April Showers”
Summer Sundays were always meant for al fresco dinners. An opportunity for a busy family to share the week’s news over a bottle of wine and a table straining with food.
I didn’t see why it had to be different after the accident. Every week I prepared a spread fit for a king, only I was the sole diner. Continue reading “Summer Sundays”
Rachel’s back ached and her calf muscles were in spasm. Her alarm blared at her incessantly like a child screaming for its mother. It wasn’t the most pleasant way to wake up, and she groaned as she willed her eyes to open and figure out the cause of her pain. Continue reading “Time is a Social Construct”
I’ve lost my writing mojo, and it’s been gone for a while.
It’s not that I’m short of ideas. I have pages and pages full of scribbled notes for stories I want to write, and stories that I genuinely feel excited about. I’m just not having fun writing them. Continue reading “I Lost My Writing Mojo”
Books, glorious books! I got through four lovely novels this month and a smidge of non-fiction. I also upped my posting schedule to three stories and one blog post every month, so I’m chuffed I didn’t lose out on reading time in the process. Other writing projects went down the pan a bit but… there’s always April to get back up to speed!
Onto the books… Continue reading “March Reads”
The detective gazed into the glazed eyes of the corpse on the floor and wondered what its last thoughts could have been as its blood spurted from its neck and flooded the floor. Probably, “Oh fuck,” or something to that effect, she thought.
She had three months left on the force, and she’d been craving a juicy case to get stuck into before she stepped into the quiet lane of retirement. This looked like it could be the one. Continue reading “Big-Eared B*stard”
Bruno froze at the click of the bathroom door. He heard the floorboards creak, a splosh, then the squeak of skin on the bottom of the tub. He waited for the sound of moving water to subside, and then he let the silence hang for a couple of minutes.
Satisfied that his roommate was fully ensconced in her bubblebath, Bruno launched himself at the sofa, then clambered up onto the back of it. From there, he manoeuvred himself to perch on the windowsill. Continue reading “The Voice”