Summer Sundays

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.

On Monday mornings, when I opened my curtains and looked out on the patio, the wrought iron chairs had always moved. Haphazardly discarded by ghosts in the night who carried tradition beyond the grave.

I was the sole diner, but I was never truly alone.

Author: Ellie Scott

Ellie Scott is a freelance content writer and copywriter from Yorkshire. She writes speculative and silly short stories and flash fiction, writing-related blogs posts, and book reviews for short attention spans. Her most common pastimes include procrastinating on Twitter (@itsemscott) and hibernating on her sofa with a book and a (very large) glass of gin. View all posts by Ellie Scott