Dear diary,
The search for life on Mars is finally over! We did it! We found it! Can you believe it?
All that time, all that money, all that high-tech equipment has finally paid off. And it’s such a big deal for me on a personal level. Finally, I know the truth… Continue reading “There Is Life On Mars | Microfiction”
One pair of trousers, that’s all June required. She repeated it over and over in her mind as she hurried down the high street: “One pair of trousers, one pair of trousers, one pair of trousers”. The mantra fell in time with her footsteps – “one pair” with the left foot, “of trousers” with the right. It looped so quickly, so incessantly, that it became white noise and nonsense and she disremembered altogether why she’d ever walked into town. Trousers? Forget about it. Not with so many other beautiful garments on display to entice and torment her.
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The front door slams, the house shivers and its inhabitants freeze.
“They’re back,” says Daughter, and her face quickly crumples as tears well.
“Don’t you dare cry,” hisses Mother. “They’ll hear us.”
The family falls silent and listens. A series of thuds and rattles comes from the floor below. Cupboard doors are opened and closed, opened and closed, over and over. Then there’s a short yell, a moment of quiet, and the soft wail of a miserable child.
Daughter whimpers. Mother glares at her.
I only open my curtains when the sun’s gone down. It’s so I don’t have to see the people in the garden. They freak me out with their wide, dead-eyed stares. Continue reading “My Evening Routine | Microfiction”
Round and round goes the hamster in his wheel, sending up giggles from the human faces which peer through the bars of his cage.
“Silly Hammy.”
“He just keeps going, doesn’t he?”
“Why does he run for so long, Mummy?”
“I suppose he’s just having sooo much fun!”
The hamster lets out an indignant squeak. Fun? Ha! As if, he thinks. His heart hums and his lungs burn with exertion. But look… it might just all be worth it… Continue reading “Silly Hammy | Microfiction”
Hang In There! says the poster, and just beneath this peppy instruction is a photograph of a sloth hanging languidly from a branch. Its little black eyes gaze out, curious, while a superior half-smile on its mouth shows its true colours. “Oh yeah, you hang in there,” that smug mouth seems to say. “I’ll even provide the noose.”
Gordon wants to punch that fucking sloth right between its beady eyes.
“Help. Help us! My friend’s been knifed. He’s bleeding out.”
The little girl eyes the panicked lime that stands before her, along with his injured lemon friend who is oozing juice fast. “Oh. I don’t know what to do.” Continue reading “Bleeding Out | Microfiction”
Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance. Polly suppresses a yawn. She glares at the night sky which is blanketed in clouds heavy with storm.
Rain already, she thinks. Get it over with.
Almost as though they are lending an ear, the heavens open. Fat raindrops make their rapid descent down to Earth and Polly quickly pulls up her hood and directs her camera at the Stormy Princess.
For decades the Stormy Princess has guarded this short, barren stretch of Yorkshire coastline. From the day she first appeared in 1959 — crafted from clay by an anonymous artist — the sculpture has been the source of superstition and rumour. She’s bewitched, say the residents of nearby towns and villages. She’s made of magic. Every time a storm passes over her, she moves.
Try as I might, I just haven’t been able to get my shit together.
I haven’t posted anything here in weeks, nor have I posted any fiction or non-fiction on Twitter, Instagram or Medium. Writing — or even just the thought of writing — makes me anxious or depressed or angry. Continue reading “Scared of Writing (And VSS365 Anthology) | Blog”
