‘I went over this on the phone.’
‘I just want to confirm the details.’
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Olive skin. Dark brown hair. She’s… I don’t know, average build, I suppose. Just over four foot tall. She’s tall for her age.’
‘What was she wearing the last time you saw her?’ Continue reading “Bluebells | Short Story”
Three hours I’ve waited in line. This better be worth it. Best attraction in London, they said. Get there early to beat the queues, they said. I was here at 9am on the dot and I still had to join the line three streets away from the theatre. It must be good if it’s this popular, but these days it’s hard to know what’s genuinely good and what’s just hype. Group of kids hanging around earlier were talking about waiting in the line just to see what the fuss was all about. Had no idea what they were even queuing for. Idiots. Continue reading “Stage Fright”
“Hi.”
RAPL’s receptionist looked up with her eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Um. I’m Claire. The Intern?”
“I know,” the receptionist said coldly.
Claire nodded. “Just wondering where I need to be today.”
“Floor two. Take the lift. Ask for Leslie.” Continue reading “The Intern: Part 3”
“Hi, I’m Claire? The intern?”
RAPL’s receptionist looked up at the worried face before her and replied, “I know, we established that yesterday.”
Claire turned pink. “I… I just want to know where I’m supposed to be today.”
The receptionist sighed and pointed at elevator doors on the wall to Claire’s left. “First floor. Ask for Bob.” Continue reading “The Intern: Part 2”
“Hello, I’m Claire.”
RAPL’s jaded receptionist looked up at the slim hand that was stretched out toward her, then traced her eyes up further to the beaming, nervous face to which it belonged.
The receptionist didn’t take the hand. Instead, she looked back down at her monitor and barked, “Surname?” Continue reading “The Intern: Part 1”
Paranoia, paranoia everybody’s coming to get me,
Just say you never met me,
I’m going underground with the moles digging holes.
The lyrics go around my head over and over, like a scratched CD that just won’t move on to the next verse. Continue reading “The Wardrobe”
