writer | editor | artist
They stood just inside the doorway, wrapping themselves in coats and scarves. Finally, the grandmother grasped the young girl and pulled her close, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘One kiss is yours,’ she said. ‘The other is for your husband.”I don’t have a husband,’ said the girl. Her grandmother buttoned her coat and opened the door….
I met this girl in the library. I liked her instantly; of course I liked her! A girl like that is better than cake.Her father was ‘in real estate’, which at first I assumed meant that he was a realtor, but later realised meant he was rich. So rich he didn’t really work at all,…
If she was in the bathroom crying, well that was fine with him. The sound of the shower running was a soothing, almost complete one. It allowed him to concentrate on watching the eggs boil. What had he said wrong, anyway? That it was just as well. It was. The child had been … wrong….
There was no trace of their having passed. None of the obvious ones, anyway. No crushed circle of grass; no broken branch to mark the way. The trees bore no aura of attentiveness or alarm. There was, perhaps, a fraint trace of her perfume, already fading. The scent of rope and leather. A heated wash…
I wanted a wife and so, like a fool, I wished for one. I thought but did not say, even if she is a bird. Who is it that listens for the wish the heart makes, and skews it so? My wife, when she came, was, of course, a bird. I found her on the back…
When the war was over, I thought I was done with grieving. Don came home and, though he wasn’t quite the man I’d seen off two years earlier, he was still my Don. I just had to look a little harder to see him sometimes. Or tease him a little more before he’d shuck off…
She is at home now, trimming the hedges or raking leaves from the small, square lawn. She may be reading, or contemplating writing a poem. She may be tucked up on the green chair, headphones in her ears, fingerless gloves on her hands, working in her notebook. I like to think of her this way;…
Delete everything*, she said. And we thought, perhaps, she meant only the difficult things. The things that would betray us. But everything also meant that time we dyed one of the chickens blue, accidentally of course, and then blow-dried it through the wire of its pen. Everything meant that kiss when our teeth clacked together…
I set a writer I am working with the challenge of writing a 200-word story every day for two weeks. Each one has to be self-contained: each one featuring a new story, a new character/s. I firmly believe that I should never set someone a task I wouldn’t be prepared to undertake myself. His task is to…