When you ask me to marry you, I won't say yes. Not at first. I'll make you wait, tease you with the possibility that I could refuse.
But you'll probably ask me somewhere I can't say no – in a crowded restaurant with a diamond solitaire perched on top of an elaborate dessert, dripping with honey and vanilla, while waiters hover to open Champagne and the other diners cheer and stamp and clap their approval, and you will force the sticky ring onto my finger and I will blush and smile and kiss you, even though I want to run out into the cool, fresh evening. Or maybe we'll be at the opera and you will pay them to display your proposal on the surtitle screen where they write the translation of the libretto for those who don't understand Italian or German or French, and I will be so lost in the music that I won't notice until people applaud and you have to point to the words scrolling above the stage, then you stand up and take a bow, haul me to my feet and kiss me in front of everyone, while I just want the performance to be over and the audience to collect their belongings and leave. Continue reading ... |
He hesitates. His finger hovers then presses firmly. The screen shrinks to black, the fan breathes its last. The room is silent, the desk bare, the filing trays empty.
His possessions are in a small box: a novel, a picture, a glass paperweight, an ebony letter opener and a silver Mont Blanc pen, a treasured present from his late wife. Not much to show for 25 years of dedicated duty. His attention is caught by a patch on the wall where the picture used to hang, a bright oblong on a background bleached by the occasional slivers of sunlight from the window behind his desk. The view isn't much anyway: a bleak courtyard surrounded by grey office buildings, partially obscured by the ugly metal fire escape that divides the window into two unequal triangles. Pure Slush Books, paperback available from https://bit.ly/RetirePB; for Kindle https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CZP7L3HC/; and for other eReaders https://bit.ly/retireePub |
Winter is her time: time to revel in the cold, to dance on the drifts and glide on the wind. Seven long months Yuki-onna retreated with the thaw to her ice cave above the snow line. Now she returns with the first winter storm, ready to hunt, to feed.
From the tree-topped knoll, Yuki-onna watched him approach. The heat radiated from him like crackles in pond ice when a rock is dropped onto the fragile surface. Her hunger reached out, eager to seize him, hold him, enjoy him. Continue reading ... |
He'd always meant to learn to use the washing machine in the flat, but the instructions were a foreign language. His lack of domesticity was one reason she said they were incompatible. That, and his poor communication, his reluctance to commit and his inability to take anything seriously. He'd wanted to explain he was scared that colours might run, that precious sweaters might pill, that buttons might go missing.
He'd always thought there was nothing more pathetic than a single bloke in a launderette watching last week's shirts and underpants rotating lazily in the greying water. Until he became one of them. Continue reading ... |
There are only three customers in the taproom of The Siren's Revenge, seated round a heavy oak table, each intent on the dominoes lined up before him. One clacks a tile down triumphantly, glances up at the stranger hesitating in the doorway.
'Grockle,' he mutters. 'Born in a barn, were ee?' says the man on his left. 'In or out, don't care which.' The newcomer chooses 'in' and shuts the door behind him. Despite the logs hissing and crackling in the fireplace, the atmosphere is distinctly chilly. But outside the rain is lashing down and the wind is strong enough to blow a man over, so this is as good a place as any to spend the evening. 'Alright?' says the third man. 'Well, thank you. Is the innkeeper around? 'Be there dreckly, I spec.' Available from Amazon. |
“Come on, Fergus, let’s do it!” Callum is quivering with excitement.
“I don’t know.” Fergus rubs his rump reflectively against a gnarled pine trunk. “Two against one. It’s not very sporting.” “Yeah, but he’s got a gun.” “True. Okay, follow me.” Continue reading ... |
Henry screws his eyes tight against the glare of the lights. He can feel everyone looking at him expectantly, but panic has stripped his mind bare. The hairy dressing gown that used to be his grandpa’s feels scratchy on his bare arms where the sleeves have been folded back; the stripy tea cloth fastened over his head by the slippery satin cord has drooped to one side, obscuring his left eye and exposing his right ear. His bladder sends him sudden signals he tries to ignore. He crosses his legs and squeezes hard.
Continue reading ... |
Know this: We are not gone. We are all around you, fleeting, insubstantial, but we are still here.
Know this: We are not gone. If you try, you can feel our touch in the petals of a flower or in the breeze that ruffles the grass and the leaves. If you look hard, you can see our reflection in the clouds and the lake. If you listen carefully, you can hear our whispered words in the silence between sleeping and waking. Know this: We are not gone. While you remember us, speak our name, think of us, miss us, look for us in the faces of strangers, we are still here. Continue reading ... |