The House on Ottoman Street - The Pride Roars, January 
Flash Fiction
Ivy is an armchair – the old-fashioned kind that makes you want to slump back, curl your legs up, be cradled by her wide, welcoming arms. She has seen better days; bits that used to be well sprung have collapsed into folds of lumpy flesh; the crumpled antimacassar of her jowls sags round her neck; some of her creases sprout occasional whiskers, like escaping strands of horsehair.

The bright florals of her youth have faded, but she does her best to preserve the pattern by dyeing the tassels of her hair a tarnished copper, applying a thick coating of walnut-coloured foundation that stops abruptly at her jawline, topping it with cherry wood circles where the frame of her cheek bones used to be. Pride is woven into her fabric.

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This story was nominated for Best Of The Net 2026.
Bric-a-brac and Broken Wings - The Pride Roars, January 
​Creative Non-Fiction
Our mother was a serial collector - of thimbles, plates with maps on them, Beswick porcelain figures of horses and birds, Lilliput houses, decorative paperweights, Wade Whimsies and coloured glass animals. Or rather, we made her collect them. For birthdays or Christmases she always said she didn't want anything except to spend time with us, her family, so we chose things we thought she would appreciate. Pretty things with no practical use. We had no idea if she actually liked thimbles or plates or ceramic animals, but because she saw the love with which they were given she let us believe she did. 

​Our mother also collected people. We don't know if she went looking for them, or if they were naturally drawn to her: the waifs and strays, the downtrodden, the helpless, society's rejects, the people nobody else wanted. They even occupied our home from time to time. We called them 'mother's lame ducks', but only ever behind her back. 

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Dymchurch Beach on a September Evening - Bath Flash Fiction Festival Anthology (7)
Creative Non-Fiction
We, the children, gather at dusk and wander down to the water's edge, feet slapping on wet corrugations of sand. Evening colours turn the waves the delicate pink of tiny seashells.
We lose ourselves in memories of family holidays. The thatched guest house is long gone, destroyed by fire. The desolate plot seems too small to have contained so much love and laughter. Or perhaps the passing years have diminished it.
We smile, recalling early morning expeditions to watch the sun rise over the sea; parents struggling to erect striped canvas windbreaks and fighting with recalcitrant deckchairs; the scramble to move our belongings under the shelter of the curving sea wall to escape a short, sharp shower.

Published by Ad Hoc Fiction
Exit Stage Left - The Pride Roars, February 
Essay
This has been a sad time. The drama group I've been part of for more than forty years has finally bowed to the inevitable and folded. Our lighting and sound equipment has been donated to other local am dram groups, village organisations and a nearby primary school. Our props and flats are destined for the tip in the next few weeks. It's the end of an era.
Acting has been part of my life since I was four years old, and I've been fortunate to play a huge variety of wonderful roles (and some crap ones, but I don't talk about those). I miss it, but much less than I thought I would, because writing has more than filled the void. Looking back, I can see how closely the two activities are related, and recognise that for me it was the acting that opened the door to becoming a fiction writer.

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All the Times She Didn't Say No, and the Times She Did, Pink Panther Magazine, Vol 16 no 1, March 
​Flash Fiction
The times she didn't say no:
When her best friend begged her for the fifth time to go to the party so she wouldn't have to go by herself. Her excuses had run dry. She knew it would be noisy, crowded, full of unknown people with groping hands in dark corners. She would limit herself to two drinks so she wouldn’t need to use the bathroom, with its dodgy lock, rust-stained tub and empty toilet roll.
When she ended up in the sticky-floored kitchen buttonholed by the boring bloke with crusted yellow pimples and bad breath who’d been avoided by everyone else, because she was sober and too polite to walk away. 
When he offered to walk her home, extracting from her a beer-soaked kiss and a promise that she would go with him to the pictures the following week.
When he put his clumsy hand on her thigh and edged his spatulate fingers higher under her skirt, and when he pummelled her left breast hard enough to leave bruises. She pushed his hand away, but he persisted and eventually she gave up and let him. 

Available from Pink Panther Magazine.
Out of Sight, Out of Mind - The Pride Roars, May
Essay
The chances are high that, unless you have it, you've probably never heard of aphantasia. And there is also a chance that even if you've never heard of it, you might have it yourself. It's not a disease or a disability, it's not really even a condition. It's a rare neurodiversity that affects an estimated 1-3% of the population. It has no known cause and although most of us are born with it, it can also be acquired through traumatic brain injury. It has no formal diagnosis, although self-administered tests seem to be very accurate, and only now are neuroscientists starting to take an real interest in it.

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Room For Improvement - WestWord, May 
​Flash Fiction
Probation Performance Review for: James Pullman (Boyfriend)
Evaluated by: Melanie Phillips (Relationship Partner)
Assessment Period: Initial Six Months
English: C-
James is not the most effective communicator. Although he gives the impression of being attentive, his listening skills need some improvement. When questioned, he can repeat the words verbatim but it soon becomes clear he has absorbed neither their importance nor their meaning.
Biology: C+
Initially, James's basic knowledge of anatomy, particularly the female kind, left much to be desired. However, this is now improving thanks to his obvious desire to learn and willingness to put in hours of assiduous practice.

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This story was a runner up in the WestWord Hermit Crab competition.
Home is the Sailor – Flash Flood, National Flash Fiction Day, June 
​Flash Fiction
Each day at slack water she scours the tideline. Some days the sea gifts her glass – blue, green, brown or white – milky and opaque like the eyes of the sailors claimed by the ocean. Sometimes she finds bleached, knobbly finger bones of coral, and shells as small and pink as babies' thumbnails or convoluted like a man's ear.
Each day she examines her treasures for signs of her lover, breathes a sigh of relief, and takes the pieces back to her shack among the dunes where she caches them carefully in an ebony chest.

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Narcissus Undone – Meniscus Literary Journal, vol 13 issue 1, June 
​Short Story
My mother worships at the shrine of the goddess of eternal youth. On her altar is an army of creams, lotions and serums, the serried ranks of bottles and jars in neutral colours—pale pink, clinical white, baby blue and bland beige—marching into battle against the advancing years.
Every morning she anoints herself with unguents until she gleams, as smooth and slippery as a newborn emerging from the cave between the mother’s thighs. She repeats the ritual in the evening, sacrificing sleep to complete the holy rites demanded by the goddess of beauty in exchange for working anti-ageing miracles unseen, in secret, in darkness.
My mother regards me with envy, jealous of my unwrinkled forehead, my unblemished complexion, my sculpted cheekbones. She covets the natural blush of my cheeks and the taut skin under my eyes. Sometimes I see hatred in her sideways glance. If she could turn me to stone with a look, she would.

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Dear Society - The Pride Roars, September 
An Exquisite Corpse by Hilary Ayshford, Joyce Bingham, Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos, Megan Hanlon and T. L. Tomljanovic
The thing about dolls, though, is that one minute they're all the rage and the next they're lying forgotten in the back of a cupboard or in the attic gathering dust. In the 1960s it was Barbie, soon joined by Ken, then Chatty Cathy and Action Man; in the 1980s and 90s Baby Alive gave way to the Cabbage Patch Kids, Tickle Me Elmo, Beanie Babies and Furbies. Then along came Bratz, Elsa, a Barbie resurrection, and now Labubu. The expression 'going viral' is particularly appropriate: these crazes spread faster than Covid at the height of the pandemic.

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Mary Had a Little Lamb - Black Works Mag, October
Short story
I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t belong. I’m not one of them. I don’t scream and throw things like Laura. I don’t try to punch people like Jason does. I don’t take my clothes off for no reason like Teresa, or smear my shit on the walls of my room like Gavin. I don’t sit hunched up in the corner and cry all day or stare blankly at the television screen even when it’s turned off.
At least Mary is here with me. I’d been scared she might not want to come too. This is not somewhere you want to come. Only if they make you.

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The Uninvited Guest – Ghosts, Echoes and Shadows anthology, Local Gems Press, October
Flash Fiction
The flint walls tremble in the flickering light of dozens of candles perched in their stony niches and balanced on rustic cartwheel chandeliers suspended high above; the corn dollies dangling from the ends of the pews rustle in the draughty nave, whispering of beginnings and endings and vows long forgotten. 
“If anyone knows of any lawful reason why these two persons should not be joined in matrimony, speak now.” 
I glance at shape-shifting shadows in the dark corners and look away again quickly. Ben senses my nervousness and squeezes my fingers. The celebrant smiles at me reassuringly. 
“Don't worry. It's only a legal formality,” she says, but I can hardly hear her for the loud buzzing in my head.

​Available from Amazon.
The Siren's Revenge - Silent Screams anthology, Ghost Willow Press, October
Short story
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.
Available from Amazon.
​
This story was originally published in Schlock! Webzine: Volume 18 Issue 3, January 2024
And the People Said - The Pride Roars, November
Micro fiction
Once upon a time there was a handsome prince. Well, some people thought he was handsome; he certainly did and so did his mother, who favoured him over her other children, even though he was not the eldest, the youngest nor the cleverest. He was the naughtiest, though, and because he was spoilt he could get away with almost anything.

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Our Lady of Sorrows – Temple in a City, Issue 3 - Imprint, December 
Flash fiction
It’s cold inside the church, as cold as charity. Maria shuffles up the nave under the anguished gaze of Jesus, her down-at-heel brogues slap-whispering on the flagstones dinted by thousands of feet before hers. The feeble winter sun stripes the grey pillars with pastel colour.
She eases her bag down carefully onto the altar steps and rubs her aching shoulder.
‘I brought you these,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t think what else to do with them.’ 
Her words bounce off smoke-stained pillars, echoing round the vast, vaulted roof. 
‘It’s not a peace offering,’ she adds, in case God gets the wrong idea. ‘I’ve not forgiven you for taking him.’

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