Short Fiction Published online:

I'm a paragraph. Click here to add your own text and edit me. It's easy.

I'm a paragraph. Click here to add your own text and edit me. It's easy.

'Tilting at Windmills' now published on line as Seren Books' Story of the Month

Click here to read story

 

'With my hand on the light switch, old doubts creep back and I am unable to shut the door and go to bed. I don’t speak to other people about it. Some things, like diaries, should be kept private. I hear my own breathing, rasping in the quiet room. The familiar racing of my heart begins, and I press two fingers against my wrist checking the beat of my pulse.'

'The Rock Islands.' Highly Commended for the Ink Tears Short Story Award 2015  

 

Click here to read story   (085)

'At the shoreline, the shallow sea is warm, and as she walks tiny fish dart over her feet. To her left, water pours from the storm-drain cutting a stream in the sand. Beyond the pebbles, up towards the promenade, she can make out the blurred shapes of wind bent shrubs pushing up from the ground. Here the concrete stops, surrendering to the mud and wild grass of the footpath. From the water’s edge, there’s no sign of the villas and holiday lets that line this stretch of coast, yet she knows they’re there, tucked behind rendered walls and scrubby pine windbreaks, their balconies cluttered with tables and chairs. She keeps going, leaving the bustle of the cafe and kiosk, the beach huts and sailing club, following the soft sweep of the land as it curves around Middleton Point, towards the islands.'

'The Broom Maker.' Shortlisted for the Storgy Short Story Award 2015 and published in the online anthology

 

Click here for link to anthology

C

'From a pile of brushwood, he gathers an armful of twigs for the broom head. As he rolls them on his knees, he wonders what James was doing on the day two years ago, when he, Mike, was cutting this birch from the coppice. He wonders if James, as he moves through his life in London, ever stops, perhaps in a restaurant or a theatre foyer, and thinks about him. Does James picture him, with his billhook in his hand, collecting the wood? Does he remember how it had been, the two of them talking, rolling cigarettes, making plans? Does he remember laying on the cool bracken, hidden in their secret place underneath the trees, the scent of the damp earth on their skin, and the dappled light patterning their bare chests? When he is satisfied with the shape and weight of the besom, he secures the head, winding strands of galvanised wire tightly around the bundle of twigs, and twisting the sharp ends, safely, together.'

From a pile of brushwood, he gathers an armful of twigs for the broom head. As he rolls them on his knees, he wonders what James was doing on the day two years ago, when he, Mike, was cutting this birch from the coppice. He wonders if James, as he moves through his life in London, ever stops, perhaps in a restaurant or a theatre foyer, and thinks about him. Does James picture him, with his billhook in his hand, collecting the wood? Does he remember how it had been, the two of them talking, rolling cigarettes, making plans? Does he remember laying on the cool bracken, hidden in their secret place underneath the trees, the scent of the damp earth on their skin, and the dappled light patterning their bare chests? When he is satisfied with the shape and weight of the besom, he secures the head, winding strands of galvanised wire tightly around the bundle of twigs, and twisting the sharp ends, safely, together.