The Silver Spoon Andrea pressed her foot firmly down on the pedal of the kitchen bin. The lid opened in response, inviting her to dispose of the spoon. And yet she couldn’t. Andrea was pretty sure the silver spoon was worthless. Especially after recent events. Her children didn’t want anything to do with it and her best friend had suggested she just chuck the thing away. Except now, when it came to it, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Andrea removed her foot from the pedal, the bin lid fell, cutting off the disposal option for now. She carried the spoon to the table. The spoon lay, nestled in its bed of cream faux-satin, inside a tiny box made of gold coloured cardboard. The box had a clear plastic lid embossed with the words ‘community plate’. There was a small pink ribbon tied around one corner of the box. If Andrea had been born a boy, the ribbon would have been blue. And if Andrea had been born a couple of hours later, nearer the actual time, the silver spoo...
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Flash Fiction Reader, I was dismayed. The house was a blackened ruin, bereft of battlements, roof and chimneys. What tragedy had befallen this place? Had my master survived? He who was my equal despite gulfs in age and status. He who had loved me. He who had lied. He who had proposed whilst not free to do so. Reader, I should perhaps have suspected. I had sensed her presence, heard the deranged laughter, witnessed the results of her madness, but it was not until the wed ding day that ‘the impediment’ had been revealed. I had fled that very night, yet the bond could not be severed. Hence, my return. And now they were telling me that she had been killed and my master horribly injured. I found him at last, mutilated and blind but still as much my dearest love as I, his plain Jane, was his. Reader, I married him.
Dialogue Homework ‘Ice and lemon?’ Olly asked. ‘Yeah, whatever’ the woman replied. Not a great start for Olly’s customer engagement offensive, but he persisted. ‘You here for the concert?’ ‘No’ ‘Oh, ok, meeting someone?’ ‘No, just passing’ Another voice interrupted, ‘She’s not interested mate, not your type is he love?’ The voice was that of a middle-aged man, dressed in a manner Olly’s mother would have described as ‘smart/casual’ but sadly not smart enough to disguise the beginnings of a beer gut. The man edged his bar stool closer to the woman. ‘These youngsters, they just don’t have the chat-up lines, do they?’ The woman looked weary. ‘He’s just doing his job.’ Olly was grateful, ‘Thanks, trying my best.’ The man ignored him and leaned further towards the woman. ‘So where are you passing from and to?’ The woman raised her gaze from her glass to the man’s expectant eyes. ‘From the hospice and back to the hospice.’ ‘Oh …... sorry love, I’...
The night before …. Caitlin was awake. She ought to have been asleep and it should have been easy, swaddled in the softness of her winceyette sheets under the gentle weight of her quilted eiderdown. The sheets smelt faintly of washing powder and outdoors drying and the eiderdown radiated a soporific warmth. But Caitlin was far too excited to succumb to the bed linen’s sedative effects and was, instead, fully immersed in the delightful sensations particular to this night. Pots clattered in the kitchen below. The clatterer summoned up wave upon wave of aromas that spiralled upwards towards the insomniac. Caitlin tried to identify the components of the brew. Overriding all the delights were the sausage rolls. Caitlin’s nose judged them to be just about ready to come out of the oven, her salivating mouth judged them ready to be eaten. Caitlin imagined devouring them hot, she savoured the flakiness of the pastry and the herby meatiness of the interiors - and s...
A weekend away The rugs and cushions were surprisingly soft. They had both fallen asleep after their picnic lunch by the romantic ruins of Kilmalkedar and Joe was the first to awaken. He woke slowly, with a strange mix of contentment and unease. The source of those feelings slumbered on beside him, breathing gently through a slightly open mouth. Joe frowned, then smiled, as he remembered the dream Katie had told him about as she had driven them to this place. It was a dream she had had as a child, but one which she had never forgotten, one she said sustained her whenever she felt down. Young Katie had dreamed of a man who had lain beside her, his body curled around hers. She had felt utterly safe and totally protected in the arms of this man, and had known that the man loved her unreservedly. Katie had then, without once taking her eyes off the curving road, told Joe that with him, for the first time ever in real life, she was feeling the same se...
Good Morning World It was time. Jackie rolled gracelessly out of bed, padded the short distance between bed and window and poked her head through the curtains. Just her head mind, nothing more, she had slept naked because of the hot flushes, but she was no exhibitionist. ‘Good morning world, you bastard! ’ The greeting was spoken with feeling, not too loudly because of the neighbours, but with a very satisfying emphasis on the last two words. Jackie smiled and removed her head from the swathes of blue cotton fabric. This had become her new normal, the way she set herself up for the day. She had tried other morning routines, like stretches and mindfulness and the ‘morning pages’ recommended by her time-rich friends, but nothing worked nearly so well as this short defiant salutation. With five simple words she was able to welcome the day, acknowledge that it was likely to be shit, and then tell it to do one - she was ready for it. A shower and a bowl of cereal later, and clothed ...
Finding Peace The tide is out. The river bed is drained, exhausted, clogged with mud. Steep wooded banks encase the valley in gloom all the way to the vanishing point - and likely beyond. I let my eyes wander. Am I allowed to do that now? Can I make such decisions? It seems so. They drift to the small craft lying beached and useless in the sludge, waiting impatiently for the waters that will free them. Hesitantly, guiltily, shamefully, my eyes shift again – to a fine stream, unnoticed before. It’s no more than a trickle, but it’s winding its way through the dirt of the river bed towards me. The tide must have turned. Soon the little boats will have their liberty and I try to imagine where it might take them, seemingly too cowardly for the ocean but maybe, maybe, braver than they look. And now, through tears, I see the faintest glow in the clouds above the banks, really quite beautiful, caressing and illuminating the tangled weeds of the foreshore. This landscape is s...