Short Stories

Made up tales of people, places and things that go bump in the night.

 

Fiction wrting requires an idle mind, a void you can fill with stories. My stories tend to be character driven and the result of an over active imagination.

Though I won’t shy away from anything and have happily wandered into childrens fiction, horror and erotica before now, I can’t write romance fiction for romances’ sake, I’ve tried, but the formula won’t allow a psycopathic heroine or even a moderately neurotic one, so where’s the fun?

Christmas Lights

  “The night was so incredibly beautiful, but all I saw were ruby drops in the snow and the broken wings of the murdered angel and I was scared, so scared…” His words trailed off as he sat staring at his fingers as if they were somehow unfamiliar. No longer aware...

The Monster in the Closet

George leant back in the driving seat and flexed his neck to ease the stiffness creeping toward his shoulders, the tarmac slipping smoothly beneath him to become an ever-growing expanse of distance framed by the rear window of his ageing Ford Mondeo. "Thanks for...

Hope For The Tally Man

The hedgerows are heavy with white Hawthorn blossom and winding brambles that will soon enough bear dark fruit. I would have walked; carried my suitcase of wares through uneven meadows dotted with nodding yellow cowslips and hopped over the bubbling spring of crystal...

A Long Sleep

Fatigue troubles him of late. It creeps up uninvited and settles on his shoulders; an unassailable weight pressing his eyelids shut. It is summer and he is young. The kitchen is filled with the aroma of baking bread and acrid coal dust from his fathers dirty pit...

Muck and Brass

The sky had turned a nasty shade of grey, a large cloud in the shape of dog peeing up a lamppost spitting rain on the taxi windows. Not entirely a good omen. Roger was wary of omens ever since his best friend’s cat suffered an unforeseen and untimely end. He was...

Emma Hardwick

This is based on my grandmothers life story that I always felt was proof, if needed, that truth is stranger than fact. I have changed the names of the characters, but beyond that there is a limited amount of fiction and a fair bit of assumption around known facts to...

Rebecca

“Hello Mrs Popborski, I don’t know if you remember me, but I think we need to talk.” A small silence followed in which Richard Davenport could almost believe he saw her standing with the phone against her cheek, her long fingers trembling and the hint of a smile...

Secret Sunday

She turned, fretful, mindful of the room. That the curtains were closed shutting out the brightness of a sunny afternoon and the faces she knew far too well. Not that they could see. She knew they couldn’t, not through an upstairs window. But still, just in case she...

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