She thrust the golden locks from her eyes, not trusting herself to reply. His question made sense. Why ever would a person risk forcing his way into the cottage, yet steal nothing? It was bitterly cold out. Surely the freshly cooked porridge must have been tempting. Or the warm blankets on their beds. Even when she figured out what must have happened, it still didn’t add up.
The officer pushed aside the untouched bowl of porridge and leaned across the table towards her.… (read more)
I hurry down the long corridor, passing door after door. I’m late. A French exam awaits me, but I can’t find the right room. I quicken my pace. Most doors are unnumbered. Those that still bear numbers have been tampered with. Numbers have been turned upside down or half ripped off with other numbers scrawled in their place. I’m reluctant to disturb the classes within, but I have no choice. Peering into one room, I ask, “Excuse me, where’s the French room?”… (read more)
Furious, she scored a diagonal through the page in blood-red ink. When would they learn? Spelling and punctuation mattered. Two out of ten. The mark fell like a death sentence but she had no regrets. She picked up the next composition. “There not their,” she muttered, circling the offending word in red.… (read more)
I have published the first four flash soundscapes based on my short stories. I was inspired in doing so by the work of Dirk Maggs who, amongst many other productions, directed and was the sound master of Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere and Douglas Adam’s Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Not that I have Maggs talent or possibilities, but it was fun.
The following short story was written with Harvey Weinstein, Donald Trump and all the trigger-happy, so-called women-loving cowboys of this world in mind.
Whistling tunelessly, a sole figure rides east on an open plain.
His mind roams unfettered over soft curves and moist folds.
Galloping across that formless plain he spots a cloud of dust.
It swirls and grows, hastening westward in the treeless waste.
Abruptly it turns, speeds up and heads unswervingly his way.… (read more)
Where did I put that paper? It was in here somewhere. What a mess. Always so much stuff in my bag. No idea where it comes from. A packet of cigarettes. Empty, of course. Shame. Could have done with a cig. No such luck. Against the doctor’s orders. Bloody know-all. Smug too. Young enough to be my grandson. All his diplomas strung out on the walls. Proud blighter. And rich too.… (read more)
Wednesday July 12th 2017 has been singled out in the States and elsewhere as a day of action in favour of Net Neutrality. If the Trump administration through the FCC reverses earlier decisions and gives the right to Internet access providers to pick and chose how they grant access to the Internet it opens the door to partitioning the Net between haves and have-nots, with ultra high-speed broadband services for the rich and pitifully slow Internet, if any access at all, for the poor and marginalised.… (read more)
On my walk, crossing so many traces of stories yearning to be told.
A misplaced golfball close to a golf course, its owner lost in the search.
The hoof prints of a small horse escaped or out for a Sunday caper.
The tyre marks of a tractor or a four-wheel-drive off the beaten track.
A paper trail of hankies left by a solitary jogger with a snivelling cold.
A family of water droplets having fun in the safety of some spiky leaves.… (read more)
A fly settles on the word ‘scar’. I cup my hand. Can’t squash the damn thing. It’s sitting on a book! Look at it! Twitching its feelers in defiance. I brace myself for action. My lightening scooping movement sends the fly buzzing away and leaves me empty handed. Scar? The jagged mark on Harry’s forehead is a flag the author waves to make us sit up and pay attention, but like Potter, it’s getting a bit weary.… (read more)