Category: prose
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5 March: for Six Sentence Story
Sitting on a Bench Dedicated to Those Who Felt the Need to Jump There’s something about the beauty of this place, Beachy Head, that draws people in and magnifies that terrifying first rush of one more morning … one part not wanting to be in pain, one part beyond numb, one part wishing for another…
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24 January: Six Sentence Sunday
Diffused ‘The light is a different colour here…’ she says as if speaking to herself. She’s standing on a balcony that’s just large enough for two pairs of feet, two chairs and an iron café table that’s slowly corroding in the Côte d’Azur air. They’re sharing the view from their hotel room, sharing a bit…
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8 January: For Six Sentence Story
Careful. There’s that word again; meant to pull you up and stop you in your tracks; take stock; change your ways; a word to the wise or the unwise as the case might be. And he says, “Good god, it’s dreary outside. And I’m standing beside him at the window, taking in this man I…
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13 December: Sunday’s Six Sentence Story
My gran had a small farm with a garden, small enough to keep a winter pantry supplied, large enough to keep her friends alive, and she had 2 goats, unnamed because as she put it, Would you name a rug or a chair – Well, no, so why would I name a goat – to…
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7 December: Fiction, Maybe, Maybe Not
A Walk With Wolves Yesterday was a walk with my father’s memory. His wisdom still resonates in my bones. As always he keeps to my left side, to speak to my heart, he says. We walk with two wolves, a White and a Grey who step from the depths of salt marsh reeds – they…
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6 December: Somewhere There’s Always Chocolate
Somewhere near the equator, my youngest son is explaining to his daughter of nearly 6 years why she can’t have chocolate for breakfast, in much the same way that I explained to him when he was 6, why he couldn’t eat chocolate for breakfast, and much like my mum explained to me that eating chocolate…
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5 December: dVerse Prosery
I Was Where I Am I was standing at the kitchen sink, the cold tap turned on just enough to slide the egg and bacon fat off the plates. Standing there, staring down the street toward the old oak tree that nearly burnt when the pub had that kitchen fire a few years ago. Thinking…
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27 November: Journal
27 November:It’s still morning. Time slows when there’s no external noise. No radio. No telly. No talking. No music … except for the shallow sound of his breathing as he reads the Sunday’s paper. Sunday always becomes Monday, if you judge the date by a newspaper. Saturday is thicker than weekdays. Sundays less so than…
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26 November: Journal
25 November:I’m sitting in my chair. Reclined. Fingers locked across my lap. Eyes closed, and headphones isolating me from vague noise. I’m listening to I Walk With Ghosts by Scott Buckley. Violins in deep centred waves. Spiral rebirth – I fall into a shallow sleep. A shallow breath. Strings drawing out my every thought into…
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19 November: She Without Name
She Without Name You know that time between dreaming and waking, when you roll over and your dyne starts for floor, but there’s still enough covering your legs to keep yourself on the side of being covered … Well, that’s when she arrived. She’s white as northern new snow that sparkles like laughing stars, and…
It's Still Life 