After | Short Story

The child trudges after her mother in the lengthening hill shadows. No child of her age should trudge; she should gambol, leap, perform clumsy cartwheels, but not this thickset stride, this downtrodden lope.

The older woman does not keep an eye on her daughter as she works – she knows the child will not wander far. As she picks mushrooms in the woods or washes clothes on the flat rocks in the brook, the little girl follows.

Before, chores would have been set to the soundtrack of aimless chatter, of primary school gossip and playground politics. The nearest the child gets to playing now is trailing a stick in the water, watching as the linen billows and gutters in the icy burn. There is mostly silence between them, the silence of shared experiences, of common understanding.

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Property for Sale – Grym-on-Wye | Short Story

Corroded metal bolt on an old wooden door

Arryn Road, Grym-on-Wye

£30,000

Flat

1 bedroom

1 bathroom

40 sq. m

Tenure: Freehold

Greys Estate Agents is pleased to present a rarely-available investment opportunity. The property requires substantial renovation and updating. Buyers are advised to take this real estate opportunity at face value. Local newspaper articles often exaggerate, and a professionally-produced home report is available on request.

Property description

The accommodation comprises entrance vestibule, combined kitchen and lounge, bathroom, and bedroom.

Entrance vestibule

Extensive security measures on the front door bely what is now a very safe neighbourhood. Visitors are advised to ignore the smell. The key to the property will be underneath the door mat in the common close. Prospective buyers are asked to show themselves around the flat.

Combined kitchen and lounge

Albeit without modern amenities, the kitchen is surprisingly well appointed. Extensive cupboard space is complimented by an antique double range – unusual for a property this size. The range is in excellent condition, despite having seen much use. There is some damage to the room in the form of carvings in the skirting boards and what appears to be a symbol in faded paint upon the floor. A decorator is needed as a matter of urgency. The room comes appointed with excellent quality blackout blinds and, unusually, sound-proof insulation.

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Adjusting my Palate

We like the dark, my kind. It’s just as well, because no sliver of light chinks its way into this forsaken place. I have only the damp walls and the chittering rats as muses for my senses. Even the wardens provide little interaction; my meals are pushed through the hatch once a day. I eat my thin soup to the sound of hurried footsteps retreating up the corridor, and then nothing. The guards’ unease is not surprising. They can sense something about me. What they feel they cannot say, but it is there nonetheless. Continue reading “Adjusting my Palate” →

Over the Edge

Don’t leave an ankle dangling over. Not even a toe. That was the rule. If you did, the monster under the bed would seize you as you slept. Ragged, blackened fingernails would trace their way up your calf before digging cruelly into your flesh. Veins would pop out from the unforgiving muscles of the creature’s forearm as his hand crushed ligament and bone. You would be dragged underneath your bed and down into the depths. Continue reading “Over the Edge” →

Face to Face with Death

Delighted to have my nasty little short story ‘Face to Face with Death’ featured in the inaugural issue of New York-based literary journal ‘Whatever Keeps the Lights On‘. If you’re looking for somewhere new to submit your writing, you could do a lot worse than have a look here; the editors were quick to respond, passionate about promoting their journal, and very friendly.

Read my story here. Continue reading “Face to Face with Death” →

The Phone Box

The rumours seemed to start in the wind as such things often do. There was no flickering light in the top of the phone box, no broken glass in the door. Neither was there any noticeable smell in the cubicle save for the sour, metallic odour present in every phone box in every town in Britain. No-one could remember anything having happened inside the booth – no gruesome murder or grisly stabbing. Nevertheless, it stood on the corner of the road outside my flat like a solitary red warning finger in the gloom. Continue reading “The Phone Box” →

Shack

The path is losing its fight with the wilderness. A few miles back, it was rutted and gashed by tyres. Now it tails off intermittently into brush and grass, the weeds on each side creeping inwards like Tour-de-France spectators eager to see their favoured rider. Soon it becomes indistinguishable with the forest floor.

My feet become my primary concern now. Roots rise from the ground like sun-bleached ribs. Sticky willow snags on my laces. I am so intent on keeping my footing that I don’t notice the ferns dragging their damp fingers over my forearms and across my rucksack as I push through the foliage. Branches reach across the sky above me, shivering against the grey sky. I am close now. Continue reading “Shack” →