Short Stories

Carol wipes her damp pink hoody cuff down a thigh of her jeans. Turning from the watery circle on a heavily misted window she says, ‘You have got to be kidding me.’...

I could say I resent having to spend Saturday without John, but it wouldn’t be true. Over the years he has persistently tired teaching me to hit a small white dimpled ball with a nine iron...

‘Merry Christmas sweetheart.’ Peter’s soft voice is a silken thread pulling me oh so gently from sleep. Looking into his eyes, blue and sparkling as an ocean...

Another time. Another place. Yet my purpose is the same. So here I wait, beneath the snow-burdened boughs of an ancient oak. I gaze at winter’s thick white blanket...

Some people say reaching fifty was no big deal for them. I wish it hadn’t been for me. Increasingly, muscle rub, and prescription painkillers compete for dressing table space...

My thumb rubs over the white swan logo. A scratch, a hiss, a flame, then the match falls from my fingers. Pushing my hands deep in my duffle coat’s pockets...