Epitaph – A Drabble

“It’s time,” she said and in we stumbled like lambs bleating in the slaughtered air. Any lingering hopes that he would be granted some final serenity or peace dashed in a maelstrom of tortured angles and the sweat-soaked rictus of a face that has been long lost to madness.

“Is it…?”

“No. Not blood. Not exactly.”

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A Matter Of Time

The silent underground station held all the charm and colour of a mortuary slab. Running between the two empty platforms were a series of circular wooden benches each separated from the other by dull, concrete constructions no doubt used in times past to advertise some useless gadget or a piece of music from the fad-band of the hour. Despite their purpose nothing was on display and not a single shred of historical eco-solvent, self-adhesive, rainforest-aware billboard paper remained to indicate they had ever carried out their allotted task. It mattered little. Only one soul occupied the platform and she was oblivious to anything beyond the breath fogging in front of her face.

The lady in green was sitting on the first of the spherical benches with her back to the stairs, allowing her vision (if it were paying attention) the full run of the platform and the empty tracks on either side. She held her breath for a moment before puffing out the contents of her lungs with as much force as she could muster. As had happened with each previous exhalation her breath oozed out languidly before hanging in a viscous cloud an inch from her nose. She lifted a hand to her face and watched in fascination as tiny droplets of water formed on her fingertips and slid gently towards her palm.

“Weird how it does that isn’t it?”

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In Flight Memory

I wrote a post last month discussing unusual points of view from which to construct a story (it’s here if you want to refresh your memory). My personal experiment was with second person future and it seems it was a success – or at least in the eyes of my fellow Literally Stories editors who agreed to let it loose on an unsuspecting world earlier today. Hope you enjoy it – and I’d love to hear any thoughts you have on whether the POV enhances the piece or detracts from it.


The ice will wake you. You’ll hear it dropping in the plastic cup, sense it being passed in front of you to the woman in the window seat you haven’t spoken to since the flight began. You’ll drift, then you’ll open your eyes and stare into a face that would be prettier with less make-up. Her strip-light smile won’t fade as she asks you, patiently, for the third time if you’d like something to drink. You’ll order a gin and tonic even though you don’t want one because that’s what you do on flights. While she rummages for the gin needle in the haystack of unwanted brandy you’ll wonder if you’ll get peanuts or mini pretzels.

You’ll bet on pretzels.

And you’ll be right.

[continue reading on Literally Stories…]

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I Don’t Want To Turn Into Nothing

As anyone who is a parent can attest to, there is rarely a dull moment when there are kids around. This past weekend alone was filled with moments of extraordinary contrast and wonder.

– The moment when Rhys told me I was the best daddy ever

– The moment when Arwen packed out laughing after learning to say winner winner, chicken dinner

– The moment when Rhys starting riding his bike without training wheels

– The moment when I walked into Arwen’s bedroom after her nap and watched a large lump of poo being quenelled by the movement of the door after she had once again decided to take her nappy off during nap time and had chosen to add some fresh bodily waste to an already beleaguered carpet.

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