I’ve never really considered myself to be a short story writer but from time to time, there is an idea which doesn’t work as a longer theme or even part of a longer theme. That’s when I play around with a shorter story, between one to two thousand words. I’ve included a selection below for you to read. There is one thing that I can guarantee; there will always be a twist in the tale!
This story has featured on several local radio programmes and is a little bit of romance.
And I always thought I was a cat person
I saw her again today, striding out along the ridge, her long auburn hair blowing back from her face as the brown dog lolloped in front of her. Occasionally it stopped to check if she was still following. Tomorrow I might wave or say a cheery hello. If I had the courage…
A story of female revenge and the dangers of country living.
Belladonna
I’d always hated the countryside; all those buzzing, biting, creeping things, nights so dark you think you’ve gone blind and nothing to do every day except sit and watch the grass die. No. Give me a city where diesel fumes coat your lips after a short walk and at every corner there is something to see and somewhere to go. You can walk alone, alongside hundreds of fellow drifters each in their individual universes, yet linked together, like a shoal of fish. At least in the city no one speaks. Here, if I’m out walking and I meet someone else I change direction. I can’t bear to be the butt of someone’s well-meaning but intrusive questions. You see, less than a week after our thirtieth wedding anniversary, I discovered my husband, James had been having an affair for two years with a woman called Donna. It still hurts. This move was supposed to be a fresh start….
In this story, told from an elderly woman’s point of view, kindness to others wins through. It was a prize winning story in a 2019 competition.
Always plant your marigolds in April
A shadow flits along the lane, like a man running. Not a jogger. More furtive. I rub my eyes and go to find my glasses. There’s nothing. I’d imagined it. That’s the trouble with being on your own. Things get out of proportion. I know I should go down to the lunch club every week. I might think about it later. Those marigolds won’t plant themselves unless I get a shift on. Stan always said marigolds need a good month before they start to do anything.
By the time I’m ready, the sky has clouded over. I loosen the soil, make a hole, separate each tiny stem and press down the threadlike roots, nice and safe. I’ve only got a couple more to do when the heavens open. Talk about an April shower. I scurry inside. It won’t last long. I make myself a cup of tea and sit down in the porch to wait.
A dark figure, hunched looking neither right nor left is standing under the laburnum tree in Mr Jenkin’s garden. His hair is plastered to his head and his jacket has more rips and darns than material. Looks a youngster too. What is he doing round here? He’s got a rucksack on his back but it’s seen better days…
MORE SHORT STORIES WILL BE ADDED SOON.