Stories in Short #21 (Red wine and arterial fluid)

You’re just a blur, a smudge. Something that used to be. Faded wallpaper between cracked plaster. It’s green wallpaper and sometimes I see your face in it. I see your face in everything. When I dream, I dream about your shape, your figure. You are indiscernible. You are just a shape. There’s no definition, I…

Stories in Short #20 (Mary Trembles)

You could hear her crying, all through the night, if you passed over the bridge on the way out of the village, past the old chapel. Wailing she was. Like a ghoul. We tried to get through to her, but she was whispering to herself, talking to the walls, sat on a rotting pew, in…

Rustling of the corn, part 4

I take the last steps two at a time and grab her in a bear hug. She feels so frail. So small. Delicate like the thin graphite of a pencil, or a budding corn stalk. “What’s wrong?” she asks. She asks so normally. I forget where we are. She smells very rich, like double cream,…

Rustling of the corn, part 3

Inside the house the air is very still. The staircase has a worn carpet on the steps. It’s almost like I’ve stepped into a museum. I expect a group of school children to come round the corner, looking bored, and rightly so: the house is empty. The layout is like Grandma’s, but there are no…

ON OVERCOMING WRITER’S BLOCK

“If you hear a voice within you saying, “You are not a painter,” then by all means paint, boy, and that voice will be silenced, but only by working.” – Vincent Van Gogh, in a letter to his Brother, Theo. Van Gogh knew a thing or two about painting. Turns out, his advice is pretty…

Stories in Short #19 (Good old dog)

Derek the hound had the scent. I followed him with a torch through the copse of trees behind the Leary household. Mr. Leary had vanished two days before. Mrs. Leary said her husband had run away with the car and the cash from the safe underneath the bed. We’d found the car the day before.…

Rustling of the corn, part 2

I start to run.  Grandma had mentioned the cornfield, it’s not like it used to be, and I could tell, it seemed thicker, denser. Untamed. Had she told us to be careful? If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s not to run in a corn field when the ears are showing. The stalks bend like elastic…

Stories in Short #18 (The rustling of the corn)

Grandma is ill again. She dips in and out. Today she’s told me to take Ginny out of the house, because the air is stale, and the house smells like dust.  I ask Ginny where she wants to go and she says, not far, because Grandma is ill, so we decide on the corn-field behind…