‘Not my body’ is a poem inspired by Vicky’s struggle to adjust to her post-partum body; a real and vulnerable piece.
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Returning to the busy pub, Rachel squeezed past a couple clearly on a first date. Her husband, Jake leaned over. “You’ve been gone ages. I always wonder what women actually do in the Ladies. I mean, once you’ve done your business, maybe slapped on a bit of lipstick, what else is left?”
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As I quietly packed the last of my clothes into the car, Mia peeked through the flat window. I don’t know whether she regretted last night’s argument, but she did not say goodbye.
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Abigail’s short story ‘Earth’ was inspired by a prompt from an art group she met during lockdown. She was sent prompts in the mail to help inspire her to create.
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The most recent instalment in the story of Juliana, a member of the Sacred Order on her journey to save Teleria.
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“You really should be thinking about getting your foot on the property ladder Heledd,” she stirs oat milk into her freshly made latte, “You are thirty soon.” The way her voice emphasises my age gets my back up and my jaw tightens on reflex.
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One deep breath at a time we can conquer our fears and go towards the most amazing journeys. We all have our own paths, the ones led by circumstances and choices. You don’t always have to know exactly where you’re heading. Time will tell, what ever there’s to be told. You need to trust your journey.
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“I’m sorry, you want to do what?” My drink gets caught in my throat and some liquid shoots back into the glass. Covering my mouth with my hand, my eyes search my companion’s face for any signs of discomfort. Grant sits opposite me, his blonde hair teased to perfection, his eyes lingering on my chest. He gives me a lazy smile as he dips his fingers into his nearly empty drink and swirls the ice cubes round. My stomach heaves slightly.
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“I slug back the flute of champagne in my hand and look across the room. Everyone who is anyone in this company is here, the women in floor length dresses that catch the light and sparkle, and the men in freshly pressed tuxedos, their hair slicked back and shining”
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It started with a stranger in a world that's broken
He appeared as the sun sank into the sea, while I watched the dolphins play in the surf, waiting for life to resume without my sister in it. I was frozen and lost. Angry and sad. Dead and alive.
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This is the first of Sean’s 50 word short stories!
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The front door no longer looms over me, the brass knocker now dull in the fading afternoon light, yet I still feel like an intruder.
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Now, Miss Tyne knew something was amiss. She was certain she’d remember hearing such an unusual name shouted across the playground. Surely, the child did not go to this school. Now more serious questions had to be answered and all of this was becoming more difficult to rationalise.
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This is the final part of the Ataxia series. To read part six, click here.
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This is part six of the Ataxia series. To read part five, click here … Ataxia Part Six: The Walk
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The rolling waves remind me that everything can be reborn. That is the beauty of the beach - every tide brings with it something new. A shell washed up becomes a treasure for someone else.
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There is sound everywhere you turn, a constant buzz that never ceases to quieten, even in the middle of the night. It swells and flows throughout the day, meandering through the throngs of people all in a rush to be some place else.
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This is part five of the Ataxia series. To read part four, click here
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Rick paused, his hand on the doorknob, breathing in a slow, deep and deliberate breath. He knew, just knew, the way you sometimes do, deep in your guts, that the next few minutes were going to have an immense bearing on the rest of his life.
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Zelda seems to be most remembered for being ‘Fitzgerald’s crazy, untamable wife’, rather than the impressive writer and painter she was in her own right.
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