“ACCESS GRANTED.”
The door slid soundlessly aside.
“Christ, man,” Jessie whispered, awestruck. “How’d you manage to do that?”
I smiled in what I hoped was an enigmatic way. “Easy, I hacked the list.”
“But —”
“But what? It’s uncrackable? Nothing is if you try hard enough. Now get your arse in there before a security patrol notices.”
Continue readingHOUSEHOLD
?Rat Poison?
Tilly had forgotten her specs. She hadn’t transferred them from the pocket of her winter fleeced Danimac to her summer cotton jacket. Always the same with April weather in Swansea; an overnight rise of 8 degrees meant searching out the summer wardrobe with the risk of a disruption in “ the system.” House keys, shopping list, pouch containing store cards and bus pass were in the left pocket as usual, but no glasses.
“Mum your phone should be in a separate pocket from keys. The screen could get scratched” Moira’s words.
Having a “system” was as important as having a shopping list … and being able to see, Tilly’s thoughts reposted.
“Never get your phone out in public.” her daughter’s words again.
Well Tesco’s <Household> aisle is hardly The Kingsway,
Tilly acted. Needs must. The snufflings, rustlings and scratchings from the bedroom next door were getting too much; she had hardly slept for the past three nights. Every year when the weather changed, it happened. Squinting around she spied a blurry Dad and toddler at the far end searching amongst the plastic buckets. Not a risk. Tilly extracted the mobile from her right jacket pocket, stooped, chose panoramic mode and photographed the bottom 2 shelves, then cranking herself back up zoomed-in to examine in detail the latest pics in her Gallery app.
Continue readingThe policeman, I forget his name already – Masters? Marsden? – reclines in his seat and regards me with a gaze that is probably intended to be intimidating but can only be described as ‘cute.’ It’s true what they say about the police looking younger as you age.
“Tell me about your conversation with Gina Montrose on Monday,” he says. “You were overheard talking about Marco Conti.”
Continue readingThis was a row that had simmered for years but hadn’t yet been defused. It was an underground river of molten lava that threatened to erupt but, apart from the odd burps of hot magma, remained sluggishly subterranean and unacknowledged.
The accelerant was the proposed retirement, in five years’ time, of Joan and Hywel. Each had busy and fulfilling jobs – which had masked their need to discuss points of incompatibility and irritation. However, they were both keen to leave the worlds of work for the worlds of…..well this was the main problem.
Continue readingFor Uzma, joining her local Creative Writing Circle was the challenge she felt ready for, a therapy of sorts. When she wrote, secrets flowed from her pen, bypassing her brain and heart into prose on the page. They told of the secrets she kept, the secrets she revealed and the secrets she told herself.
It was as if this week’s writing prompt was beckoning her to confront all her secrets at once. Let’s do this, she thought…
Continue readingThe Beynons woke to find a wall around their house. Hearing workmen behind the wall, Fred bellowed: ‘What’s occurring?’
‘National plan,’ came a muffled voice.
‘Keeping others out or us in?’ Dora shouted. Her mind was quicker than her husband’s.
‘I’m just doing what I’m told.’
‘How do I get to work?’ Fred yelled. ‘How does Alice get to school?’
Continue readingAs Howard opened the washing machine and pulled out his clothes, his heart sank; everything was blue. His favourite white shirt was now tie-dyed, his jumper had shrunk small enough to fit Albie, his grandson.
Margy had only been gone three days and he was failing miserably. He really had tried to follow her list. Some of the things seemed a bit extreme like polishing all the surfaces every day. Why when there was only him there?
Margy, at sixty eight, had got herself a last minute free holiday with Faye, whose husband had a chest infection. It was Margy’s first holiday without him.
Continue readingNY December 2026.
There is an awkward moment on my arrival when an ICE agent insists on me unpacking my case. He tells me there is similar name to mine on their no-fly list.
I realise I can’t remember my PIN, so I put my hand in my suit pocket to get my phone, and he reaches for his sidearm.
“Phone,” I say, a weak grin on my face, withdrawing it slowly with two fingers. I can smell the heat of my sweat rising and try to suppress a tremble in my hand, but only succeed in dropping the phone.
Continue readingHOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 24.04.25.
TASK: ‘The List’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘The List’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by 10pm at the latest, Thursday 24th April 2025. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 27.04.25, Waterstones Bookshop,1st floor, Oxford Street: subject to confirmation. Finish at 3.30pm.
On the 29th of May, I was sent off to Joseph Dahl’s townhouse. He was often seen strolling around Caden Street or by the lake in Muriel Park, wishing everyone a good hullo, usually while dressed in a grey suit tailored from JR Parking’s and wearing a straw hat. A habit which made him the menace of a few penny counters and good Samaritans, but the local policemen regarded him as more an itch than any serious threat.
“Some people,” he said as he gripped my hand in his leathery paw, “can’t understand the spiritual life, they’ll chant their vows come Sunday but rarely put those promises into practice.”
“How about it?” asked his not wife, not girlfriend, Susannah, who at that moment lazed upon the sofa. “Do you swear by Christ or by Odin?”
The scanner in the pilot’s cabin read 852,0 °C outside. Next to a star with a heat burst in progress… that’s expected.
“Opening airlock in thirty seconds”, Heather tweaked some switches.
In the airlock, Tony stood ready in his spacesuit, holding a space surfing board.
“Y’know, that’d be our fiftieth planet”, he said.
Continue reading“Nothing worse than unripe tropical fruit”, muttered Garnet to no-one in particular as she stabbed the pallid orange cubes in their plastic punnet. Mango was meant to be fleshy, aromatic and messy, not like these bullets of sadness.
And that’s all it took for Garnet to book a one way ticket home to northern Queensland. London had seemed like a good time, at the time. Snow, centuries old buildings, Big Ben, quick trips to the continent, the promise of a French boyfriend. The reality was a low wage nannying job, a mouldy bedsit, gun metal skies and loneliness as a constant companion.
Queensland didn’t have a summer; it was either the wet season or the dry season. The wet was Garnet’s favourite. It came to her in her dreams through the smell of watermelons, ylang ylang and warm rain on hot tarmac. The memory of humidity hugged her like a long lost lover.
Continue readingThe walk to his home filled me with anxiety.
The cold air bit at my red-hot cheeks and my boots clipped along the uneven pavement. Perhaps these were signs. Omens of what was to come. If they were, I did not heed them.
I continued to tramp briskly toward my destination and in the distance, I saw him standing outside his door awaiting my arrival.
This wasn’t the way I wanted to do this. I had wanted to drop the letter in and run away, leaving him to reel in its indulgent vulnerability alone. However, pushed by the needs of others I’d been made to forewarn him, or at least alert him to my impending presence, and now I must face him in a less romantic fashion.
Continue reading‘Who is it?’ asked the youth astride a delivery cycle.
‘An ordinary Joe, mate,’ the fellow with a face as seamed as a nineteen fifties leather football replied.
‘Pretty popular.’
‘Well, he was a giver.’
Continue readingAs the poor got poorer, local councils were inspired to think about the optics of people dying alone in unheated homes during the chilly winters. Small grants enabled local organisations with free space to keep their heating on and invite local people to come in and warm up, sometimes offering soup and sandwiches as part of their welcome to the heat hub.
People certainly benefitted from the warmth, and they also met other people. For some this went no further than the chat and the bingo. For others it presented opportunities to establish some common ground: to build solidarity.
Continue readingBud pulled Jack to one side outside the cell. ”They want us to turn up the heat on the boy.”
” You telling me they actually believe that kid has an inside track on ‘THE CHOSEN ONE’? He’s paranoid, mad as a box of hares, everyone knows.”
” Ssh, walls have ears. I know people have disappeared for saying less aloud.”
Jack snorted, ”OK, let’s get on with it, suppose we are the moral police.”
Continue readingIt’s Joe’s turn to tell a story by the campfire.
“One night, a boy went missing on Scout Camp,” he whispers. I shiver, despite the heat, and huddle in closer. I’m not scared, it’s just that it’s hard to hear him when he’s whispering like that. Behind him, the shadowy outline of tree branches could be horns growing out of his head.
“Every year, on the anniversary of his disappearance, another boy goes missing. But right before he does, he sees the missing boys. No-one else can see them…”
The fire spits and we all jump, then we’re laughing uncontrollably. This is way more fun than singing boring camping songs.
Continue readingIt’s been four o’clock forever here. An almost endless afternoon spinning off into the distance, only concluding when the skies darken, and rain falls like frozen droplets of spite on the bald patch at the crown of my head. If they named this spot “Ennui”, I would not be more surprised than I already am. So complete is its banality, it vies with “a rural bus stop” for the listless black hole Victor ludorum.
André Gide once said, “One doesn’t discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore.” Gide has clearly never set sail for Gowerton.
Continue readingHOMEWORK for deadline Thursday midnight, 20.03.25.
TASK: ‘Heat’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘Heat’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by 10pm at the latest, Thursday 20th March 2025. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat}.
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 23.03.25, Discovery Room, 1st floor, Central library. Finish at 3.30pm.
She’s a good egg, our Fi. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be suitable for the job. That’s why we allow her keep us. We are the keepers of the keepers.
We see everything. When we buzz around waggling to one another, we’re not only chasing nectar. We’re assessing the mental state of the people and communicating potential danger. Forget being a ‘fly on the wall.’ Flies don’t care. It’s the bees who watch, listen and help.
Take Ian Jones next door. He had a near-miss with death only last month. He was smoking a cigarette beside the azaleas in his front garden whilst I busied myself with the foxgloves. What’s dangerous about that, you ask, aside from the obvious? It’s true that the smoking will get him eventually, but that’s not the sort of thing we get involved in. On this occasion I could tell from his stance, the faraway look in his eyes, and the slightly acidic smell of his perspiration, that he was planning on this being his last cigarette before taking his own life. Well, those things and my complex assessment of his mood over recent weeks.
Continue reading