short stories
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With Valentine’s Day almost upon us, it’s time for a special love story. My thanks goes to Murray Clarke for sending this in: Roses are Red By Murray Clarke Violet, ninety-six, stared thoughtfully out of the window, a tear in her eye. The other senior citizens in the room were either asleep, reading or watching…
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The zombies were coming closer. Arms reached out. Eyes, large and lifeless, sought hers. Mouths gaped open, drool dangling down. Groans gained momentum, their frenzied excitement building. Something solid touched her shoulder. She jumped. This was it. “Want a cup of tea, love?” She looked into her husband’s eyes and then back to the TV.…
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For part one, click here. Minutes, perhaps hours, passed. Laura awoke to a dull shroud hanging over the room. The half moon shone a shining light on the bed, shadows dancing in the corner and shapes bouncing on the ceiling. Tap, tap! She swivelled round at the knock on the door. ‘There’s someone to see…
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‘Mum! Come and meet my new friend,’ Jake burst through the kitchen door. Laura beamed at her son. ‘Your first day back at school went all right then?’ ‘It was okay, I suppose. But I’ve made a bestest ever new friend. Can he stay to dinner, Mum? Can he?’ ‘If his mum knows where he…
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As many of you know, I’m a tutor for The Writers Bureau, which I love. I also write articles and short stories, and offer an editing service. I’m going to be continuing with all of those, but I am about to embark on something new. The wonderful writer, and my fellow tutor, Lorraine Mace has…
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For part one, click here. For part two, click here. ‘Well?’ he pouted as Granny ended the call. ‘Grab your coat, love. Let’s go and see your mum.’ ‘She’s not dead?’ Craig’s eyes widened and he sprinted down the hall, his anorak on and out the door. ‘And she’s got a surprise for you,’ Granny…
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For part one, click here. Granny stared at the dials on her silver watch. Tick tock, another minute passed. It had been five hours and still no news. They jumped together, shoulders wrenching back and screams catching in their throats. The shrill, sharp ring of the telephone was a foghorn. ‘You answer it, Granny. Please,’…
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His mummy was dying. He stared at her face, usually so beautiful and serene now sweat-soaked and puckered as the pain finally claimed her. ‘Mummy, don’t leave me, Mummy!’ he said, his voice trembling with sobs. ‘Craig,’ she reached out, her warm hands patting his flyaway hair. ‘I have to go.’ Granny interrupted, ‘There, there,…
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I touch his face, my fingers caressing his lips, catching on a ragged ridge of chapped skin. I press my own to them, tasting the tang of tears as they cascade down my cheeks. I drink in his warmth. Or what’s left; it won’t be long before his lips mirror the hue of a bloated…
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For part one, click here For part two, click here 8th September I didn’t go to school today. I told Mum I’d been throwing up all night. It was true, but it wasn’t because I was ill. Mum went off to work at ten. I ran down the stairs after she’d gone and bolted the…
Esther Chilton 