Tag Archives: Friday Fictioneers

  Aaron sells watches on the beach. He proudly totes an aluminium briefcase stuffed with his wares, his arms wreathed in watches both ‘new’ and ‘used’. Aaron knows everything there is to know about time; he should… he’s done some. … Continue reading →

First it was his art teacher. “Jimmy’s talented, Mrs Graham, but he tells lies.” Then his football coach. “He stole from the locker-room.  I saw him, but he denies it.” I remember the confrontations – the jutting under-lip, the tiny … Continue reading →

  Menacing, previously undiscovered rooms in my childhood home… Desperately thin cats I’ve forgotten to feed for years on end… Resentful, cruelly-parched plants, crying out in their death throes, twisting in anguish… Limbs that can’t move… Wake up! I silently … Continue reading →

You’re a long time dead… You boarded the train, your fingers brushing briefly across my stomach. Either that goes or I do… You sent postcards with no return address. Livin’ the life, hon… You left phone messages, withholding your number … Continue reading →

From the moment of his birth, my grandson was old.  And wise. From his crib, he fixed me with an unwavering gaze as we locked fingers on the blue satin-edged blanket.  I felt humbled… instantaneously stripped of layers of attitudes, … Continue reading →

Where he was prickly, plodding, pedantic, our daughter was mercurial, almost ethereal. She rose each morning, her vitality unfurling to flit amongst the strands of other people’s lives, touching, inspiring, illuminating the darkest corners of their souls before sinking exhausted … Continue reading →

  The walls between our units were paper thin; next door the thump of heavy-duty machines heralded the birth of belts and handbags, whilst  in our workplace makeshift power connections flickered, sparking above production lines foaming with tawdry silk underwear. … Continue reading →

  It’s exhausting, pushing a trolley with a wonky wheel. My sister, who unerringly picks the smooth glider, normally seethes at ‘Seasonal Goods’ while I’m still negotiating the corner between ‘Deli’ and ‘Organic Produce’. She’s usually vitriolic. “If it’s not … Continue reading →

  “Jack Frost’s at the window,” my grandmother would say, and when the ice melted and snowflakes kissed the windowpanes, she’d smile. “The angels are shaking their mattresses.” On sultry summer days I’d laze outside, sucking clover-heads for honey, or … Continue reading →