New from me on Sick Lit Magazine, the story of a girl who goes to rather extreme, sandpapery lengths to achieve beauty. As you do. Enjoy!
I forgot to post this one! As of a few days ago, I have a super-short piece up on The Drabble, about the perils of gift-giving. The picture perhaps spoils the twist a little though, so maybe pretend it’s not there…
Here’s the second of my Story From A Song series – can you figure out which popular song I’ve based this particular piece on? (Remember, there are embellishments and details here that the song didn’t feature – otherwise it wouldn’t really work as a story.) Make your guesses!
I remember that long, hot summer. It was just you and me, then. Well, you, me and the band. That was all I needed. I remember thinking that band would set the world on fire.
Happy New Year! Here’s my first of the year, in the new issue of Firefly Magazine (p65). It’s nice to get 2017 off to a quick start.
This is my non-winning entry for Amazon’s ‘new Night Before Christmas’ contest. I had loads of fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas to you all, and thanks for following my blog – it means a lot.
It was Christmas Eve night. Santa’s magical sled,
Slid through the sky as the world slept in bed.
He stopped on the roof of a nearby house,
And dropped down the chimney, quiet as a mouse.
Santa looked round the room, placed the presents on the floor,
Stepped his way through the hall to the kitchen door.
Here I am in the very lovely new edition of Ink In Thirds, with a quick piece about a woman returning something she doesn’t like.
I’m short of story ideas right now. So to keep my writing going, I’ve done this instead – taken an old song and based a piece of fiction around its lyrics. I’ve embellished and added detail that wasn’t there originally, of course, but can you guess what song I’ve based this story on? (Yes, I’m sure you can.) There may be more of these in future, as I enjoyed this as a writing exercise.
He stared through the window of the pawn shop. His guitar, the beautiful old Strat his dad had given him, stood there precariously on a stand too small for it. There was a price tag of fifty quid tied around its neck. A tear slipped down his face.