I hit my face on a door so my nose bled.
I spilled pomegranate juice down my white white shirt.
The third was still to come so I threw the jar of medlar jam against the wall.
I’m glad that’s over.
The man at the door
The man at the door said he was from the police. He looked it. He had a badge on a lanyard. Jan gave him all the details he asked for. He was looking for a man who had pretended to be a police officer. He had robbed a house last week.
Jan wondered what the robber looked like. The man at the door described the robber and his car. Jan looked beyond him at the car outside the gate. The man at the door smiled. There was nothing to worry about. Jan smiled back.
Jan promised to call the man at the door if anything out of the ordinary happened then invited him in for a cup of tea. The man at the door smiled and said thank you and went in. Jan looked at the car in the street again and closed the door.
For sale: Short story
For sale: Short story about unworn baby shoes. Never read
You cannot see deceit
You cannot see deceit. It hides and glides and slides invisible, like the tattoo on the dragon’s neck, black on green-black. You cannot see deceit. Until the dragon’s eye snaps open, red.
Cerys and the idea (in progress)
Cerys saw it coming from a way behind her. It whizzed, it whirred, it spun and sparked. She caught the idea and held it tight.
She held it tight in her fist. It buzzed and tingled like catching lightning or a tinkerbell. Then she opened her hand.
The Push
She’d read that book – the smallest act could cause chaos. Wow. She nudged him. He fell under the train. She waited for ripples.
Story Shop
Tim’s stories hopped. They didn’t stalk or leap or glide or weave; they hopped. He looked at them hopping and carried them back.
Mug
John woke up, got up, had a large cup of tea. As he stepped outside he felt the air warm and damp and dropped his key. “What an idiot”, he said to himself as he picked it up.
Just around the corner, two hooded males took his phone and wallet and kicked him to the ground. He should have seen it coming.
Happy birthday
“Mamma, why is Nonno crying? It’s his birthday, I gave him a present.”
“Oh, don’t worry, little one, he loves his present and he’s crying because he’s so happy.”
It was 60 years since he’d killed his mother at first light, first breath. Every year on this day he cried. Happy birthday.
His daughter knew the story, one of the few. She thought she knew why he cried.
But he cried because on his tenth birthday he’d killed Bella in his mother’s honour; people thought the dog had run away. From his twentieth on, he’d killed people, one every ten years. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. Happy, heartbreaking, birthday.
And today he was sixty. He cried for his daughter. Or his granddaughter. He cried for them but there was nothing else to do now he couldn’t leave the house any more. Today is the day. He would cut the cake first. Happy birthday.
Scene 1
Scene 1: Slow fade to light. A man shouts angrily. Puts gun to head. Fade to dark. Gunshot.
Scene 2: Slow fade to light. To dark.
simonsalento 