I pause at the sign that is posted by the entrance. I try to imagine the kind of person that would interrupt a funeral-in-progress. This, along with eating, drinking, taking photographs and sitting on the grass, is prohibited on Isola di San Michele: Venice’s island cemetery.
Read MoreI wrote this as a competition entry this month. The brief was to write about the discovery of a dead body for any type of character. It was inspired by a morning I spent at the Lady Lever Gallery. There was a meditator but the rest is fiction…
Read MoreI can feel the enthusiasm bubble up through my chest and into my cheekbones. I rub my hands together and clasp them close to my beaming face. I burble and chirrup with excitement as I scribble notes about how I’m going to do it and what the steps will be.
Read More“Why don’t we just tell them the truth?” Asked the intern…
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“Hands, hands, handkerchief!” The woman demands in a Scottish accent. She’s standing next to the chocolate brown painted hand-rail at the top of the stairs and blocking the route down.
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An honourable mention in this month’s writing challenge. The challenge was 250 words featuring something to do with water…
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Jane Pickard lived down the road from me as a kid. Her Dad was the local plumber and they lived in...
Read MoreOn Friday I heard the news that Ewan Moffet, Phil’s friend and ex-boyfriend had lost his battle with cancer.
For me, Ewan will always be the brother-in-law that got away. It’s not surprising then that my most vivid memory of him occurred when he wasn’t there in person.
Read More“We are either here,” Pauline is still panting from the strenuous hike we’ve made along a stony game path up the mountain. She prods at our sodden Ordinance Survey map, “or here.” She points to a different spot. “If we are here, we still stand a chance to make the time cut off.”
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Here’s a short piece that won a recent writing challenge. The challenge was to write about a formative childhood experience.
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