The oxygen mask muffles his words as his eyes plead for me not to go. I avert my tear-filled eyes and walk away.
Growing up in a spiritualist household she was used to strange things but nothing explained the gentleman sitting on her bed when she woke.
There was an oddly bitter bite to that half-eaten Bakewell, so he went in to sweeten his tea. Back outside, the dog buckled and died.
His nails were hard and tough, bark-like, and cracked easily. He wished he could give his nails, and marriage, a varnish of red, or orange.
Leo eyed Kermit in the mirror and chuckled.
He loved saving his best disguises for DiCapri-Con.
The post-apocalyptic silence was broken only by far away groans, penetrating from deep bunkers of ex-dictators watching porn.
Her lunch-hour opens with a one-shot latte, M&S Meal Deal and novel packed with passion, romance and adventure. In the end nothing happens.
Sweat beads on his forehead. A sigh breaks into my name. A teardrop appears. His face falls on mine. I lick his tear pearl. Love is made.
A bird nests in our front door wreath. The children turn the knob to peek. Shattering commotion!
It’s spring time. The snake sheds its skin under the fig tree. She takes off her nightgown, experimenting with freedom.
I was six when Dad won the sack race.
Didn’t know then he was mine.
Collapsed facades. Her confession: A past facelift. His: "I'm not rich". The shade is gone, their love blessed, but the ruins are abandoned.
I love them, her expressions on my face, her way of coming back to say, I've not forgotten you pet, I’m having a great old time in heaven.
The little boat went down in the dark with his son on board. He'd forgotten Sam's skinny dipping habit when he planned the insurance scam.
Her back arches over cool sheets beneath them, lifting her hips so their bellies kiss and kiss. Love’s breath on her neck, her parted lips.
His name in the book was different, and only she knew. The truth hid her, but she still smiled when asked "where do you get your ideas?"
The midnight forest shadows dance around my fire. As my flask runs dry and sleep whispers, it's easy to see how the ancient gods were born.
I cried when I opened the pen. A prize specimen, he won best rabbit three years running as Bangor Jumper, but he'll always be Flopsy to me.
Mornings she taught the old man to read, evenings he'd drive the ride-on mower to the dollar store and stutter out lines in sympathy cards.
My rainbow trainers tie to the beginning of every May. My giant lucky charms, marshmallow in comfort. I tie my laces. Colours paint a smile.