A favourable wind drew their ship across the clear blue sea, its hull slicing through the waves. As it entered the harbour, a sudden storm descended. The Woman gripped the railing as the deck rocked beneath her, rejoicing in the violence and fury of the tempest, but when Nicolas found her, he forced her back ...
Continue reading Fiction: ‘A Tale of Avarice – Part 3’
Beauty
Fiction: ‘A Tale of Avarice – Part 1’
In a certain village few have heard of, upon a landscape unlike any we have here, lived a woman whom the villagers still refuse to speak of to this day. Even to say her name is thought to bring ill luck. So, for the purposes of this story, I will only refer to her as ... Continue reading Fiction: ‘A Tale of Avarice – Part 1’
Fiction: ‘The Renaissance’
The river flows steadily, its rich brown current sweeping away the cigarette butts and empty beer cans. He stands on the ledge beneath the bridge. The wall before him is a dark grey canvas dappled with moss and faded tags. He lifts a paint-stained hand, rattles the can, and brings it to the wall. A ...
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Fiction: ‘The Gargoyle’
For years he had perched in the same old position, on the same old spot where the sculptor had carved him. The rain had washed away the finer details of his grotesque form and the sun had bleached the stone into a ghostly white. Hideous bat wings sprung from his hunched back, while a set ...
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Fiction: ‘The Tulip’
All my life I’ve been told the story of the tulip that had grown from the pavement, but I never really believed it until I saw it for myself. She was as enchanting as a fairy tale. Her bright red petals were awash with orange and gold so that she burned like a sunrise in ...
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Fiction: ‘Paradise’
He chips away at the stone with a blunt axe, pausing only to brush away the flakes which have built up around him. His hands are coarse and weathered. The skin on his palms is a patchwork of callouses, each at varying stages of healing. He stops to look up at the roughly hewn ceiling ...
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Fiction: ‘Dust and Cut Flowers’
Like dust floating through a stream of sunlight. Like a small chip in the paint that resembles a tiny elephant. Like a scrap of that beloved floral pattern on an old sundress discarded to the rags basket in the laundry. I see these relics everywhere. Reminders of those tiny beautiful things. There’s an infinite sadness ...
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Fiction: ‘Eyes of the Beholder’
I’ve wasted years thinking about them, picturing how they look in as much detail as I can summon, and yet the harder I try the more elusive they become. I can see them before me, clear and mesmerizing. Whether my eyes are open or closed, I can still perceive them just beyond my reach, drenched ...
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