I know she left you that morning – waited till you were on your way to work and packed her bag. I know she collected a few toys for the children and, holding one by his tiny hand and carrying the other, I know she walked away. She didn’t have the courage to tell you…
Why I Write in my Genre…
Daphne zipped up her anorak. Every day it got easier to catch the creases in her neck on the sharp metal teeth, harder to get a decent grip on the tiny tag she could barely see, even with her glasses. She had been a beauty once; tight alabaster skin stretched smooth as a portrait across…
In response to this week’s prompt: If I invented my own religion…
I’ve never been religious. Never felt the ache of a god-shaped hole pulse through my mortality, never needed a deity to hold my hand into the void. The vigorous zeal of TV evangelists has never affected me, nor bony figures fainting with wonder into the Ganges or prostrating themselves in the sun-bleached stone squares of…
If I Had a Time Machine…
I’ll never forget this moment. Our shoulders touch, there on the zebra crossing, two passing people who may – or may not – have hit each other even a fraction of a second later. I don’t believe in love at first sight until now, never thought that worlds and lives and dynasties could collide like…
What Gets Me Writing
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Stories from the Edge 