I hope everyone has survived lockdown. We are not out of the woods yet, but it’s good to have a little more contact with the outside world. I have had a recent flurry of writing and four short story acceptances this week! Stories forthcoming in Burnt Breakfast Magazine (July 2020), Fully Lit Magazine (July 2020), Lunate Fiction (August 2020)
I had a lovely acceptance letter from all of the above journals, but wanted to share the words from Lunate Fiction about my story, A Place of Unfinished Sentences:
“It is a rich and complex story, once that requires focus and attention from a reader in order to bring out the full story, and even then, as the title suggests, we are not given all the pieces of the puzzle! Your use of narrative voice is exceptional in this piece, as is your careful use of minor detail which draws the reader’s attention and acts almost as a smoke-screen for the wider picture. It is a remarkable flash fiction.”
When paranoia sets in, I mentally search for the fire escape. Is it in the hallway? Is it on the second floor? What if I feel the urge to jump from the balcony? A short man with a balding head walks past me and winks. He is holding a book on golf. My stomach turns. I am in the self-help section, looking for something that might fix my mind, but it is not there. There is no book that can erase memories. Maybe the cookery section might help, something from Jamie Oliver or Mary Berry. Someone once told me that Delia is outdated. I have acquired lots of books on how to bake cupcakes and muffins, which I would happily make all day, but sometimes you need to get into the meaty stuff, the grit of life….read more at Reflex Press.
Short stories are the heartbeat of many writers. I intersperse writing short stories with writing and editing novels. My second novel is now complete and edited. Below is a list of my recent publications and some links to other stories I have enjoyed reading.
‘Look, a starfish, bright orange. Look at it.’ Sophie points to the ripples in the rock pool, her pigtails drop down over her cheeks, cover the freckles that have faded in the sun. ‘Billie, look.’ He is further from her, closer to the shore. He jumps across the rocks, one leg followed by the other, to where she is crouching down, pointing.
The wind stirs up the water. It is difficult to see beneath the surface. He scrunches his eyes almost shut, but not quite. ‘It was there, I promise,’ she insists, but he is unsure, wonders if it was worth the distance. He had been disturbed from scooping up mounds of volcanic sand into a cracked blue bucket that he had found outside the barn this morning. He had wondered if it was there to be used or whether he should have left it alone. There had been lots of old deck chairs lined up against the stone wall, the wood frames held together by sun-bleached fabric a few rips and holes. They had looked as though they were waiting to be used or restored. Nothing looked as though it had been let out for some time and he had decided that the bucket, at least, deserved some time at the beach. There hadn’t been anybody about to ask… Read the rest of the story online in Vending Machine Press