Indie author of nine years. Write primarily light, witty urban fantasy/magic realism stories.
Currently writing a vampire story. Anne Rice meets Irvine Welsh.
My website is https://www.gayleramage.co.uk
Short Fiction: The Visitor
Only the feverish night sky bore witness to the arrival of the visitor as he descended from the artist palette sky, as if standing in a glass elevator, and landed in a field. A cow mooed softly nearby. The visitor regarded the creature with only mild interest before setting off towards the stone wall that separated the field from the village further down the single-track road, a briefcase-like hold-all in his right hand.
Short Fiction: Blind Date
‘This is a bad idea.’ ‘No, it’s not. It’s just nerves talking. You’ll be fine.’ I watched Raine busy herself, taking several outfits from her wardrobe and laying them out on the silk-covered bed between us. I wished she was coming with me. Up until the start of the week, I’d been adamant I wasn’t going on this blind date she’d set up for me. I’d told her that I was doomed to be single all my life and had come to terms with that. In turn, my best friend had responded with a bemused look and told me it was all arranged. Percy was well aware of my little predicament.
Short Fiction: Upgrade
With hindsight, the early days of the relationship was the best time. Always in each other’s company, the constant touching and exploring. Being the main focus of your love’s attention is a wonderful feeling. She would hold me, stroke me and gaze at me. I felt special, like it was her and me against the world. I even tried to communicate with her, sending a message of love, but she didn’t recognise the number and got a bit freaked out. I didn’t try again.
Short Fiction: The Old Man
He steps out of the house, mindful of the crumbling front step that cost him a week’s stay in hospital last winter. He ought to get the thing fixed but he hasn’t got the money to pay for some cowboy who would only make it worse. If the thing eroded even more he could always start using the back door, but that would mean being under the nosy gaze of the old trout across the way who sits perpetually in her living room, staring out of the window at everyone and everything. Still, he could always raise his middle finger to her; give her something to gossip to her equally prying friends with. And he’d get a chuckle from it, to see how flustered and offended she’d get.