I'm a mother, a scientist and a writer, trying my hand at balancing the three.
A big believer in the power of fairytales, a strong cup of coffee, and Eurovision.
Currently writing my first novel.
We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. I jabbed at the button for the heated seats, trying to thaw my thighs, but it weakly flicked a lame orange before spluttering out, with the finesse of a wick in the bottom of an overused candle. All wax, no spark.
We hadn’t always asked the villagers to jump from the cliffs, but we found that there was something in the way they fell that prevented any further discordance. It’d been that way for aeons, and we’d seen how the human tribes had carved it on their stone walls, then within their tapestries, and finally upon parchments. They always recorded the same comical falling motion, whether it be by thread or charcoal - a four limbed body becoming seven.
Lore Jones and the Dark Matter Pirates
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Quite frankly, Captain Lore Jones thought that this was very good for business; if screams were heard, then he and the rest of his crew would have found themselves broke a very long time ago.
Gens una sumus
In the immediate moments I awoke from a twilight dream, I realised first that I had a thumping headache, and second, that the man lying next to me was dead. This must have been a recent transition. Spittle had dripped from his hanging mouth to the leg of my dark jeans and was a bequeathment that I certainly hadn’t asked for. His face was half hidden under a dark top hat, so I peered below to see that his pale eyes were open, but there were no embers within them now. Those internal fires had been doused, drenched, flooded.
- Runner-Up in Campfire Ghost Story Challenge
Roald Growl Mid Flood
Summers in England were fleeting and hazy, but were left behind by a move to Australia when I was ten. Here, Christmas was in summer, and was hot hot hot! Signalled by differences like the exchange of a traditional Turkey roast for poolside seafood, mulled wine forgotten as a second glass of sparkling red (with a couple of ice cubes) was poured, but Christmas Pudding remained a staple. Summer was the period away from school, where hiking beckoned, and the ocean glimmered just a little more brightly.
“There weren’t always dragons in the valley”, Areya read aloud, crumpling up the insulting note, before turning toward the room of councillors seated in oak thrones before her. The sun was almost setting and purple twilight splintered through the cracked windows of the throne room.
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. April didn’t like the official nickname they branded those Burning. Shrugging into her dark overalls, stepping into her leather boots and tucking a radio at one hip, she listened carefully to the world outside the cabin. June had been careless, and had rushed into the forest without conducting due diligence. September had never even tried, scared from the stories, and her sister’s accident. November still bore the dark scars from where her scales had started forming, but April had always listened. She knew that the sun would be setting just to the West of their battered abode, illuminating the Valley with shards of deep amethyst light, and that now would be the safest time for her to descend.
This much was true. Neither Samsung nor Apple had yet fashioned an alarm clock that could rival the consistent punctuality of Thistle’s nose. As though it was set to ley lines deep below the Danish mires, to the tugging movements of the stars, or perhaps it could tune into the subtle pull of the moon on the tides, the intricacies of his internal system would make even Big Ben take stock. Or resign.