S E McCarthy
Bio
Stories (19/0)
Toy Soldiers
Toy soldiers. Don’t you just love them. When I was eight, I inherited an army. It was from our neighbour, Mrs Henson. She had been doing a clean out of her son Matthew’s room; he’d ran off to play soldier of sorts himself, and at only eighteen ended up paying the ultimate price; not so much as a ribbon or draped flag to show for it.
By S E McCarthy2 years ago in Fiction
A Dark, Stormy Night
“It was a dark, stormy night.” That’s how my grandfather started all his ghost stories. It didn’t matter if it was the headless nun climbing one stair, two stairs, three stairs more, her wimpled head in hand reflecting of the steel butcher knife, sharp enough to carve up us terrified little children; or even when the goat-hooved devil went out swindling souls from unsuspecting back-alley gamblers, the scene just wasn't set unless it was a dark, stormy night.
By S E McCarthy2 years ago in Fiction