Victoria Cope
Stories (6/0)
RIP Horse & Hound
Even as I sit here writing this on my weathered laptop, the screen still possesses remnants of chaff and sugar beet; a 'gift' from Dyagilev as I sat on his stable floor catching up on work that was really more suited to an office environment, or at the very least, a desk. His way of checking up on me - his human - was to swing his big beautiful head over to where I was seated on the cold concrete every few mouthfuls, and playfully nudge my screen, prompting a playful reprimand and a kiss to his soft muzzle. I am smiling as I try to scrape the dried feed from my keyboard; he truly has weaved his way into every possible inch of my life....and I owe it all to one very special woman.
By Victoria Cope3 years ago in Families
Communicati-off
I remember the thrill every time our postman (who back then, you knew by name, wrote a Christmas card to, and left a bottle of wine out for every New Year) delivered a letter addressed specifically to me. Was it an elderly Aunt sending a belated Birthday card (that I secretly hoped was concealing a five-pound note)? Or was it the friend I had met whilst holidaying in Greece that I later became pen pals with. Or perhaps it was the Pony Club magazine; writing to me to let me know I had (finally) won their monthly ‘write in with your pony problems’ competition, and I would shortly be in receipt of a brand new saddle. Letters were so precious, they would often get pinned to a bedroom wall; with blue tack (which you prayed wouldn’t take off the paint) or sellotape, which rarely lasted for more than 24 hours.
By Victoria Cope3 years ago in Humans
The First Last Date
The First Last Date The tears welling in her eyes obscured her reflection momentarily. She quickly grasped a tissue from the box on her dressing table and carefully dabbed the delicate area beneath her modestly made up eyes, stemming the stream and preventing any restorative work.
By Victoria Cope3 years ago in Humans
Mourning Has Broken
The voice that had been urgently repeating her name for the last three and a half minutes was suddenly loud and clear; “Olivia? Can you hear me?” She opened her eyes, wincing at the harsh overhead lights. Her first observation was that she was on her back. Either that, or the rest of the world was defying gravity and made absolutely no sense (but then again; when did it ever?). The second realization was that she had an audience; her entire lecture hall was jockeying for position, trying to catch a glimpse of the ‘scene’. Some were even brandishing their phones; apparently this was prime social media content, and she was the main attraction. Her tutor – Prof Langley – was down on his knees by her side. She managed to focus on his face long enough to realize that the voice appeared to sync with his lips. It was him repeating her name, whilst simultaneously shaking her, the growing concern apparent in both his voice and the intensity of his grip.
By Victoria Cope3 years ago in Criminal