Lying in a tangle of sheets, I watch a spider cross the ceiling while Jacob struggles unsuccessfully to open the window. ‘I’m afraid I’ve broken off some of the paintwork,’ He holds up the thin white slivers, and lets them fall from his hands onto the wide windowsill of the triangular alcove. Continue reading “Intermission #shortstory”
Tag: Viccy Adams
My Quota of Joy (short story)
The highest perfection of intellectual nature lies in a careful and constant pursuit of true and solid happiness
– John Locke
One morning at the end of February I look up at the colossal wooden frame mounted above the fireplace and I can see I’ve already used up my Quota Of Joy for the rest of the year.
‘You’re so greedy.’ My mother twists my hair between her fingers. ‘Always wanting more. No sense of self-control.’ She ties the end of the braid with a red ribbon. ‘You get what you deserve; we all do.’
Sulking makes no difference. Under her name, flashing red in the half-gloom, are a couple of spare weeks. She says she’s saving it for August, in case of fine weather. Continue reading “My Quota of Joy (short story)”
Breakfast (short story)
Hanging on the wall in the hallway of my parents’ house is a portrait of my great grandparents on their engagement day. It’s one of those typical, non-smiling sepia photographs. He has a massive moustache and her hair is scraped back off her face so hard it must have been painful.
They’re both facing slightly off centre. One of his hands is blurred; it looks as if he moved it from resting on her shoulder to cupping her elbow. Or the other way round. I’ve walked past it a thousand times without ever really stopping to look.
My mother puts her hand on my shoulder and pushes me closer. Continue reading “Breakfast (short story)”
If you missed us live this morning, catch us live on STV Edinburgh tonight #dwf15
Jemma and I had a lot of fun (& surprisingly few technological mishaps) live broadcasting our writers tour of literary Edinburgh this morning as part of the Digital Writers Festival ’20 Minute Cities’ strand. Continue reading “If you missed us live this morning, catch us live on STV Edinburgh tonight #dwf15”
It must be Fête (short story)
Bending over the cash box – pretending to count the float – I inhale the sharp, tin scent of well-handled small change and lick my lips. Continue reading “It must be Fête (short story)”
Creeping Like Snail (short story)
He watched them running: slipping and grabbing each other’s hands and shoulders in an attempt to break through without breaking rank. Continue reading “Creeping Like Snail (short story)”
Words Cannot Express (short story)
After reading the first line out loud, my mum falls silent. I dig my nails into the palm of my hands. She holds the piece of paper away at arms length while she reads and narrows her eyes. Her reading glasses are in her bag but she always squints, claiming that they tend to smudge her mascara. Continue reading “Words Cannot Express (short story)”
One Vial Act (flash fiction)
Even the stains on the towel looked authentic. I didn’t know there would be so much of it. The small red bottle was a tardis. Continue reading “One Vial Act (flash fiction)”
Flashing around: June 2014 round-up
Mildred passed Ernie the small silver jug of cream and he attempted to balance the blue cup and saucer on the thick ridges of his corduroy trousers.
extract from ‘Things We Do Not Talk About’
Birds may fly (flash fiction)
Falling off the wall had been the most exciting thing ever to happen to Jane. The doctor’s soft hands, the crisp white hospital sheets, the smoothness of the empty vase next to her bed. Continue reading “Birds may fly (flash fiction)”