St Leonards Writers.
The Plot by Pat Cochrane.
"Bang!" That darned door! The offending shed stood on a plot whose owner, Geoff, had died, and nobody as yet had taken the plot over. I walked across to the shed and was surprised by the sudden chill in the air. I found a large stone, wedged the door closed and straightened up.
Bill was striding towards me. This meant trouble.
Past Images by William Stevens.
The door is locked and I have no key, so I force it open with the crowbar and brute strength.
I am alone, and yet I sense I am being watched. I try to ignore it. I'm just tired, but I can't stop looking over my shoulder. I step into the room and the sudden sensation of being stopped, I'm sure I felt two hands gripping me hard to prevent my entrance, almost propel me out of the room and out of the house. I fight against it and the force, or whatever it is, melts away.
Poetic Punishment by Christine Dale. The grass turned black where the great arching spray of blood congealed.
Annie's one brief scream, as Mick plunged the dagger into her throat, had scattered the woodland birds. One by one, they resumed their cheerful singing from the overhanging trees.
It was a balmy summer's evening, but the air smelt and tasted like rusty metal. It clung to the throats of the six disciples.
The Royal Wee by Rosamond Palmer.
Years of vibrating traffic had caused fractures in her structure. That shrieking metal box was the final straw; there was a creaking, cracking sound; Queen Victoria toppled forward, her body weight peeled her feet off the plinth and she nose-dived into the paint. Mixed with the beer, its odour was quite obnoxious.
Bo-Peep Body by Jonathan Broughton.
Early on the morning of 25th August 1891, Edgar Dunk, a platelayer walked through Bo Peep tunnel on his way to work. In the gloom, he thought he saw a bundle of rags lying beside the track, but on closer inspection discovered the body of a woman. There was blood under her neck and her face was black with dirt.
Burning by Rayne Hall.
The facade looked thin and vulnerable . The upper windows contained dark emptiness, and the bow windows of the shop screamed with orange heat. Everything looked black against the orange. The house reminded me of the lanterns we'd been making at school, black cardboard with rectangular cut-outs, with brightly coloured translucent paper behind.
The American Dream by Carolyn Markson.
"Impressive." I felt uneasy. there was something wrong. He had crossed some invisible line, but how was I to know what that line signified. "Quite a collection," I garbled. "Thanks for letting me see."
His obsession left me cold and when I moved to college, I stopped seeing him.
Shooting Game by Vivien Jones
Jake said he wouldn’t let Liam shoot until he was twelve.
Liam’s nose pressed against the farm shed window as, unseen, he watched Jake clean the gun. He wiped grubby glass as condensed moisture from his breath trickled in rivulets.
He watched Jake lock the gun away, watched him hang the key out of sight, then lift the sleek fox onto his shoulder, carry it from the shed.
In bed that night, Liam lay on a pillow that smelled of his mean brother’s hair grease.
His hand slid under the pillow, and didn’t let go of the key.