My Writer Within

Dream Catcher . . . Story Weaver

Christmas Goes Crackers

Image by Beverly Buckley from Pixabay

Frankie’s head hit the top of the box, not once but seven times.

“Mum, Mum! I’ve found them! I’m sure Francesca is in here, she’s so

Life in Colour

Muriel climbed to the top of the bus. Even though she felt a little out of breath by the time she got there, she liked the view from above. Looking down

The Blessing: A Good (Expat) Life Story

Image by ElisaRiva from Pixabay

Penny wiped the corners of her mouth with the linen serviette, wondering if the breakfast in bed service would continue after

The Pianist

The tinkling of the piano keys stopped and Belle looked up from her book, pushing her glasses on top of her head.

‘Victor?’ She walked into the large music room, a place where Victor

The Sleeping Gypsy

Hattie took a deep breath. It got no easier, but she owed it to Tom. He had made plans for her after his death and she had to get out and see them through. It had been the only thing that kept him going through the failed treatments, the tears and disbelief, and finally the acceptance that there were no second chances.

Bathtime, Bubbles and Back Tickles

As a baby sitting on my mother’s knee, my big brother splashes loudly in the back and flicks water at me. A jealous big brother who gets the sharp end of our mothers’ tongue. She turns her attention back to me, a fuzzy face smiling, whispering, soothing and safe. I am lying on my tummy and the sweet cloying smell of Johnson’s baby powder fills the air, the tiny dust particles tickle at my nose, inviting a sneeze. I am cocooned, warm and gurgle with an innocent happiness. My mother gently traces her fingers across my back, following a swirling, twirling path, her touch as light as a butterfly kiss. My eyes grow droopy, yet I battle to keep them wide open, not wanting the tickles, and yet it is that which puts me to sleep within seconds. 

As a mother I stroke my baby son’s back, as soft as silk, tracing those same swirling, twirling paths. His head is a cap of thick black as night hair which will lighten to a dirty blonde as he gets older. Talcum-dust motes float between us and I hear the gentle snores of my son’s slumbers and the moment I stop the tickles; he objects softly with a moan.  

As a grandmother, I am introduced to my granddaughter, seconds old, pressed against the warmth of her father’s chest. The same cap of black-as-night hair which will turn golden and grow to waist length. I smile as he traces his fingers across her tiny back, cradling her tiny form. She snuggles deeper into his neck, as if she has always known him.  

Under New Management

The hammering in George’s head would wake the dead.  Just for a fleeting second, George thought that maybe he was. Dead.

Lady of The Dead

Image by Armando Orozco from Pixabay

‘You danced with Catrina? But she died, centuries ago . . . ’  

Sandcastle Dreams

Image by skeeze from Pixabay

Pippa chewed noisily on a piece of gum as she tried to remember Chico

Life in A Suitcase

Image by Irina L from Pixabay

Alice stared at the two red suitcases travelling around the carousel. She shifted slightly, not wanting to

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