The doctor examined my wound. He dug and probed, and I was glad when he stopped. One would think he was kneading dough. When he saw my ‘English Poetry from Chaucer to Rossetti’, he revealed a little of himself. Eyes alight, he quoted: ‘I remember, I remember, the house where I was borne’, then switched to the last couple of lines about being ‘further away from Heaven now that he is old enough to know the height of trees’. He is fond of Omar Khayyám and said that when he feels depressed... continue reading
Articles by Secretnarrative
The vibrant silk kimono clashes with my Chanel red lips and nails, but I decide it doesn’t matter; certain shades of orange, like terracotta, are tonal, subtler than red. Sienna, baked clay, emits earthy, soothing warmth, and I consider trying a different lipstick.Orange, combining the energy of red and the happiness of yellow; the fruity hue suits my fair flesh and lifts my complexion. I imagine an artist whirling his brush in sunshine, dipping sable into coral, creating whorls on his palette.... continue reading
I am pulp faction. Tomorrow, I will be discarded, pulped or worse. Today, I’m headed west, picked up for a few coins and carried with him, this hangover morning, tucked under his business-clad arm.Journeying, he rests me on my front and lingers on my back while his head bangs and pores ooze residual alcohol from Thursday’s lash. Riffling to page three, his gaze scorches the brazen, bare-breasted beauty as mizzle darkens the day. There’s no hint of a sunshine lunch and scant chance to raise... continue reading
‘Where’s the body?’‘In the parlour, sir, follow me. He was breakfasting on bread and honey. It’s strange, the corpse is twisted. If he’d been on his back he’d be resting on his head and heels.’‘Where’s the widow?’‘I don’t know, sir, but that’s husband number three.’‘Hmm. Ring for the butler, he’s vanished again.’‘Some forms of poison can bring about such a death,’ said Kent, tugging the bell-pull.‘Yes, I believe strychnine causes convulsions. Ah,... continue reading
‘Good afternoon, Miss Lee. You’ll be eager to be free.’‘Yes, I have deadlines.’‘I see.’My latest crush turns my hand this way and that. Skilled fingers make gentle assessment.‘I’ll refer to you to physiotherapy.’‘Thank you.’‘Nurse Pringle, fetch the necessary paperwork, please. Soft balls to squeeze periodically for a matter of months,’ he continues after the nurse’s departure.My healing hand trembles and I smile.‘You look lovely today, Miss Lee, Galway... continue reading
‘I’ve downloaded the recipe, shall we?’‘Why not?’‘Hmm. “Pour one jigger into a champagne glass; add iced champagne until it has opalescent milkiness. Drink three to five of these slowly.” Shall we do as Hemingway says?’‘Yes. We should use saucer glasses, apparently modelled on Marie Antoinette’s breasts, did you know that?’‘We don’t have those. Flutes will have to do.’Dancing ladies, autumnal in the hearth, reflect the changing season and nature closes her day... continue reading
He is oak, and I’m mistletoe, winding his trunk, I travel his limbs, curling the extent of him. I am the spur joined to his heel; we are a worthy pair, well matched in a renewal of magic. I creep along his frame in advance of his vanishing act, a final parting, blinding white, parting white. A last shirt shrugged and fastened, the fleeting whiff of pressed clothes, wafting his leaving, trailing tome on the vibrating, exposed atmosphere of departure. I am at the window clothed in a veil of lace,... continue reading
Red fox flees in a rush of brush. Dun filly thunders pursuit, flying white socks, almost airborne, as if they do not bear the burden of the sure-seated, scarlet-clad rider.‘Horses are at their best in paintings,’ he says, misting the early morning air.Pursed lips deliver a final blow and a single, long note trails the tailcoat of the last. Pocketing the horn, he ducks for cover. Silver birch engages skull, splintering crown and an exquisite agony spirals stars.He crumples. Leaden... continue reading
Dan’s sister is blonde, but her brows and lashes are genetically dark. The children are refreshingly normal. Not too goody-good, just right, like Goldilocks’s third taste from the trio of bowls. I relax a little, tackling traditional roast rib of beef, veg, Yorkshire pudding, horseradish sauce and all the trimmings.‘Chloe’s as thin as a pin,’ says Elizabeth, offering seconds.I want to decline, leave room for the dessert that cutlery informs is on the menu, but I take another bloody,... continue reading
I post Drabbles - stories told in exactly one hundred words. I use a little creative freedom and sometimes feature fewer than 100 words. The idea is to convey meaning in brief snapshots.So far, I’ve written around twenty drabbles, a few are published some are work in progress. The challenge in writing drabbles is in the cut, which takes time, but is the most rewarding part of the writing process.Drabbles included in my blog at Dreamstime are also published on other platforms.Best wishes... continue reading
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