Justice? (250-word fiction)

Goldilocks was our favourite bedtime story when we were kids. In that age of schoolyard bullies, I guess we liked the idea that thieves would ultimately get their comeuppance – that you couldn’t just walk into someone’s home and break their favourite chair and eat all of their porridge without consequences. No: you would be caught out. You would have to answer for your actions. Papa Bear would be stern and enraged, Mama Bear would shout, “for shame!”, Baby Bear would cry his eyes out, and you would be struck by the deepest remorse.

You certainly wouldn’t smirk and whisper some disparaging remark to your lawyer when the victim impact statement was read out, that’s for sure.

The Ballroom Project, Chapter Two (3,600-word fiction)

Alilah must reach her brother. She must. She can’t quite see him – it seems to her that he is standing at the other side of a vast, unfamiliar hallway, his silhouette barely visible – and she is running to reach him, yet the faster she moves, the further he slips from her view. She…

See Yourself / Your Solace 🌼 (spoken word poetry)

Soul healing for those who feel misunderstood, out of place … holding a vision that is yet unsteady on its feet. ❤️ See Yourself Drop your burdens and let dawning light caress your face.You hold a vision that is yet unsteady on its feetamidst rushing lines of traffic,the clicks and taps of impassioned argument. You…

She’ll be out of here as soon as possible (fiction)

Ellen knew that today’s biology class would be a nightmare. She skimmed through the textbook at the end of summer – just to familiarise herself with the syllabus before the term started – and as soon as she saw the chapter about the human reproductive system, her heart sank, because she knew what to expect. There would be audible snorts and giggles and furtively whispered remarks around the room, especially at the back of the class.

When AI art encouraged the return of human creativity (set in the year 2070)

Further building on the 2070 story I’ve been developing, this post is inspired by my own belief: that the internet as we currently know it may well be flooded with AI-generated content in the near future, and non-AI work might be regarded as inferior for a time … but the human desire for authentic expression – messy, imperfect, imprecise expression – can never truly die. We will return to our innate drive to dream.

Grace (a short story)

Grace remembers it well. It’s one of the few things she remembers. Her mother used to put a drop of brandy in her sister’s bottle to help her sleep. She no doubt did the same thing for Grace, and why wouldn’t she? In that dusty room, in that falling-down old house, the walls covered in grime and soot from the Franklins’ fire downstairs. Her mother had tried to give them both the best life she could, Grace can see that now.

She wishes she could send some comfort his way (1,300-word fiction)

A continuation of my Ballroom Project saga! The part of the story that occurs right before this scene can be read here. When Surtha arrives, he is ordered to sit before his father and the rest of the family. Orvec is seated to his right, with his bride Beneth alongside him and her family, the…

Murphy and Michel: Born in the Same Summer (250-word fiction)

Murphy and Michel have always been together. Michel knows the story so well: it was the summer of 2058. He had been born just a few days prior when his father noticed a distressed dog dragging herself along the ground outside their home. She was pregnant, clearly in need of food and water – suffering…

He acknowledges her with the briefest of nods (880-word fiction)

Albalia’s sharp gaze takes in Alilah’s dress and cape – Alilah sees her checking that the ancestral gems are correctly arranged – then she nods and turns away. “Come. Eat, and we shall then prepare the grounds. I will go to the kitchens first, I must consult the chefs…” Downstairs, Eitrem is seated at the…

The Faery Feast (a poem)

They are coming, she said, So put the sugars out. Get the bread and jam And a cake – no, not the one that’s gone hard, But the good currant bun. Let them feast, son, For they will make merry tonight. Her son walked to the door But she said Wait. Come here, son: let…