The jetty had rotten clean through in places, creating a hopscotch of holes almost impossible to see in the dark. Gritting her teeth, Emile slid one foot in front of the other and eased her weight onto it. At the end of the jetty a light flickered and went off. She paused and steadied her breath. Patience, she reminded herself. She’d waited fifteen years, she could afford fifteen minutes to get across this dock unscathed. She ran a hand across the outline of the pistol inside her jacket. Fifteen minutes, she promised herself. That’s all she needed.
The ladder from the garage wasn’t quite tall enough to reach all the way, but it brought us within touching distance of the guttering. From there you could pull yourself up and afterwards, reach down for my hands, smaller, thinner, not quite as adept at clambering about. I let you lead me to a lot of places I couldn’t reach on my own. Perhaps I should have worried sooner about being left behind but back then all I could think of was how strong you were. Lifting me like a bag of sugar to watch the sun set beside you.
Kittles Bay had been a family vacation spot for the Jones longer than Kaitlin could remember. One February, when her brother was off for half-term and she wasn’t quite old enough to have started school, her father had driven them out to the craggy shoreline ‘just because’. Hunched up in his hoodie, her brother complained it was too cold and hid from the churning, grey sea in the rattling tin can their father coaxed awake each morning. ‘This!’ said her father, feet wide apart on a giant link and arms spread outwards, ‘is where the giants fled the Old King!’
“So tell me what we’re looking at?” asked Amelia, clipboard and pen at the ready as her wife Grace stepped past, black cocktail dress hidden beneath the newly acquired lab coat. Behind them, the night staff of St. Gregory’s clustered around the yellow tape marking off the far corner of the hospital car park. Amelia sighed, they’d been having such a lovely date night. “Well it’s not man-made,” said Grace, crouched down in front of the mess of crystal implanted in the tarmac. “It looks like it grew here.” “Grew?” repeated Amelia. “Yeah,” frowned Grace. “It looks familar, almost like——- “It’s representative, not literal,” shrugged Noah, arms folded, watching the journalists clustered around his newest exhibition. “The idea just came to be, like a bolt of lightening on a clear day,” he smirked. “Or a meteor at three o’clock in the morning,” snorted Poppy, his daughter. Tucked away towards the back of the exhibition she was out of earshot. “I wanted to examine the complex, nature of human life, fractures yet still one whole.” “You’re …
“What are you doing in my garden?” asked the fairy, her sword level with James’ nose. James froze. The fairy, because that was the only word he could think of to describe the tiny, fluttering creature currently pointing her cutlass at him, was scowling. “I asked you, what you’re doing in my garden!” she demanded. “Your garden,” James spluttered. “This is my garden! I just bought it.” “Pah,” the fairy snorted, “You humans. You cannot buy fairy gardens.” “I could show you the paperwork,” James suggested. “Paperwork!” laughed the fairy. “Trust me human, paperwork is the least of your concerns.” (100 Words)
Have you ever seen the Spider Fairies? No, I suppose you haven’t. They slink about about on winter mornings just before the frost has time to melt, spinning the frozen spiders’ silk into balls of yarn to take back to their hidden homes. There they weave window frames and doors. You see, only frozen spiders’ silk can hold magic properly, if a fairy enchants anything else the power ebbs away until all that is left is the ordinary. Spiders’ silk however holds onto magic and so they use it to make their homes. To keep the humans from peeping in.
The letter was marked number 66/41/C/8504 and mixed in with the correspondence of someone else. This was the only reason her name had survived the purging of her family when they sought to scour all trace of her from their history. Wincing at the creak of old paper straining beneath the pull of modern fingers, Anna unfolded the letter. “To my dearest Father, I am sorry…” The rest is faint, the ink is much older than Anna and almost lost to time’s fading. She wonders if whoever wrote it can see someone has found her words and is finally listening. Back in Shrewsbury our archives are right next to the library and for me the two sites share so many similarities that one always makes me think of the other.
“You want me to build what?” Edwin spluttered, his voice bouncing off the open bonnet above him. Leaving his wrench on the engine he pulled himself upright and glared at the woman currently standing in his workshop. “I am not getting started with that crap again.” “Come on Eddie” pleaded Melissa, “Just one.” “No,” said Edwin. “Last time I charmed something for you Rome burned, and I mean literally.” “So I was a rebel teenager,” shrugged Melissa. “For five-hundred years?” “I mature slowly, but I swear I’ll behave myself this time!” “No Mel, it’s over. I’m not your witch anymore.”
“The blackness just enveloped me, I was convinced that this was the end I mean…” Joules watched as her patient twisted the only loose strand bottle-blonde around her finger and continued to talk. Nodding, she did her best to look thoughtful and not let her view slip any lower than her patient’s mouth. “Focus.” she told herself. The woman might have been spouting nonsense but at least Joules was being paid a laughable amout to sit there and hum at various intervals. “I mean, it was just so hard!” Joules nodded as her patient wailed. “Of course.” she said. “Now tell me, this was during your second breast enhancement?”
“Good book?” Katherine asked, nodding over her coffee cup towards the girl on the table next to her. The girl blinked and looked up. “Yer- er- I suppose-” she floundered. “Have you read it?” she asked. “The writer is really obscure.” “Obscure?” asked Katherine. “Yer. No one really knows who he is, but his stuff is really, well look at this bit.” She pointed to a paragraph. “This bit is actually referring to the main character’s latent homosexuality, and his failure to connect with Gret on a spiritual level.” “Of course.” said Katherine, reading back her own writing. “I’m sure that must have been what the writer intended.”