A Picture of Mary Berry
Prologue Mme Sosostris read the name of the town as her train pulled into the station. This was the one. She never questioned her instincts but let them lead her where ever and she grabbed her large carpet bag from the seat beside her and glided towards the exit, taking her place in the queue…
Bon Appétit
The brown paper bag had been folded over twice, quite neatly – hemmed almost. Bethany stroked the smooth paper edges where the fold almost shone with tightness. Her finger tips tingled in exquisite anticipation but she squeezed the seal even more firmly together testing her will. The bag rested on her lap and its warmth…
Ornithology
She heard him before she saw him. The open window on the landing allowed in the early summer birdsong together with the less melodic sounds of her husband’s harsh but controlled breathing and fast, heavy footfall as he sprinted the last twenty metres to the gate. Chest heaving, he came in to their enclosed back…
On the Verge
Michael pulled up outside his childhood home and had just reached the other side of the car before his mother had closed her gate and turned towards him. He pecked her on the proffered cheek and opened the rear door, waited as she fastened her seat belt, closed the door gently and returned to his…
Two for Joy
The wind swept over the rise and cannoned down the shallow slopes of the valley, stalking the road’s sinuous waist. Strut sat on the fence-post opposite his mate watching the rise of the hill and as he turned his head from the wind’s fury, his back feathers ruffled and he hunched against the cold. He…
Pond Life
My world is of the dark and of the cold. It is alien to you and yet you are drawn to me and my world. I am not drawn to yours. My world is denser than yours and sound travels differently; it moves faster but more quietly. We live in hollow whispers but whispers that…
Burnt Out
That morning’s stubborn frost – the first of the year – groaned under his feet as he slogged his way up to the bonfire. A mist hung over the field. It seemed that the day hadn’t really started and yet it was already on the wane. His sense of distance was playing up; surely it…
Anemone
Freya watched as the tiny crab’s serrated claw combed the scarlet shock of spiny straggle weed which it wore like a panache. It reminded her of a peacock punk’s Mohican. Freya had been a beautiful punk once, quite notorious in the seaside town where she grew up. She imagined her fifteen year old self outside…
Follow My Blog
Get new content delivered directly to your inbox.
Peter's Last Writes 