Ever since I can remember I have been writing stories. You can read some of them on these pages.
This story won second prize in the Frome Festival Short Story Competition, 2015.
At twelve, Lucie logs out, grabs the bag from under her desk and makes a break for the bathroom. It’s busy with women angled over marble-topped basins, reapplying lipstick. When a cubicle becomes free, she grabs a handful of paper to stuff down the toilet to muffle the sound, and pees. She glances briefly at herself under the ghost lights, then swings through the door and down the stairwell. She’s been taking the stairs every day since February 9th - “Lack of activity destroys the good condition of every human being, while movement and methodical physical exercise save it and preserve it.” Plato.
A piece of flash fiction written in 2018
“I know this sounds weird, but I think I met myself in a bookshop today.”
The kids are in bed, a bar of Galaxy has been cracked open and we are flicking through Netflix.
“I don’t mean spiritually or metaphorically,” I say, stretching my legs across my husband’s lap, nudging his hand with my foot, “I mean, my actual self. In some kind of worm-tunnelly, parallel life, astral plane type way.” My belief in ghosts, combined with a sketchy understanding of physics, is a long-standing joke between us. When were first together it was a flirtation device. These days he just rolls his eyes.
“You are bonkers,” he says, patting my knee, scrolling through an infinity of TV choice, too distracted to roll his eyes.
I don’t tell him about losing Joe.