De-blog

I hear the front door close, the clang of your keys as you drop them into your pocket. My peaceful afternoon is about to end, just as soon as you’ve taken off your shoes, checked the mail, poked your head into the sitting room, slammed the kettle with your dismay and laid your disbelief upon the naked kitchen table. I can almost hear you tally your point score as you climb the stairs to my studio—THE attic, as you call it—and I should brace for your arrival, but I don’t give a damn. That creaky top stair denies you your stealthy approach, yet I act as if you will still catch me unawares. The square of blue above my head holds my attention, patchy and ragged as if the skylight were a giant phone and the sky a wash painted by a clumsy finger. “I bet you do that all day.” I fake a start, as usual, and spin my chair so my back is fully to you. If you could manage as much as a civil ‘hi’, I’d respond in kind. But the kindness has all gone. We are embittered, estranged echoes of our past....

Part of Play On... A FREE Valentine’s Day collection of short stories, poetry and prose, inspired by the songs of ABBA. Nina, Pretty Ballerina © 2019 Debbie McGowan I didn’t like her. Not at first. She was too pretty. Too perfect. The box belonged to my sister, a pink, fluffy, glittery little thing—the description suited both—from a boy in her class. I remember her ripping off the paper, squealing in delight and then casting it aside, concerned only with the accumulation of Valentines, not sentiment. She wouldn’t let me see what was inside, but that had never stopped me before. Back then, though, all I knew was the box had two keys. One was for a tiny, pointless padlock that hung from the front like a little robot Scotsman’s sporran— Kick me in the goolies, I dare ye. Oh, dare accepted, my good wee McMan. The other key stuck out the back and would, inevitably, bring about the end of the world. I waited, biding my time for just one opportunity to get at that box....

Highlights The one where Notes from Boston’s Amelia Roberts takes a much-needed vacation to England and runs into Shaunna Hennessy from Hiding Behind The Couch—a fortuitous meeting for both. Co-written with A.M. Leibowitz Copyright © 2019 A.M. Leibowitz and Debbie McGowan Cross-posted at: http://amleibowitz.com/2019/01/27/highlights-a-short-story/ Prefer an ebook? ePub | Mobi | PDF | Smashwords * * * A quiet afternoon at Young at Heart hairdressing salon. Hayley—Shaunna’s boss/salon owner—chats away to her client while Shaunna perches with phone in hand on the high stool next to the counter. Her attention flits between the murmured conversation, a text interchange with BFF Adele and watching for her “two o’clock” to arrive—a new client— Amelia Roberts , according to the diary; she’s the only other appointment this afternoon. The door opens, and a dark-haired woman, curvy but tiny in stature, steps in. She’s not alone, but one of her companions says somethin...

A Hiding Behind The Couch flash fiction, written for the Sparkly Badgers. Theme: extreme weather (British style ;)). *** A pink straw sunhat dropped onto the patio table. Iris glanced up from her magazine as Pauline passed between her and the sun—not that it mattered when she was under an umbrella. Pauline gingerly lowered herself onto the other recliner and lifted the hat, revealing a bottle of sun lotion—no, make that oil. “Bloomin’ hot, in’t it?” she said. She flipped the lid and upended the bottle, generously greasing her left arm, then her right. “Here we go. Back in 1976, we was frying eggs on’t car bonnets… ” “Well, we was!” “Aye. You told me last time we had a heat wave.” About ten years ago, if memory served. Pauline squinted with one eye shut, checking her arms were well coated before she squeezed dollops onto both thighs. “Nowt wrong with making the most of it.” “You could’ve just had a barbecue, love.” “I don’t think they was invented then, but that wer...