Margaret J Evans

Congratulations, Janette – nice work! And thanks John for the prompt.

Captive No More

Immovable behind a wide table, the five children sat strangely motionless. From tallest on the right to smallest on the left, they patiently faced an audience seated on ten rows of scarlet-topped hotel ballroom chairs.

The tallest child spoke first. “My name is One,” he said quietly, but loud enough. “I am the oldest. I am…[Read more]

Steps of passing ghosts

‘Trees are at their best when they’re turned into timber,’ said Norman as he picked the large golden leaf from his decking, crushing it in his hand. He had searched for ages to find this house with no trees in sight. There had been a spruce in the garden when he moved in, that the previous owner said had been a Chris…[Read more]

Well done, John. And thanks Ath!

Oops! Sorry all – got my days mixed up, but anyway, super quality this month.

Sandra – Time to play
Yes! That’s exactly the feeling: that unexpected memory. There’s a lot in these few words. Oddly enough I was thinking about the ‘play’ that’s so often missing from writing, quite recently. So easy to assume that a reverential approach will produc…[Read more]

Well the story of the book is seriously interesting, so I can hardly wait to get my copy.
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party?

I’m not sure. An I remember exercise about a particular relationship would be something of a curiosity I think. I enjoyed writing these short pieces because they helped me remember the taste of the time rather than focusing on every intense flavour.

It’s really hard to believe that somebody could send deliberately ridiculous/obstructive messages like Herbert John when lives were at stake (and I know he was only 18). That said, it’s a level of managerial incompetence and hubris that almost defies belief. Sadly, as the years go by it’s clear that more than cream floats to the top.

Another…[Read more]

Thank you, Kaz. Do you think this might count as an “I remember” exercise?

Thanks Gerry and Richard. Oh, and Richard – more rails. Definitely.

Memories, memories

Through a mane of blonde hair, through streaks of bleached and of darker dyed strands, her eyes flickered upwards. “Can I help you, sir?”

Behind me the door hissed shut expensively, hinges well greased by wills and probates. “Do yer know where Bryant Street is?”

“I umm… don’t know.” She bent her head back down to the screen…[Read more]

Thanks Libby and Sandra – and once again, thanks to Squidge!

October beckons.

I might be a bit over sensitive, but it’s the kind of trope that surfaces when feelings are being tested: stories about minorities and their secret evil ways. The classic cases would be all the tales of alien mind-control and body take over that were so popular during the anti-communist frenzy in the US during the late 40s and 50s, or the ‘Yellow…[Read more]