A young woman loses her way on a country lane with surprising consequences.

Away with the Faeries

The small car wound cautiously along the minor road, twisting down the contours of a wooded hillside, dark and glistening with damp from earlier drizzle.  The tangled trees surrounding the narrow path were greening but the vivid hues of their leaf buds were obscured by the mist which enveloped their gnarled branches and veiled their roots.  It was eerily beautiful the way they emerged from a white, swirling mass and rose up, reaching towards a pale, clouded heaven.  Susan kept finding herself staring into the woods rather than watching the road.

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An Urban Fantasy about a lonely woman who summons a character from a tarot card for a romantic interlude.

Seven of Swords

Cassandra rose and crossed the room to draw back the velvet curtains.  They were so heavy that the runners made a resounding whoosh – a sound that usually brought her querients back to reality.  And if that didn’t, seeing the stark white door behind the curtain usually did.  But Debbie, who had come today in the hopes of clearing up some husband worries, was in no hurry to leave.  The incense had burnt out, which indicated that they’d gone over her thirty minutes by at least another ten.

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Waking up with a hangover and in a strange room Jean tries to remember what she did the night before – and with whom. Her antics at her snobbish cousin’s engagement party are revealed in flashbacks as she pieces together her memories.  Family competitiveness, family ties and new friendships are exposed as Jean recalls the events that led to her being in this hotel room.  As her cousin slots the last puzzle piece into place, Jean is filled with relief and the promise of romance adds to the light heartedness of the tale.

The Morning After

Dreams dance and jangle to pulsing bursts of noise, they bend and warp into the glare of morning sunlight on closed eyes. Nausea creeps in, sliding sleep aside. And a headache sits on Jean’s head like a demon, its claws pressing in, tightening. She peeps through the slits of her leaden eyelids and opens her mouth. A dry rasp is all she can muster. She groans and turns. Through throbs and waves of ache and nausea she remembers…

…Jean, having been trumped yet again by her prettier cousin, stood in the sun lounge of Pembleton Halls – Historical Manor House, now open to the public to hire for functions – and watched the other guests mingling in their designer eveningwear as they celebrated her cousin’s engagement.

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A teenage girl accidentally throws out an important ingredient of her mother’s recipe.

The Turkey Remains

February 9 Wed

7:00am: I, Janice Cookson (unrelated to the great Catherine C. but aspiring to her level of excellence), aged 13 years and 4 months,  have woken this metaphorically bright morning, to realise that I have exceeded the caustic estimation my father gave when he scoffed and said, “You won’t be writing in that diary for longer than one month!”  Ha, ha, Dad, you are so wrong!  But I shall say nothing to remind him of this.  That’s two of my three New Year’s resolutions that I have kept.

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