Aunt Sarah filled my head with all sorts of reality. The truth of the world as she saw it and the magic that can be found. I never knew how much I depended on her stories until she was no longer there to tell them.

Aunt Sarah’s Tales

As a child I knew many things. I knew fairies painted flower buds with colour in the dying light of day. Cats were sacred, tracing their ancestors back to the ancient gods and that the full moon was Diana hunting the clouds. I knew pearls cried for their return to the sea and that unicorns were not always white.

I knew because Aunt Sarah told me so.

Aunt Sarah was no real relative. She was someone special to me and I chose her as mine, gladly giving the title that would draw us together as family.

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I faced my weakness. For I may be many things but a coward I’m not. Not really. It was this dread of being responsible. Not for myself, that I took on eagerly. It was the responsibility for others, for my sister, for her unborn child. That I feared.’ Two women alone as the world disappears beneath winters carpet.

God’s Way

Still no one came. The snow fell thickly now. Covered the world in a blanket so tight that nothing was familiar. Trees were lost, the ground carpeted and the world was stilled. Silenced.

I drew my shawl closer, prayed for someone to come to our aide and walked inside. Drew the heavy door close, more to keep out the cold then to keep out intruders. For I wanted company, needed someone with me. To calm my fears that rushed at me time and time again. I bit down hard on my lip to quench my panic. It was selfish of me. It was childish.

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Oliver lives for stories. Stories of others’ lives, others’ loves. He infiltrates weddings and funerals, eager to be part of something he lacks.

Good Pickings

Oliver was glad he’d chosen the burgundy tie. He glanced around. Nodded to himself. Lucinda had requested that red was to be worn. Most mourners wearing shades from crimson to vermilion. Women wore blouses or scarves, most of the men wore thin red ties, or else splashes of colour in the handkerchiefs peeking from jacket pockets.

It was a typical autumn day. The sky a friendly blue, hardly a cloud, the sun warm on his back. The church was large. A blue stone affair with stained glass windows. He preferred these older churches to the modern timber ones that had no history and to him no solemnity to the occasion.

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ADULT CONTENT

She knows everyone’s secrets. Knows who is pregnant, who is cheating on their wife. Knows that what he does to her is wrong. But if you can’t speak, who can hear you?

So Much to Tell

Secrets are funny things. They start out tiny, wriggling around like worms stuck on hooks but then they grow. They feed and feed, on lies and fear and before you know it, they’re huge maggots that can’t be hidden.

I know.

I know lots of things. It’s because I see things differently, because I listen. Not many people do that. They talk, chatter and nag, whinge and complain, they scream and whisper, shout and yell, whimper and plead. No one listens…but I do.

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