Image by Jörg Peter from Pixabay July, a heatwave. In the valley below, wind undulates across a ripening crop of barley. A rivulet of sweat trickles down the well of my backbone. You sit on a bench next to me in the shade of a Beech tree in Arley Arboretum. The air sighs a potent whisper, like the…
Image by Jörg Peter from Pixabay Gilly only had two summer frocks. One for school and one for ‘best’. She preferred the latter, the colour of candyfloss with puffed sleeves and a bow, but only wore it when she was sent to Sunday school. The former, blue gingham with two trimmed pockets, had to be worn on Saturday…
Image by Jörg Peter from Pixabay When a witch decides to hang up her broom, it is best she does so quietly and disappears. Else she will find she is disappeared and her broom stolen. And nobody was doing that to Griselda. She knew the horror stories. She’d sent those two brats packing with as much sweet stuff…
I sat in the huddle with the others around the desk. Bleary-eyed and mind elsewhere, I nearly missed the ward sister’s instruction. “… and staff nurse will supervise when you dress the wound.” Her voice was clipped. Perfunctory. My pulse throbbed in my neck and my tongue felt like sandpaper. I hadn’t cared for Blossom…
Nothing has moved in the living room since you left. Crispy almond slices in the golden autumn light sit on a plate like pale petals. The afternoon turns into dusk, soft yellow melting into blue and orange flames on the horizon. Dust settles on the floor at the foot of the grand piano. The untouched…
I stare at the back of my hand, so sun-damaged, resembling stained parchment. It is the same but different. It is mine, but I don’t want to own it. The veins peek out, trailing blue rivulets and my once-slim fingers are laden with random knots and bumps. The evidence of the knocks, injuries, the wear…
Her eyes were of gold, of gold, of gold And she was most old, most old Lucas was the first to leave. In her hut at the village edge, Old Ana stirred her midnight brew and watched him stumble past, a witch-led boy taking footstep after footstep in the wake of a luscious beast. She…
Henry Monxton spent a lot of time arranging all the cans and packets in the kitchen cupboards so their labels were exactly parallel and facing outwards. It had driven his first wife mad. Wife number two, well, not much is known of her apart from Henry shaking his head and saying to whomsoever should enquire,…
She brings a shawl out into the garden, cuddles into the chair next to mine. We listen to the sounds of the crickets and me swinging from the whiskey bottle. The air caresses the cacti needles behind us and all I can think about is the softness of her lips. “That’s a falling star!” She…
His beautiful face contorted like a reflection in a Hall of Mirrors, spitting his hateful words ‘old, talentless and so boringly predictable.’ He had told everyone I was his ‘Next Big Thing’, pushing me to constantly audition, until my deep bass-baritone voice was destroyed. I’d wanted to please him, to make him keep me, but the grand opera…
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Text & stories © Joanna Sterling
Stories © various authors
Editing by Joanna Sterling & Alyson Faye
Audio by Menna Bonsels
Brooch photography by Mark Colliton
Website by Brighton WEBtech