Stories

About the author:

Alyson Faye

Alyson lives in West Yorkshire, UK with her husband, teen son and rescue animals. Her fiction and poetry has been published in a range of anthologies, (Diabolica Britannica/Daughters of Darkness) on the Horror Tree, several Siren’s Call editions, in Page and Spine, by Demain Press (The Lost Girl/Night of the Rider), in Trickster’s Treats 4, on Sylvia e zine and The World of Myth.

Last year she had stories out with Kandisha Press, Space and Time’s July magazine and Brigid’s Gate Press’, Were-Tales anthology.

Her work has been read on BBC Radio, local radio, on several podcasts (Ladies of Horror and The Night’s End) and placed in several competitions.

She works as an editor for a UK indie press and tutors.

She swims, sings and is often to be found roaming the moor with her Lab cross, Roxy.

Alyson Tweets @AlysonFaye2

She co-runs the indie horror press, Black Angel, with Stephanie Ellis Black Angel Press

Alyson has an Amazon Page

Carol Practice

A story by

Story type:

Flash Fiction

Story mood:

Amusing
Nostalgic

The children’s voices warmed the chilly air. ‘The snow lay . . . deep and crisp and even . . .’
Ellen clapped her hands.
“Wonderful Class 3a. However, I believe we can do a little bit better. Let’s try it once more.”
Several eight-year olds pouted and one puny boy slumped to the frosty ground, whilst pretending to shoot himself. Ellen ignored the signs of rebellion. Her class had to win this year’s Primary Schools Inter Counties Carol Singing Contest. She would not be beaten again. Her eyes turned heavenwards, hoping for inspiration. Or ‘A Sign’. Perhaps a gaggle of angels dropping in? Instead the grey skies sneezed and decanted their fruits.
“Everyone look. It’s snowing. Your singing has brought it on. How wonderful!”
The flakes drifted onto freckled upturned faces and were siphoned into open mouths. The head teacher strode across the playground.
“Let’s go inside children. Come on now. That’s quite enough for today.”
The pupils surged for the doors in a stream of undiluted joy. The Head turned to Ellen, her eyes as grey as the sky.
“Miss Munro, health and safety rules,we have to keep the children warm. Perhaps you would consider rehearsing in the hall? I know the acoustics aren’t as good but . . .”
Ellen felt a sob raise its unprofessional head. Her inner Gareth Malone totally unappreciated.

 

THE END

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