Short Stories

I write mostly poetry but also short stories when I get the urge.


She stared at the tip of the needle as it lay on her arm. Testing the point as it stretched the skin, it wasn’t time yet. She needed to build up the courage for what she had planned. Looking around the room she thought about all that had brought her here, to this lonely place, to this stark moment.

Leaning against the chest of drawers she scanned the room, a room that was once full of comfort now brought her nothing but pain. A pile of soft toys in the corner, colourful and bright, mocked her with their vibrancy. Books lay strewn across the floor with no one to read them, no one to pick them up. The room echoed a fierce emptiness. The blankets were rumpled but no one laid there, the small bed unmade as it would be forever. No tears, no laughter nothing at all. This room was a prison of torturous memories.

Amongst the shelves a photo stood proud, spotting a face, that wry little smile, the glint in her eyes as she sat on the swing. That time was over, a tear fell from her face, then another, and another, floods pouring now. Shaking and crumbled she fell to the floor, amongst the clothes and the toys that were still there.

A cruel twist of fate and her baby was gone. Her one good thing and it was taken away. She would never recover, not from this, never from this. Sitting up again she took a deep breath, closed her eyes and took the plunge. A smooth peaceful feeling washed over her, tranquillity filling her mind. A brief sense of happiness and then she was gone.


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