A 100...

The Little Match Girl

by Katie Brown

Her heart beat hard against her. It was bitterly cold and she had little left in the way of warmth. Save her matches. 

Her grandmother had died some years before, she had only the memories of her words and smile. Staring in the window of where the others with money sat feasting, she tried to recall her. 

Looking into the deep velvet, watching a star shower mark the imminent death, she took out her matches. 

Next morning, when they found her amongst the ashes of the dead feasters she was warm and had eaten very well.

*

BIO: Katie Brown ** coming **

Taste by Diane Jardel

Cutting the courgettes 

Snap, snap, snap

Glossy green skill.

Dicing the purple aubergine,

Sweating it with salt

Drain the bitter juice

Eating together

the lemon flavour coming 

punching through

the underlying spice

of mustard and cardamom seeds;

next the earthy taste

of the potato

Embracing the gently sweet taste

Of the spinach

Still with its vital

life giving audacity.

The rice is the tender

and savoury, setting 

off  the moderate heat

pleasure as she swallows it slowly

They dip the fresh

sweet strawberries

into  hot chocolate fondue

laced with brandy

and taste its sensuality;

and bite into the rich tangy

exotic fruit

She looks into his eyes

And asks for water.

*

BIO: DIANE JARDEL - a published author of poems and stories; a vegan gourmet and  I love to capture the wonder of nature on camera.  I am also a writing group addict.

My poem 'The Mirror' is published in 'The Poetic Bond' by Trevor Maynard
I was featured poet of the month for December on www.muttonline.com
I started Fermanagh Creative Writing Group here in Enniskillen and registered it as an educational charity.

I post my stories and poems regularly on Stories Space.

by Diane Jardel

Spittle falls

Mother, you screamed

And raged

And spit fell

From your lips

I cowered before you

helpless

And afraid

I could not run.

One day 

you might 

transform

 my fragile stability

by some miracle.

And I would love you.

*

BIO: DIANE JARDEL - a published author of poems and stories; a vegan gourmet and  I love to capture the wonder of nature on camera.  I am also a writing group addict.

My poem 'The Mirror' is published in 'The Poetic Bond' by Trevor Maynard
I was featured poet of the month for December on www.muttonline.com
I started Fermanagh Creative Writing Group here in Enniskillen and registered it as an educational charity.

I post my stories and poems regularly on Stories Space.

Family by Michelle

“Well, of course my family likes you, dear.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I get the feeling that I’m an outsider; no one talks to me, really.”

“Come on, what gives you that impression?”

“Well, last year at the dinner table while I was telling a story I caught your sisters rolling their eyes.”

“Nah, probably something in the air, of course they like you, it’s nothing.”

“And your mother didn’t have a chair for me at the table; she squeezed your place setting between the neighbor’s daughters.”

“You came in a little late behind a big crowd at the door, just a little oversight, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Everyone laughed a little too hard when I dropped deviled egg on my dress, for like 5 minutes.” 

“Spills can be funny, it’s nothing, dear.”

“SWEETIE, there was a magnet covering my face in the family photo on the fridge!”

*

BIO: Michelle ** coming **

FEATHERS by Rosalind Kim Nazilli

Her last remark. The final slur on his already destroyed character.
He took himself away. For her sake as much as his own.
He lay on the wet sand, stretched star shaped, staring up into a black sky.
As he prayed that something would take him, release him from the torment of his unacceptable love for innocence he felt a soft fluttering against his face.
He reached up, feathers from some invisible bird.
His feet were wet. The tide was in, channelling a moat around him.
The sudden flapping of wings did not scare him. He knew they would come.

*

BIO: Rosalind Kim Nazilli ** coming **

100 WORD FLASH by Andie King

Dad slept in our greenhouse.

It's not as though he lived there, he came in for his meals, to watch telly and to have a wash but it's a small house and we don't have room for another bed.

He couldn't sleep on the floor, we'd keep tripping over him and it wasn't fair to make him sleep on a bunk bed with one of the kids on top. He had his privacy out there anyway.

We were all incredibly shocked when he died. It was very sudden and we still don't understand what happened.

Doctor said it was pneumonia.

*

You lie beneath the snow flocked ground, barely close enough to reach. I dig with bare hands, scrabble until my nails rip from my fingertips; blood soaks into damp, cold earth as I frantically try to find you.

Finally a glimpse of dirty pink satin, a shimmer of glitter and a hint of bone peeks out. Relieved I continue more cautiously, revealing you in fragments then finally lift you out.

Your party frock is ruined so I dress you in something new, purple this time. I kiss each broken bone before laying you back to rest.

Happy Birthday my Angel.

*

Little by little I watched you close yourself off from the world and I did nothing about it.

I saw it coming, I was complicit in it happening and I cover for you every time.

I'm not ignorant of the shoes caked in mud, the clothes that disappear or the car that constantly needs cleaning.

On the news, a local girl is reported missing and you are suddenly engaged, transfixed, studying her friends and family as they hopelessly appeal for information.

A mother always knows. Your mother never tells.

*

BIO: Andie King, a 31 year old wife and mother living in High Wycombe and working as an administrator.  Recently started writing again and loves literature, cookery, cinema and theatre.

Hunted by Jack Holt

They usually hunted in packs, so I was surprised to find one wandering alone amongst the foliage.

I knew it hadn’t seen me, I was too good for that. I raised my rifle, gripped it tightly; I’d only have time for one shot.

They told me nobody had ever slain one before. They said it couldn’t be done, that I’d never make it back alive. But I knew better, knew I was better.

That’s when I heard the rustling to my right, and then again behind me.

I quickly realized my mistake: they didn’t usually hunt in packs. They always did.

BIO: Jack Holt Born and raised in Bristol, England, Jack now lives, breathes and writes almost daily from his bunker deep in the Somerset countryside." Jack Holt can also be found online at  http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/past-transgressions/ and http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/hunted/

Past Transgressions by Jack Holt

I offered out my hand and took the map from him.

“Cheers mate, I’m a little bit lost, I reckon,” he said.

I didn’t recognize the man, but part of my cover involved helping the locals, blending in, so I knew I’d better.

“No worries,” I told him.

But as I glanced down, I realized he was lost for a reason. I was rusty, had taken my eyes off him entirely. He knew this.

The second-to-last thing I remember seeing were the pages of that stupid “Bristol Pub Guide.”

The floor racing up at me was the last.

BIO: Jack Holt Born and raised in Bristol, England, Jack now lives, breathes and writes almost daily from his bunker deep in the Somerset countryside." Jack Holt can also be found online at  http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/past-transgressions/ and http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/hunted/

Don’t Make a Sound by Jack Holt

Fists strike clumsily at my front door. Again and again and again.

I thought I’d be luckier than this. I switched off the lights, didn’t make a sound. And I know they can’t see me all the way back here. In the kitchen, in the dark, under a bed sheet-covered dining table. Can they somehow sense my presence? Had I made the slightest of sounds?

They’re banging even harder now. Scratching, scrambling, feverishly anticipating, desperate for their prize. But they can bang all they want, I won’t move, won’t open that door.

After all, I don’t even know who Jehovah really is.

*

BIO: Jack Holt Born and raised in Bristol, England, Jack now lives, breathes and writes almost daily from his bunker deep in the Somerset countryside." Jack Holt can also be found online at  http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/past-transgressions/ and http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/hunted/