Michael Saunders
Bio
Life is a story being written. We do not need to experience everything to imagine it. That is why stories can move us so.
Stories (11)
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chaos
John casually flicked the cigarette ash through his window as he indicated to turn. It caught the wind and landed squarely in the eye of the motorcycle rider behind him, who swerved headlong into an oncoming car, that braked suddenly causing the car behind to slam into its rear, pushing it into the lane of a startled bus driver that ended his bus on its side over an embankment.
By Michael Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
The gardener
The soil was cold and damp beneath her hands as she patted the dirt down firmly. The hole had been far too big for such a small plant, so she had purchased some seasonal flower seedlings to fill in around the central attraction. She looked back with satisfaction at her work and decided it time to clean up. As she headed in doors she heard the doorbell. Answering, she was greeted by Tom from next door. “Hi Alice” he said, “is Pete around?” She smiled sweetly. “Yes dear he’s somewhere in the garden but he can’t be disturbed”.
By Michael Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
Connection
It was simply a light brush. Just shoulders of passing strangers but both turned to look at the other. Dark brown eyes under dark lashes linked into the light blue stare, as each transmitted a moment of connection in the crowd that pushed them apart, each towards an unknown destiny and a day of mundane normality. As each dropped their eyes and continued with the human tide, both instantly decided to be in the same place, at the same time, tomorrow.
By Michael Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
Stars
“Now, open your eyes.” She felt him unwind from her. She opened her eyes. It took a second to see, to comprehend. Before her, above her, was the darkest of nights, shattered by a billion shards of pinprick light. A billion specks of stars, a blanket covering the world. So clear, so full, so immense. She gasps, mouth open, eyes wide. She is in awe, lost in silence, she shrinks into insignificance. The heavens are upon her, as she has never seen them before. “It is so beautiful” she whispers. He takes her in his arms. She starts to cry.
By Michael Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
Through their eyes.
The old barn stands lost and forlorn at the boundary of a vast property. It has been unused for decades. Well not totally unused. It houses the usual families of mice and lizards and the occasional passing stray fox, and the rafters and rotting loft have been home for many generations of barn owl. Quiet, observant, wise looking, ghost faced barn owls.
By Michael Saunders4 years ago in Humans
Bob the Cleaner
Have you ever killed someone? Killing someone is hard enough, particularly if that someone don’t want to die, but it’s the mess, now that’s hard work. I have. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not a maniac or anything. Like I don’t just go around murdering people for the fun of it, or because I don’t like the way they look at me. No, I’m not that kinda guy. I don’t like, stab people for their wallets or shoes or, or shoot them to jack their cars. No, no. Nothing like that. This was kinda in the heat of the moment stuff, self-defence really, when I think about it. Yes, there was some anger, jealousy and revenge involved I do admit, but it’s not who I am on any regular day. But this was not a regular day.
By Michael Saunders4 years ago in Fiction
Rapture.
She stands alone. It was here, or at least somewhere along here, along this unforgiving coast, along this darkened beach. Or so they told her. Twenty-one years ago, they say, she was washed from the womb, massaged by the rough hands of the waves, pushed from one dark ocean into another. A miracle baby, a mermaid, a siren. It was here her mother fed her, her life. Not from the breast but from the cord. It was not warm, rich milk that nourished her but blood and desperation that pumped into her veins. It was not warm kind hands that held her high but cold wet fingers of sea that rolled her to their tips, that forced her first breath as her mother breathed her last. It was along this coast, on this beach that she survived. A miracle baby, a mermaid, a siren.
By Michael Saunders4 years ago in Fiction
