Microfiction
Wedding Night
I loved her. I couldn't help it. I was desperate that night. It reduced me to becoming a voyeur. Just a little peek. She was beautiful as a bride and I desired her intensely as always. When I saw them leave the reception, I followed. After this, I vowed, I would stop and put her behind me.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
The Bouquiniste
"Going once...going twice...I'm selling at 10,000 to the gentleman in white...at 10,000 pounds....sold!" And the gavel came down as the Bouquiniste let out his sigh of relief. Monty preferred this title to "second-hand bookseller". French always lent something more prestige: patissier/pastry chef; maître d'/bloke who greets you at the door; the list could go on and on. The title, bouquiniste had ties to the famous booksellers on the Seine and although he had no French lineage that he knew of, his surname being Dobbs, (perhaps that should be Daubés?), he knew his trade just as well.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Watched. Content Warning.
You know that feeling when someone is watching you? I've got that right now. I'm trying to ignore it but I'm feeling it. It's like a spider crawling over your skin, its legs barely touching you but you feel its trace anyway and wonder, Is it a hair?, hoping, only to discover another creature has violated your space. You quickly flick it off, relieved, but you shudder nonetheless.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
The Artist
He hadn't meant to start drawing her. While he was up a ladder, trimming the hawthorn whose straggly branches always threatened to encroach on others, he spotted her. She was sat, holding a carrot, trying to entice a rabbit nibbling her lawn. Her hair was glossy, golden, silky and she had to keep pushing it behind her ear, which she did slowly and with great smoothness, so as not to alarm her quarry.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
