Microfiction
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
Hope for Humanity. Content Warning.
The infantryman stumbled to his feet in the thick smoke and the noise and the horror of the battle. He struggled, his boots trying to find the ground; what had once been flat and accessible suddenly lumpen, pustulated and oozing with the heavy casualties of war. He was alive but barely. As shells whizzed and exploded and the earth lifted, clumps flying, he tried to focus. God, he wanted to live! Where were the others? He was reeling, disoriented, gulping air which was acrid and foul. He stifled the terror and despair that threatened to conquer him and willed himself to seek survival.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Sand
The boy labours in the sand. The waves tickle closer, the sun drops lower in the sky, and still he keeps digging. Papa, speaking softly, rests a hand on his shoulder. Gestures up the beach to where Mama is packing up their things. Scowling, the boy shrugs him away. Papa frowns, too, his voice hardening. The boy digs.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
