“We are such stuff as dreams are made of.” Smith quipped. “The Tempest. Act four…”
“…Scene one. And it’s ‘on’ not ‘of’.” I retorted. “It continues. And our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

Smith snorted. “Ever the pessimist. And yet.” He paused for effect. “I propose to travel forward in Time by one second.”

“Smith, you can’t. Except by the traditional route. Which just takes one second to do. Except we are moving in Space-Time. Not just Time. Only light can do that without feeling the time pass.”

Smith shrugged. I tried to explain. “The Earth spins 460m/s....

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The writers club - writer's club? writers' club? - started amicably enough. Geoff (Murder Mysteries and Historical romps) had searched his family tree back to the 1500s. Seranne (interesting name. A story there...) was nervious that we'd fit round the long raised table, with laptops and notepads, etc, and threw the odd curt look at the young couple inhabiting the corner, uninvited, and unaware. Jen set to work, with numerous hand written notes, while Rachel tapped discreetly away on her duck egg blue Huddl; only the second I'd ever seen not forlornly sat on a Tesco back shelf. Non-fiction and...

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The conversation lasted two words: "Too much." Too much pain? Too much regret? Too much suffering. And who's? From twenty nine hour a day parenting to none, in the space of one brief, bitter phone call. "We don't want to live with you, Dad. We want to live with Mam, fulltime." And then a long overdue pause of a pregnancy, waiting for the response. Not sure if it would be explosive rage, reprisals and recriminations, or sad acceptance. All that came was the dialing tone. It spoke more eloquently than any words would have done. One more abandonment, in a...

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“Send me a picture.” he’d said. Well, typed. It was that kind of initial flirting request. She had responded with a
:-)
a
:-P
and a
<3
and then, eventually, with a selfie.

Analysis of the GPS data encapsulated in the header file, compared with a record of CCTV locations, and her smiling face as a search parameter from stored footage, provided her entry point to the location. Cross-matched with the stored WiFi coordinates her smart phone had used to send the file, the exact location was confirmed. The “Le Poursuivant”

Inspection of the blurred background of the photo matched...

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It was rather like being a ghost. Vicarious snooping. A social media haunting (stalking?). The only way to keep in touch with the untouchable children, who were no longer part of life. Maybe, the FaceBook groups should have been diplomatically UNLIKEd, given that they were only there because of previous parental responsibilities. Or the Messenger App blocked, due to ocassional earthquake requests, unsettling and unfooting in their simple, direct, but untimely demands.

Finding out a once was daughter has the lead in her drama group's next production, via accidental browsing of a stream. Realising another was home from university, only...

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Once upon a time there was a bug who wanted to live on my finger. I called the little fella over and asked him to stay a while. This all started when my father said to never touch a big because it might bite you. After he died, I decided to ask bugs to come over and sit for anhile. It made it easier to think about my sorrow. I named the different bugs, every single one of them. One bugs name was idiot. He sat there as I picked off a wing. The other wing was still there. It...

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I haven’t had any nightmares since my sister was locked up. Now I have it all because I killed him. But it was all a mistake.

The air around me turned into ice. My body felt as though it was weighted by meteorites. I lifted my throbbing head as my eyes trailed around my surroundings: a stone-cold room with fluorescent lights that smelled like sadness. I tried wiggling my hands, only being greeted by a rustle of platinum chains. This does not look like Washington. Where am I? Who would capture me? I did nothing wrong. Not since him.

“Diana...

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