Anglea (joined about 12 years ago)

Six minute story is brilliant as a daily mental excercise to write on a variety of topics. It involves a lot of trial and error before I finish in the given time.

I am often surprised which of my stories receive the most views, often those I planned to delete.

COPYRIGHT - please contact me in advance via a recent story page if you wish to use my stories in anyway.

A digital animation has been made from one of my stories




1943. The year of my birth. To a very young mother. Raped by a stranger. I spent forty years believing that Tom Morran was my real father. When I found out the truth (by accident) I had a breakdown which took me by total surprise as I had always been an unemotional, logical man. Cold, is what my wife called me. A cold fish. No empathy, no sentiment or sympathy. Even when our youngest was miscarried after a car accident I didn't shed a tear.

Divorce was not something my wife contemplated after her short stay in hospital but I...

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Goodnight. That's what I said to Jim, my innocent husband. He loved me so much, we had been married a year. I resembled his mom in appearance, I noticed this the first time I met her. She wasn't much on housework and I loved keeping my little apartment spotless, homely. Jim couldn't get enough of me and overlooked my flirting, drinking, strange absences during our dating years as he was busy saving money for our future.

After I drove off in my red sports car after waving to Jim, I met up with Dan. If you saw him you'd wonder...

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Homeless, the art installation won first prize. John Wentworth had planned to ruin the artist Kitty More. She used his idea. The one he told her about during their snakebite drinking days. The ones when they both woke up with hangovers worthy of bad poetry, the agony of headaches.

John posted intimate, embarassing photos of her. Lovers amateur sex tapes. Recorded snores and farts. Millions of hits. She retreated from the public eye, she always had low self esteem.

But he never thought she was the suicidal type.

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Meteorites struck a Russian town today. I wondered what I'd be thinking if they hit the place I live. Probably not worrying about my hair as I am today. Nor whether to meet up with the unsuitable man that I know I shouldn't ever see again. Nor would I procrastinate yet again over finishing paperwork and chores. None of that would matter. Only survival. Family. Are they ok? None of the mindless timewasting unimportant trivia we are all obsessed with would even cross our minds in that situation.

It reminds me of the time I was stuck underground in an...

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Matilda was the first woman he'd ever dated that had been a cat before surgery. She told him at the end of the third outing, to the Italian restaurant, a night of sexual tension, sweaty waiters, mixed up menus and his clumsiness knocking over the carafe of white wine over her lap. She smiled, pink lipstick still intact after a meal of coiled pasta and mince. No leaping up off the chair in horror, running to the bathroom, telling him to F O and never call again.

Matilda held his arm as they left the restaurant and stood looking over...

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The pistol was cocked, ready to go. Aiming at the highway man was easy, pulling the trigger was the problem. I couldn't do it no matter how much I wanted to. His dark brown eyes bore into my soul, that's how if felt at that precise moment. My body responded, unexpectedly, primitive feelings, not appropriate for this situation. My older, pregnant sister and I held up enroute for our summer vacation.

His long black hair fastened by a long navy ribbon, his light mahogany skin, full lips smiling at me was all I could think about. The right eyebrow raised,...

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Absent. That's what I was called by my fifteen year old daughter. The absent father. She did not know the truth, I worked undercover. Danger. Security. Empathy. Love. I had it all but I had nothing for my own family. That isn't true, I thought about them in the spare moments, pulled up images in my mind. Reflected on those special times tucking Beth into bed while she slept, unaware I'd be staring at her, a light in the hall illuminating her face.

I knew Beth thought I didn't care. I know because that's how I felt about my own...

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I was confused. This isn't how I expected the novel to end. Who committed the crime? Where was the last chapter with the explanation, the satisfying ending the reader could ponder on when the final lines had been read?

This book looked identical to the others in the bookshop the next day but twenty pages were missing at the back. I was waiting in line to exchange the book when I had a strong mysterious feeling not to.

Returning home I sat on the battered red leather sofa and opened the last page again.

More words than I expected....

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It was ridiculous that at my age I could not do anything without my parents getting involved. They were overprotective, talking me out any everything, listing all the possible negatives so I ended up believing them.

At fifty three I was single, living off their generosity, sharing hobbies, going on holiday with them, waking, eating and sleeping the same times as them.

Never had any friends, boyfriends, jobs, excitement of my own.

The police psychologist didn't think it that unusual that I ended up on a criminal career path, he told the court it was inevitable given the strange upbringing....

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I hated seeing the shirt on the washing line in front of the Harrison's home. Didn't anyone tell them about the murder? Donny Cartwright had a shirt just like that one when he was found in the front garden of that house six years back. Unsolved.

I used to work for the Cartwrights, they sold up and moved after the tragedy. Heard that Mrs C died of a broken heart. Donny her youngest still lived at home, a momma's boy. Heart of gold. Slow. Wouldn't hurt a fly.

Such a shame what happened to him. If he hadn't been looking...

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