Shattered Moon, Hungry Sea on Apparition Lit

Earlier this month, I entered Apparition Literary Magazine’s November Flash Fiction Challenge, for which writer’s are challenged to create flash fiction based on a certain image, and I am delighted to announce that I won!

My story “Shattered Moon, Hungry Sea” went live today. It’s a speculative fairy tale about a mother, a daughter, the moon and the sea.

I really love this story, and I hope you enjoy it!

You can read it here.

The Boat and the Boy published on 101 Words

Hello, hello. It’s been a little while and this update may well be longer than the story itself! A little while ago, I wrote a teeny, tiny story—a one-hundred-and-one word story, to be precise.

Today, that story went live on 101 Words! I’m so pleased. I adore tiny stories so having my own published is particularly lovely.

Click here to read!

In other news, Crow & Cross Keys is now live and packed with beautiful stories and poetry. I’d love it if you could check it out!

Every week, I share the words of two brilliant contributors. If you like your words a little dark and a little strange and a little lovely, you’re going to love CCK.


The Great Green Forever makes HG Wells Competition Shortlist

Many months ago, I wrote a story. Then I had friends—brilliant writer-type friends—poke at it and ask me questions I never would have thought to ask myself. The story almost doubled in length and, we hope, quality and it turned out I really rather liked it.

Apparently, I’m not the only one! I am delighted to announce that “The Great Green Forever” has been shortlisted as part of the HG Wells Short Story Competition.

I’m fairly new to entering competitions (I am currently awaiting the second round results for the New York City Midnight Flash Fiction Contest—wish me luck!) and this is the first piece that has made a shortlist.

I’m so glad it’s this story.

The overall results will be released at the awards ceremony in November. I’m excited.

What a lovely Monday this is.

Coming Soon: Crow & Cross Keys

I have a secret. Well, it’s not truly a secret because it’s all over twitter, but my name isn’t on it yet so it could be a secret.

Allow me to introduce Crow & Cross Keys, an online literary journal dedicated to the weird and the whimsical.

Launching on October 31st (naturally), Crow & Cross Keys seeks to provide a home for beautifully written prose and poetry that scratch a speculative itch.

I am currently collecting submissions for the launch of the website but we are live on twitter and instagram; please come and say hello!

After the launch, we are hoping to share at least one new piece of writing a week. If your writing is strange and dark and lovely, please consider submitting.

The Art of Doing Nothing in Aloe

In May, I wrote a couple of poems about the gut-punch anxiety I was feeling during lockdown. I wasn’t sure if there was anything I could do with them, I’d pretty much resigned them to a folder on my harddrive. Then I found Aloe.

Aloe is a collection of new writing from the UK and Ireland produced under lockdown and I’m so pleased one of my poems, “The Art of Doing Nothing”, has found a home there.

If you would like to give it a read, you can download a free copy or purchase the print edition (with all profit being donated in support of UK and Irish healthcare workers) on the Aloe website.

Aloe imagery by Samuel Best

Pit Stop in perhappened mag

I am so happy to be writing this post. I have been holding onto this for a couple of weeks now and it’s been fizzing in my belly. If you follow me on twitter, you may have seen me getting a little bit excited about a recent acceptance.

I am so thrilled to announce that an eerie little piece of flash fiction has been published in issue 2 of perhappened mag!

It’s such a lovely magazine and I’m so pleased to have been accepted; this magazine is going to do great things and I can’t wait to pore over the rest of the issue.

So, without further rambling and before I make this update longer than the piece itself, allow me to introduce ‘Pit Stop’⁠—a strange little story about a moment on the road.

Click here to read!

perhappened mag issue 2: ROAD TRIP cover by Aleah Dye
perhappened mag issue 2: ROAD TRIP cover by Aleah Dye

Last Night in the Forest, or the Dendrochronology of Dying

It sounded like the wind at first, like that little hush before a storm. The windows were open and the cabin breathed with it, gulped for air for a few, final moments.

Then it wasn’t a wind at all.

The trees breathed years onto my sweat-soaked skin, they spoke decades. The forest was alive with days, weeks, months and all of them whispered into the cabin like ghosts in the night air. One, a great oak, talked of an afternoon spent watching my hands as they collected up mushrooms, as they slipped in their circles and left tribute for the little spirits there.

An elm, tall and old as the ceaseless sea beyond, remembered to me a boy with five freckles on his cheek and a rip in his shirtsleeves. It told, in its weathered ring of a voice, of the day that we met beneath its branches and whispered secrets to each other behind muddied hands. Of when we kissed and laughed and how I watered its bark with my tears when he left me, when winter placed its frosty hands on the forest.

A soft voice carried from the cliff-face, just up the path from the cabin; a little sapling lilted sea shanties whose words I cast off the coast not so very long ago. Its mother, it said, had gifted me the thick cane I used to walk, its sibling the wooden soles of my clogs. It described the soft of my palm as I patted it for that last time. Goodbye, my friend. Goodnight.

The cabin shook with their voices. The trees, who had been silent for so long, composed among them a eulogy. I felt the damp of it on my cheeks.

As I rasped, a birch cooed a lullaby into my clearing. A little song it learned from me and I learned from my mother, her mother, her mother’s mother. It leafed the lyrics to the night air and my mouth moved in tandem though no sound could leave my lips now. They were rough and worn as splintered wood, throat dry as a drought.

The gypsophilia beneath my window sighed a story of a spring its roots remembered: when I pressed my mouth to the earth and prayed and whispered and begged the ground to give me a single bud, just one. When I pressed my knuckles to my belly and kneaded the flesh like fresh earth, when I raked at it, when I screamed. It apologised, then, and I could almost feel the petal-soft kiss of baby’s breath upon my cheeks.

It was drawing close, the last knot on my trunk. That last chiseled notch of my years. My hand felt heavy like holding and the elder, whose branches sheltered the cabin against years of wind and salt and rain and sand, murmured close in my ear. It hummed a tune so quiet I could barely hear.

But I felt it heavy in my chest, their breath and mine one final time.

Listen to this story as narrated by Joseph Lindoe