Stories of the Cellar Door

My father clutched his chest, as I blew to make my sixteenth wish. The next sun rose before my birthday was remembered – wishes are for children. Marked by my mother with a six-wick orange candle and an oval locket. A picture of my father nestled in the silver. “Allow yourself tonight to grieve,” she said, “but you’re a grown-up now. One night will be enough.” Worn every day, an ornament, like the smile on my face, I kissed it on waking and as the sun set. The candle had real slices of orange, and delicate blossom enrobed in its sweet-scented wax. I saved it for twelve years. Until the night I got the call. A sorrowful nurse shook her head as she met me. Tears fell, more saline along the clinical corridors. I returned home and lit all six wicks. Placing mother’s candle by my bed, I rocked myself from side to tearful side. I whispered in the flickering shadows: “Allow yourself tonight to grieve, but you’re a grown up now. One night will be enough.” The curtains caught as I dri

I was glad of the bells that rang out for Grandpa, hours before they rang in midnight mass. The heavy metal tones drowned out memories of his shrill police whistle and his clinking, jailor’s keys. Now set firmly in his coffin, their sounds still woke me in a cold sweat, night after chilling night, since he died. What if I became like him? I trudged through slushy streets towards the empty, unheated church. My father had over-tipped the pall bearers. Right to the last, people had to be bribed to be nice to the remorseless old man. My black-clad mother gave a brief eulogy. Then a priest led us in a short prayer of forgiveness, before the coffin was lowered into frozen ground. We left, tearless, to walk home. The seasons have turned full circle. The leaves are gone, the slushy snow is back. This year, with a heart full of hope and a stomach full of chocolate, I wrap gifts in coloured paper for the very first time. Banned under his patriarchal reign, my family never had any kind of p

Billy jumped in his skin as the lightning flashed again, illuminating ground-level sculptures of books, hearts and hands, for less than a second. Metallic vases of long-dead flowers cast shadow-fingers against tombstones under the electrical burst. Claire swished her torch from headstone to mossy headstone, pulling her hood tighter round her oval face against the lashing rain. Escaping strands of mousey brown hair stuck to her cheeks like spidery legs, as she strode through the dark in her black, rubber wellies. She crunched along the gravel path, catching glimpses of names and dates as she went. “I know it’s here somewhere, I found it at the weekend.” She twisted to look behind her. “I’m sure it was just past that weird tree.” As she spoke, the wind whipped the last remaining orange leaves from the gnarly tree, through Claire's torch beam and into Billy's face. “I don’t like this at all.” Billy batted at his numbing cheeks and lifted his shoulders to his ears. “It’s wet and co

Water gushes over the windscreen in waves as unrelenting as my grief. The streetlights blurry starbursts in my struggling vision. Black cloud hangs with menaces above, banishing celestial light from view. The bottle bangs my teeth, even at this low speed. But the bourbon tastes like freedom spilling over my tongue. 'It’s like dancing at the end of the rain' she’d say. But only when she was sky-high happy. I never danced with her. The rigidity of my nerves and the well-structured failure of my confidence built a prison around me. I never even tried to escape. I promised, in her final days, as time and options drained away, that we would dance. She smiled, touched my cheek and said 'I never needed you to be anyone else.' I’ve never seen the end of the rain. Only an occasional merging of droplets and air that wet my face and left me damp, disappointed. She often told a story of how she saw it once, as a kid, in a windless field. How the drops fell like a curtain

The credits rolled, and, even before the lights came up, the exodus began. Satoko shrugged, slurped the last dregs of her bright blue slushie and stuffed her empty pick n mix bag into the cup. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Lou adjusted her seat back to its upright position. “I know, I know, but the reviews were so good I still held out hope for the ‘immersive IMAX experience.’” She made air quotes with her fingers. “You’ll learn. The constant disappointment that goes with being a horror fan in the UK. Honestly the last good one I saw was Japanese, and the three before that. If you moved to England with any hope of a decent scare, you made a mistake. Should have stayed put.” “But it’s been four years! I’d expect one, just one, actually frightening movie by now.” “Sorry Satoko. The reviews always over-hype them and people who don’t watch much horror are generally terrified. But for hard core fans over here there really isn’t much out there. Maybe we should make our own mov

At Granny Marge’s request, and expense, the black limo, that matched her dress and her mood, had waited. It drove the Gates family back to Bridge House. Solemn wipers flicked water from the windscreen as it reflected skeletal trees. The crooked, half-timbered building looked the same from the outside. But once they shuffled in through the heavy oak door, the floors creaked more loudly, the clock ticked more slowly, and the living room fire refused to light. “It feels different somehow.” Granny Marge lifted her silver-rimmed glasses and wiped away another tear from her soft, grey eyes. "Less like home." Her breath was short. “Let me make you a cuppa, Gran. Why don’t you take a seat?” Josephine pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and filled the kettle. She was careful not to chip her mint green nails, though even Grandad's favourite colour seemed to dim in the new shadows of the old house. “You know, your Grandad Billy made this table and chairs." Marge tucked a

Same face, same voice, same height. But Kaya was always the favourite. Born four minutes earlier, she never let me forget it. But I knew who she really was – I had evidence. The first in a series of juvenile crimes against me. Age seven she took my favourite doll, Mandy Moll, and cut her hair with the kitchen scissors. Dad captured the moment with his digital camera. Did he try to stop her? No. Was she ever punished? No. To add insult to injury, the picture was printed out and stuck on the fridge. It stayed there til I left home at 17 and took it, along with Mandy Moll. Reminders. Motivators. I became a hairdresser to spite my bad-spirited sister. The meanness continued throughout childhood. Kaya was jealous of my piano certificates, so she ripped them. She tripped me over in the park. She threw my school wildlife project into the canal behind the house. No one ever told her off. When I asked why she was so horrible to me all the time they said she wasn’t, I was just making up st

Jane: “Oh, hold the doors!” I teeter through the lift lobby in my sleek, yet second hand, Jimmy Choo's. Who am I kidding? Even if I do get the job, I can hardly show up to work five times a week dressed like this. Give me a pair of comfy flats any day and let my calves relax a bit. Dressed like this, no one would guess I get my hair done at Super Cuts. Don't think like that; rent to pay, rent to pay, rent to pay. This little skirt isn’t doing me any favours. It turned a few heads in reception, for all the wrong reasons. I'll never impress a chivalrous hero from one of my much loved romance novels by dressing myself up like a dog's dinner. Speaking of dogs, I’ve even packed my essential bits into the Radley handbag Blake gave me last year. I must be desperate to impress. I never touch anything Blake gave me without spitting out the words “Fuck you Blake” as it meets my skin. I'll have to fight to hold that in when I leave today’s panel; bills to pay, bills to pay, bi

The front door swung open and Barbara cooed through it. Of course, I would help with the effing shopping. I wouldn’t mind at all if my lovely wife would ever buy own brand anything. But, in spite of prices creeping up, Barbara was still bringing home the Heinz, the Lurpak, the Kellogg’s. And way more than the two of us could ever eat in seven days. We were throwing out enough to feed the children we never had, on a weekly basis. But then, we, or should I say she, could afford it. “Do you want the good news or the bad news, Darling?” She passed me a pack of kitchen roll, the expensive one with the ‘thirst pockets’. “Always bad news first, my lovely wife, always bad news first.” “Well, the bad news is that the Gable family are moving out.” How could this be bad news? I hated them, and their precocious six-year-old, and their stupid, yappy dog. “Oh, that’s a shame. You will miss playing tennis with Nancy.” “Yes, I will.” She bustled through the hallway into the kitchen. I trailed behind w

The raised bands and gold leaf of the worn spines, stood to attention in rows of mismatched heights and colours, on antique, wooden shelving. Coloured headbands, only visible if you peered over the spines, protected ancient text blocks, bound by dextrous hands generations ago. Delicate pages concealed within, played host to a plethora of type-set prints, pen and ink lettering, and hand painted illuminations. Every wall, floor to ceiling, in the L-shaped shop, displayed its share of literary beauty. Bethan breathed in the beloved leather and dust as she turned the faded sign from “closed” to “open” in the central bullseye-glass panel of the door. This had all seemed like such a good idea five years ago. She had signed the lease and filled the shelves with her grandfather’s collections, bringing a life-long obsession to reality. She’d used all of her contacts to obtain further stock and get her name out to connoisseurs all over the southeast and beyond. The first three years saw a regula

Birmingham, England, 1872 The flow from the nib of my pen is smooth on any surface. The barrel sits perfectly in my fingers and the silver band around the ivory-white grip catches the lamp light in such a delightful way. I’ve not needed any other writing tool since I made this, of real bone. Though my wife, my biggest critic, is such a traditionalist. She argues, of course , that I should write in black ink, as is the modern convention. Each time she hints I simply say: “Don’t read it, if it displeases you.” I dip, write, pause, and blot in careful sequence, hour after hour, supported by my father’s walnut desk. The rhythm is comforting and, though it takes time for my letters to stain, I am making good progress on my subject. Ah, my subject. The beauty of the young women from the back-to-backs. They unwittingly claw at my senses, from their flowing locks to the smoky scent of their clothing. Everything about them grabs my attention. To capture that essence, that perfect being,