Mona Higgins lived on Willow Crescent, in one of those neat little post-war houses where the hedges were clipped straight and the curtains were drawn at half-past six sharp. It was 1963, and her world moved to a clockwork rhythm: Her husband, George, left for work at the insurance office each morning at seven; she … Continue reading The Dial Tone
Hello. I’m the mug. Not chipped. Not novelty. Not one of those gaudy, slogan-slapped things that scream “World’s Best Writer” like a curse. I’m classic. Ceramic. Weighty. Deep red glaze, almost blood-dark in low light. A gift. From their mum. A Christmas morning. Hands trembling with emotion that never quite made it to speech. Wrapped … Continue reading The Mug on the Desk (And the Darkness It Holds) – Memoirs from the Edge of the Abyss
The bathroom always smelled faintly of lavender and damp. Not fresh lavender, but the cloying, synthetic kind that tried to cover mould and failed. It clung to the cracked tiles, the rust-flecked radiator, the blackened corners of the old tub. Hannah didn’t love the bathroom. But then again, she didn’t love the house, either.Still, it … Continue reading Bath Time
The Video Vault appeared overnight.Where once stood a shuttered butcher’s, its tiles still stained from a long-forgotten trade, now sat a glowing front of VHS promise. Neon script buzzed in the fogged windows: Be Kind, Rewind. Below that, a sandwich board proclaimed NEW RELEASES! in chalky capitals. It was the sort of place that didn’t … Continue reading This Tape Belongs To…
Jamie wasn’t much of a charity shop kind of person. Not because he thought he was too good for second-hand things—he just rarely had the patience to dig through rails of bobbled jumpers and battered trainers for the chance of finding something decent. But that afternoon, walking home in the thin, unforgiving November rain, he … Continue reading The Coat
I found the typewriter at a car boot sale, half-buried under a moth-eaten tablecloth. The town was thick with fog that morning—sea mist curling through the cobbles like a living thing. Gulls screeched like rusty hinges overhead. The stall was at the end of a row, where the ground turned from gravel to wet grass, … Continue reading Dead Authors Don’t Talk Back
Gareth Ellis - Author 