How About a Novella?

Will it be published? Probably not, novellas are often considered too short. Will it make you the next J.K. Rowling or Stephen King? Hard to say, if you’re extremely lucky, then perhaps. Though you might as well start playing the lottery if that’s your goal. What a novella will do is probably give you a sense of accomplishment. And hey, you can still refer to it as a “book”, so what if it’s a small one?

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First Impressions

He’s sitting at the bar, sipping a Porn Star Martini, my usual drink of choice. Today, I’ve opted for a Strawberry Daiquiri, to give me a feminine vibe. If he was swigging a pint of beer, I’d know he was straight. The cocktail offers just enough doubt that I stay in my seat to do my detective work. My table is near the door and I’ve pushed my chair far enough back that the spotlight above me illuminates my knees onwards. If we were on the beach, I’d wear sunglasses, but here I’m taking advantage of the darkness to provide cover. His dark brown hair is lightly gelled into a quiff reminiscent of a 2000’s pop star and he swirls his glass for some time before each sip. He’s wearing a Ted Baker charcoal blazer with matching straight leg trousers and burgundy boat shoes. He must work in the City, probably at a hipster marketing firm where no one wears socks.

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Sunflower on the Windowsill

Sat sinking deep

Red armchair thinking

Curtains on the cusp of something –

Open them let the light flow

Softly, softly now, into the room

Where it reveals old being new;

 

On the windowsill there is a sunflower

With its head confidently raised

‘you’ve watered it every day’

To bring the English country home

Inside to confide

With warm unnatural glows

 

Trim it down the stem

And realise as day turns to night

Turns to leaves falling

Turns to winter

Turns to water droplets on the window

Mist and fog

That it cannot last it will die –

 

Watch the petals fall and slide

To the floor

It cannot handle or understand

the urban interior light

it makes no substitute.

 

Its vase remains

Close the curtains

Again – the petals fall one by one

By one

By one.

 

by Michael Morgan

Pale Pink Pyjamas

Six am struck and Joan opened her eyes, bracing the sense of despair that had been clouding over her for weeks; weeks that had at some point turned into months. As she pulled back the duvet, those months of sweat, tears, and the occasional (daily) bottle of white wine that had ingrained onto her sister’s pale pink pyjamas fumigated the room. Joan stumbled out of bed, her head beating its constant pounding rhythm that told her you lived, you lived, you lived.

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