Short Stories

I never knew why she insisted on sunflowers. I used to think that it was because of Vincent van Gogh; the whole yellow paint and happiness spiel that she was so enthralled with. I knew that she used to paint because she loved his paintings. When I was younger, I watched her in the alcove of our living room, using the windowsill as an easel. She never used a palette, instead she mixed acrylic paints on the back of her hands and on her arms. The tubes of blue, yellow, and white paints ran out the quickest. She would put white paint on top of everything she drew, when the first coat of paint was still wet.

He threw his violin bow with such force that it narrowly missed her feet. Her tense muscles only moved to flinch before freezing up once more.

I’ve felt fear; while listening to scary stories or watching horror movies and replaying certain scenes over and over again in my mind when I can’t fall asleep easily. But what I felt at that moment was beyond fear.

“You drowned, miss. People don't usually survive that, do they?” And they never told lies, but not telling lies isn't the same as telling the truth… “

One balmy day, Lynn ventured out to the cave by the bay. Technically, it was called a cove, but the phrase “cave by the cove” didn't roll off the tongue well enough for her to accept the technical expression.

The first birthday. It was unsurprising the parents would throw a party to commemorate the special occasion. Cake, candle, presents, singing and clapping. Even if the tot of honour wouldn’t really understand what was going on. I just wished I wasn’t strung along for the madness, but Mum insisted I went with it. Paid me handsomely to clam up the complaints and head down to the shops for something appropriate. “I don’t think we should be endorsing this charade,” I said, but my protests fell on deaf ears. “Your aunt would really appreciate this. He’s her first child, after all.”