Roscoe was carrying the dead thing. The dead thing was in his possession now, and that was all that mattered. The dogs were following still, but at a wary distance. He’d have felt better if he’d had some sausages to throw them, but he could hardly blame himself for that. None of this had been
“Sian Hughes’ delightful imagination and technical talent makes each story a unique treat.” – Boyd Clack – Creator of High Hopes and Satellite City “Sian Hughes writes her characters with love and warmth, dissecting their complex inner lives with beautiful and profound prose. The stories are raw, honest, sometimes disturbing, capturing the enormity of tiny moments
Peter’s fingers brush Caitlin’s as he takes the pamphlet from her hand. He nearly says, ‘Jesus Christ, your hands are freezing,’ but stops himself. It’s overfamiliar, when they’ve just met. ‘“Creeping nothingness”,’ says Caitlin. ‘That’s how you described it on the contact form, right?’ ‘Right,’ says Peter, pretending to read the testimonials. ‘Thanks.’ His thumb
I introduced Anthony to Eau Sauvage on his birthday. Wearing it would perfect him; make him elegant, smooth his edges. He could wear it with a suit. In my dreams, it would make him speak with a French accent. On the day, I took Anthony for dinner at Le Salon Privè. He suggested a drink
With his snaggle tooth reflecting the full moon’s burr, he whispers a plume of breath into the chill, pulls the neck strap to his crimson velvet cloak and starts along the track. Buckles on uncomfortable shoes clunk with each step. Halting under a bowed elm, he bends down to release his tightbound leather and gilt
Sirena always wore boots, even in the heat of summer. Not winter boots of course. Winters in this desolate place required ugly, heavy footwear and she had to be stylish. What was a Siren without allure? Today, she pulled on a pair of thigh-high snakeskin boots with a stiletto heel and chuckled a little. She
The West Lighthouse is the taller of the two, a simple structure that is pleasing in its symmetry, a tower of patchwork stone. The original oil-fuelled beacon that once guided sailors safely to the pier was later replaced by electricity, but even that has long-since burned out. Now all that can be seen is the
No, I don’t think he is alright you know, limbs lying awkward like that, left leg splayed out like he’s sleeping, his right ankle up by his buttocks, right knee pointing inward like he needs to wee. His left arm’s up and over his face, but I think he’s still breathing. It’s hard to tell,
The name on the grave still looks sinister. By day I can laugh off the coincidence and at night the mask of gloom obscures familiar details, but twilight and logic are natural enemies, and I’m jumpy, all alone on the island in the lake. My faith in the plan fails, along with my nerve, and
The first guest to arrive is Mr Baxter, accompanied by the smell of cigarette smoke and a puddle of rainwater shaken from his umbrella which gathers on the marble floor below his feet. He yanks off his coat, spraying more rainwater across the floor, and thrusts it with his umbrella towards me. Although the invitation
